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Authors: David Morehouse

BOOK: Psychic Warrior
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I had to define clearly what I was about to do. First I considered whether telling my story would endanger the national security of the United States, the country I love dearly and had sacrificed for. I concluded that it would not. The Cold War was over. A year ago our Soviet counterparts had told the entire world what they had been doing for the past forty years in the paranormal arena. I wasn't giving away launch codes or the names of top-secret operatives. I was telling a story about psychic spies, whose existence was already an established fact.
Second, would telling my story endanger anyone's life?
During the Cold War, when the two major superpowers were still at each other's throats, the answer might have been yes. But not today. Today it was I who would face the greatest risk. In my opinion, this was a story that had to be told for mankind's sake; if I was going to take heat for doing so, so be it. Too much had been learned to continue to allow remote viewing to be bottled up in some secret dungeon, never to be shared with the people who paid for it.
On October 1, 1992, I mustered the courage to call Debbie. It had been nearly six months since I'd talked with her and the children. They needed to know what I was planning to do.
“Hello, Deb.”
“Well, it's been a long time.”
“Too long.”
“How are you feeling these days?”
“I'm doing better, I think.”
“Maybe someday you'll share it with me.”
“I'm going to go public with the remote-viewing story. I've decided it's too important to keep under wraps any longer.”
There was silence on the phone. “Do you realize what you're saying?” Deb's voice quivered. “Do you really think they'll let you do that?”
“There's got to be a way, and that's what I want you to help me with. Help me decide how best to do this. All I know is that it needs to be done, for all mankind.”
“David, I know how important it is; I've always known that. I'm proud of you, but think of the price! Is it worth your career? Your life?”
“C'mon, Debbie, you're exaggerating. Once people see what marvelous potential remote viewing has, don't you think they'll support my decision?”
“No, they won't. First of all, they won't believe you. Second, the people in charge will discredit you. Or they may even go to greater extremes. You just don't know.”
“You're right—but this is something I need to do. It's my destiny.”
“Destiny isn't a matter of fact, David. It's a matter of choice.”
“I can't change what I've become.”
“Yes, you can! You haven't become what you're supposed to be.”
“What am I supposed to be? I love you, Debbie, but I can't go on like this. I need someone to stand beside me.” I waited, but she said nothing. “Okay, I understand.”
Hours later the phone rang.
“David? It's Debbie. I love you. Why don't you come home for Christmas?”
 
