ERO

by F. P. Dorchak

  “And you did all this as a First Lieu—”

  “Second Lieutenant, sir. I hadn’t yet been promoted.”

  “I see.”

  “Well, he just stood there and took it, his mouth open in utter surprise the entire time. When I was done, he said that was the first time a second lieutenant had ever chewed him out.”

  “I bet. Were you right?”

  “Sir, I was. I didn’t call him any names, and just stuck to the facts. There was nothing he could say. To his credit, however, I had to hand it to him—he never held that against me the rest of my time there. In fact I had to spend the rest of the day filing higher-headquarters reports for that incident, since it really was a training mistake and not a real launch. Doing all those reports had made me stay so late that I had no ride back to the barracks, because I’d ridden in with my DD in the government van and he’d already left. So, here I am, still kinda pissed at the DO, finishing up my report, and in he walks... asking me if I need a ride back. Then it hits me... I didn’t have one—not that it was a long walk back, it wasn’t—but the fact that he offered me a ride blew me away. He held absolutely no grudges that I ever detected, but I was extremely uncomfortable the entire ride back.”

  “Ever get that apology?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, that’s exactly the kind of officer we want in our ranks. Someone not afraid to take a stand.”

  Laasko glanced to his watch.

  “Okay, I think I’ve taken up enough of your time.” Laasko got to his feet, as did Cherko. “As I said,” Laasko said, shaking his hand, “this will be quite the challenging job, and one of the most important

  “most important

  “most important

  “most important

  “jobs you’ll ever perform, and you’re just the kind of officer we’re looking for.”

  Cherko eyed the colonel. He was about to ask if he was all right, when Laasko continued.

  “Our last individual had an emergency permanent change of station and we really needed to fill that billet. It looks like we made a good choice.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Cherko said, still eyeing the colonel.

  “Oh, and one more thing. Everything that goes on in here—and Security will reemphasize this—everything from our conversation this morning to Sergeant Lefty’s cold, to a display monitor’s PMI—preventive maintenance inspection—is supremely classified. What goes on in here, stays in here, even from those in the mod above us. This is a highly compartmentalized world, Lieutenant, which means strict need-to-know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good to have you onboard!”

  “Good to be here, sir.”

  Cherko turned to leave.

  “And, Lieutenant—”

  “Sir?”

  This place doesn’t exist. I don’t exist—and neither do you.”

  2

  Cherko exited his car in the Templeton Park Apartments parking lot in front of the building to his new home. Apartment 222. He stood there a moment, staring up into the overcast sky.

  He’d come a long way from Lake Clear, New York, and that kid excited by Star Trek, spaceflight, and models of jets and spaceships. Staring up at the clouds reminded him of the time up behind the house, behind the chicken coop and by the pump house, where he’d stood on the top-most extrusion of curved granite, also during a gray October day. Standing there in the clearing as that teenager, he’d been having difficulty in dealing with some youthful angst he’d long forgotten on a particularly troubling day. But he did remember staring skyward at the fast moving gray and black clouds. Thinking how he swore he was gonna make it in this world, gonna attain his dreams, and nothing was gonna stop him. He was gonna show the world... some day... make it big. He was gonna show them, yes he was.

  So, he’d applied to the Air Force and Naval Academies at Colorado Springs, Colorado, and Annapolis, Maryland. He really wanted the Air Force. But, as “most improved” as he might have been in high school (school had never been his strong suit, though he was always slightly above average), it wasn’t enough to get him into the Air Force Academy. But for the Naval Academy he’d managed a nomination from Senator Moynihan, of New York.

  He couldn’t believe it!

  All he now had to do was get the actual appointment. He could follow in his dad’s footsteps in the service he had served as a submariner, but only he would be an astronaut! His dad below water—him above.

  But, alas, those hopes were also soon dashed, and were the start of his