My father and mother came to be with us that year. For the first time in a long while we were all together. Michael, growing like a weed, was already taller than me. Mariah and Danielle were discovering boys, and makeup, and clothes, and music … God, I'd missed a lot. We decorated the tree together, wrapped presents, shopped, and wrapped more presents. Grandma and Grandpa loved shopping for the kids, who hadn't enjoyed such a bountiful Christmas in years. As for me, it was a wonderful Christmas, a time to touch the place where I truly belonged and wanted to be. I was constantly full of emotion, almost enlightened with it. The goodness of everyone around me seemed to flow into me; I was in love with life again, brimming with enthusiasm. For a few days I put aside the difficult issue confronting me and enjoyed my family.
One evening after dinner, Dad and I walked to a small park a few blocks from the house and sat on a cold bench, with only the oak trees as company.
“So things are working out for you and Debbie again, are they?”
I crossed my fingers. “If she were as mixed up as I am, we'd be divorced already. It's really her spirit that keeps us together. I'm always so far out in left field these days.
It's tough to keep the important physical aspects of your life together.”
“Well, Debbie and the children are far more than
physical
aspects of your life; they're the most spiritual things you have or ever will have. Believe me, you mustn't sacrifice that kind of love for anything, and I mean anything.” He looked at me intently. “Do you understand me?”
“I think I do. But I also know that I have to do what I've been set apart to do. You know about that, don't you, Dad? You know I've been selected to be a part of something special—don't you?”
Dad didn't look at me, but into the trees, as if he were searching for memories he'd put away long ago. Slowly, he rose to his feet and headed deeper into the park.
As we walked he began speaking, the timbre and cadence of his voice unlike anything I'd heard from him. “I want you to know, before I tell you this, that I don't consider myself unique in any way. I'm just a man who loved his family and did what was asked of him—no more than any of your relatives did, no more than millions of other Americans and Allied soldiers did. In two wars I never fought above battalion level, so I was always close to the enemy. I had a lot of close calls in World War II and Korea, but I had an inner feeling that something was watching over me.” He stopped, his modesty overtaking him. “It's difficult to talk about this; I put it behind me decades ago.”
“It's okay, Dad, I understand. You don't have to tell me about it.”
“You need to know!” He composed himself and continued. “As I was saying, I had this inner sense that I was being watched over. I wish everyone had the advantage of feeling that way. When I was aboard ship, transiting the Atlantic, we were warned about the wolf packs that would track the convoys and sink whatever came into their sights. More than once we were locked up in our holds, below the waterline, listening to depth charges trying to keep the subs from getting a shot at us. Those were weird episodes … time seemed to stand still. A lot of guys nearly went crazy
anticipating a torpedo; others prayed; still others cried.”
“Don't you think we all have an angel looking out for us at times?”
“Yes. I also think that whether you're aware of its presence is entirely up to the angel.”
“Why wouldn't the angel want you to know it was there?”
“Maybe only some people need to know. Maybe knowing is what steers them in a certain direction in life, causes them to make certain choices. I don't know. Maybe I was given the knowledge that I had an angel because without it I wouldn't have been as brave as others.” He smiled. “But I want to say that I think there was a reason some were spared in the war and some were called away from this life, and it has nothing to do with deserving to live or not. It has everything to do with the purpose of some larger plan that I can't even begin to comprehend. There are angels out there. I know mine.”
“You, too?”
“I was in Korea, assigned to the 224th Infantry Regiment. One night I lay down and it came to me. My angel.”
“Why didn't you ever tell me this?”
He laughed. “It's not something you bring up for high school graduation, now is it? It was hard enough for me to accept, let alone try and tell someone else about it.”
“Did you tell Mom?”
“She was the first person I told. You're the second, and you'll be the last in this lifetime.”
“Did your angel speak to you?”
“What he said confused the hell out of me, so I just let it go. It never made any sense until now.”
“What was it?”
“He said that a part of me would one day struggle to deliver a message.”
“And?”
“That he would leave me, to protect the part of me in peril … . It made no sense to me for nearly—what? Fifty years? But it makes sense now.”
“What do you mean?”
“You're the part of me he spoke of, and you're getting ready to talk about this thing you call the gift. Aren't you?”
I hung my head, realizing how transparent I was to this man. “Yeah, I am. Mel and I think it needs to be done. What do you think?”
“It doesn't matter what I think. The angel's yours now, you know. I've given him to you, just as he said I would. He took good care of me; I know he'll do the same for you.” He paused briefly, troubled by his thoughts. “You're going to have a difficult time with this, son. The keepers of the secret won't take it lightly.”
“I know.”
“Keep your wits about you and stay perfectly clean, because they will look for any weakness they can exploit. That's how they work—you know that, you've been among them for five years now.”
“It should be harder for them to get to me in the 82nd.”
“No, it won't. You won't have as much chance of knowing what they're up to. Just remember, you can be better than your reputation, but never better than your principles.”
 
In retrospect, I thank God for that brief interlude before the storm. I wasn't reminded of my decision until January 3, 1993. I was playing a game with my son when the phone rang.
After a short pause an unfamiliar voice broke the silence. “Is this Major David Morehouse?”
“It is; who's this?”
“We know what you're trying to do. My advice to you is that you change your plans. People who tell secrets pay a big price in the long run.”
“Wait a minute! Who the hell are you? What the—”
“Are you willing to pay that price?”
The phone went dead.
THE FALL
I
had been at Fort Bragg as the battalion executive officer for about nine months. Life there was no different for the enlisted men than at any other army post. If they weren't training for war, there were always leaves to rake, weeds to pull, and barracks to paint. I did everything I could to improve the men's quality of life, and it was a good time for me; I felt worth something again. I still had trouble with the remote-viewing fallout, nightmares and altered states, and because of that I still lived alone, unable to return to the family. Also, unbeknownst to my fellow soldiers, I planned to reveal classified information. But for a year I was back where I belonged, making a difference in the lives of soldiers. It was a blessing.
 
Ingo Swann, a highly respected paranormal researcher and expert, suggested to Mel that we consider telling the story of remote viewing in a book. This, he believed, was the only way to get a clear, complete statement out to the public. We suspected that the news media would cover the story briefly and superficially, chasing after any bone the government threw their way and taking official government statements about Sun Streak at face value. The story would die quickly—if it aired at all. Eventually we did put out some feelers to the news media, but were met with considerable
skepticism. I told Mel we just had to find a long-term, detailed way of telling our story.
We spent many nights pondering the question of what risk we were taking; what might the government do, or try to do, to us? Since that anonymous phone call, we'd had no indication that the government was trying to squelch our effort. In fact, though, they were gathering information to discredit our story.
Both at Sun Streak and at the Defense Intelligence Agency, it was well known that someone intended to expose the unit and its secret weapon. Sun Streak members had been warned not to talk to Mel and me; threats were made, investigations were under way, and meetings were hurriedly taking place in the Pentagon and at DIA. The higher-ups' only question was how to crush us.
Because he was retired, Mel was not in much official danger: to take any action against him, the army would have to approach Congress for permission to bring him back on active duty. Only if Congress agreed to this could the army prepare to court-martial him or otherwise punish him. And Congress would demand to know why Mel should be reactivated; to explain, DIA would have to describe a top-secret psychic-warfare program two decades old, the existence of which was known to just five members of Congress. From an intelligence perspective, that was not the best option. Most “exotic” programs stay alive by limiting the number of people who know anything about them. No way was DIA going to approach Congress.
That left them to target me: I was on active duty, so I could be court-martialed quietly.
But at first Mel and I were convinced that nothing much would be done. Some administrative action might be taken against me; maybe there would be a letter of reprimand, maybe a warning to stop immediately. These repercussions I would welcome, because they offered the chance to force DIA to admit that Sun Streak existed. Once the agency did so, I could tell my general officer friends about my past and they'd probably stand by me, given my record and the
potential of remote viewing. I was confident that they would protect me, or at least buy me time to pursue another route.
So we took Ingo Swann's recommendation. He put us in touch with his literary agent, Sandra Martin—he told her, “If they aren't killed for telling this story, then I'll tell mine”—and she introduced us to an investigative journalist, Jim Marrs. Jim was the author of
Crossfire: The Plot That Killed Kennedy,
to which Oliver Stone bought the film rights for his 1991 movie JFK. Jim is a conscientious and modest man, who shared our fascination with remote viewing and with its potential to help mankind; he worked hard to pull our story together. We began with short visits and interviews, phone conversations, and fax exchanges. (I should mention that, to date, Jim's book has not been published. This book, in case there's any confusion, is entirely my own and was written after this time.)
Mel and I meanwhile remained oblivious to what was going on at DIA. I had no idea how quickly a soldier is cut from the fold when he breaks ranks.
It wasn't long before our phones were tapped. Cassette tapes of my conversations with Marrs, Mel, Sandra, and anyone else I called from my home or office started showing up in the mail. For several weeks little cardboard packages or envelopes with no return address arrived at my parents' house and at Debbie's. (Thinking she might need them at some future date, Debbie saved the ones sent to her and put them in a safe place.) I couldn't see the point of this harassment, and my first thought was that it was a prank, but it worried everyone sick. I've since heard that such mail campaigns are used to frighten an undesirable off a project—his terrified family members convince him to drop it and go away. My harassers, though, failed to understand that
my
family had seen me through a bullet to the head and knew me to talk with angels and be pursued by my personal demons. Having spent years coping with my travels in the ether, they didn't back down.
 
 
My plans to go public with the remote-viewing story never interfered with my duties as an Army officer. When my time as an executive officer at Fort Bragg was up, I was named the division training officer—chief of G3 training was the official title. Being a training officer is extremely difficult, but I was blessed with the help of two of the best majors in the army: Bren Flannigan and Tony Tata. I had what army people call a suck job, but theirs were even more difficult. All of us put in long hard hours, trying to do in a week what most people do in a month, but Tony and Bren managed to shove two months' work into their weekly rucksacks.
Just as I was getting a handle on my new responsibilities, Debbie called me at the office.
“I told you they would try to hurt us.” She was crying.
“What happened? Are the kids okay?”
“Someone broke in last night while we were home.”
“Is everyone all right?”
“Yes, but they ransacked your office—opened all of the cabinets, drawers, and files. The police are here now, taking a report. I called David Gould.” David, the friend who'd found me after my night on the lawn, was a police officer. “He's here helping them. They've found a piece of a latex glove and some imprints in the dust on the shelves, where whoever it was pulled books out. Probably to look behind them for something.”
“Deb, let me talk to him.”
Dave was calm. “You had some visitors last night,” he said mildly. “Everybody's okay. It looks like they were searching for something. Real pros, too—hardly left a scratch on the front door. Came in while everyone was sleeping, did their thing, and exited by the front door again. Bastards left it open, too. Just to let you know they were here.”
“I never thought they'd take it this far.”
“Do you want me to tell the investigating officer what you think this is all about?”
“I think we should, don't you?”
“I guess it couldn't hurt. Look, I'm going to tell him that we believe someone from the federal government is doing this without authorization. The officers should probably just fill out a normal report, though. If he writes certain things, it will prompt a certain response at headquarters, and I don't think we want a federal investigation just yet. Let's just make it a matter of record: he can put some subtle entry in the report about who the owner thinks may have done this. That okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks for being there, Dave.”
Debbie came back on the line. “What were they looking for?”
“Probably the documents Mel and I have, about the unit. I think they want to catch us with them, for the court-martial if there is one. They also want to scare us, to make us feel unsafe and violated.”
“It's working. It's working really well, David.”
“I'll come up this weekend, if it's okay with you.”
“I know the children would love to see you, and so would I.”
My commanding officer frowned on my leaving for the weekend, but my family had been violated and I was going to see them whether he liked it or not. I dropped off a leave form and drove away from headquarters after the weekly staff meeting in the commanding general's office.
Just off the installation, I spotted a dark blue sedan several cars behind mine. Normally I would never have noticed, but I happened to see the car just before I pulled in to the shop on post. It must have registered subconsciously, or maybe the angel was sending me a message. And when I came out of the store I saw the blue car again, parked alone several rows away. As I was leaving the parking lot of the mini mart my eyes met the driver's; he quickly turned his head.
It was getting dark, and I lost the blue car in the headlights of everything behind me. It could have been following me when I hit Interstate 95 and headed north, but I wouldn't have known. At first I was amused at the idea that
DIA had nothing better to do than follow me, but just past the turnoff to Raleigh, North Carolina, my right rear tire exploded and I swerved out of control at seventy-five miles an hour. I was in the far left lane and the blowout sent me onto the grass median. I swerved in the soft soil and climbed back onto the highway, trying to hold the car steady while I slowed to a stop on the left shoulder. I was in a sweat and my heart was pounding. The car shook violently every time a truck or car blew past me in the left lane; I needed to get across to the right shoulder. When the road finally cleared, I wobbled across the asphalt and stopped.
While I was fumbling with the jack a freelance tow truck pulled up behind me and honked. I was still shaky from all the stunt driving, and I must have jumped a foot.
“Let me give ya a hand,” said the driver. He moved me out of the way and began twisting the nuts off the wheel. When he'd gotten the tire off he turned it around to inspect in his headlights. “This ain't a blowout. This here tire's been cut to blow.” He pointed.
“What do you mean, ‘cut to blow'?”
“What I mean is, somebody cut this here tire so it would blow when you got to driving fast. Look, see this?” He pointed to a rectangular cut on the inside wall of the tire. “They make a cut here, not all the way through, but just enough that when you get going, say, fifty or sixty miles an hour, that spinning tire throws this piece here outward—tears it—and your tire does this.” He tugged at the ragged edges of the tire. “She explodes!”
When he'd finished changing the tire I paid him, threw the blown tire into the back of the Jeep, and crawled under the car with a flashlight. The other tires were intact. I spent the rest of the six-hour drive trying to figure out who'd cut my tire and planning what I'd do if I ever caught them.
 
It had been four months since my last visit to my family; the long stays at Fort Bragg were taking their toll. I took Michael to one of his hockey games in Baltimore, where I
stood alone watching him play and mulling over events. There wasn't a second of my life that wasn't preoccupied with remote viewing, or our book, or the attacks.
Two men in suits stood in the warming room, peering at me from behind the glass doors. I looked at them briefly out of the corner of my eye, trying not to let them know that I'd spotted them. They were definitely watching me; they never took their eyes off me. Still not looking at them, I walked toward the warming room, thinking I might be able to grab a cup of coffee and scope them out, maybe even ask them what the hell they were up to. But as I opened the door, the two men retreated, slipping out the front door. After a few seconds I followed. They were strolling toward their car, looking back over their shoulders every few seconds. One of them was wearing a pair of military low quarter shoes. He fumbled with the keys, trying to open the car door, while his partner looked everywhere but at me. They climbed into their gray late-model Chrysler and sped off.
Things were certainly heating up. I knew I had to go on the record about remote viewing before whoever was behind the surveillance and sabotage escalated things any further.
 
Soon after my weekend with the family, Mel, Jim Marrs, and I met with Sandra Martin in New York City to work on the book. Over dinner I described some of the events that had taken place. I'd kept Mel briefed, but otherwise I'd mentioned them only in passing before now.
Mel was looking worn. “I think they're after us with the influencing,” he announced.
Jim and Sandra didn't know what he was talking about, but I did. “What makes you think that?”
“I can feel them working away at me. You know how it is—you get that itchy, jumpy feeling inside, as if someone's dragging their fingernails across your blackboard.”
Sandra shivered in her seat. “Really? They can do that, and you can tell when?”
Jim started taking notes.
“It's something you learn in the program,” I said. “You know how it feels when someone stands way too close to you at a party? You know that uneasy and oppressive sensation you get? That's how it feels when someone is in your space from a distance as well. It's no different. You get the same sensation, and it drives you crazy until you figure out what it is.”

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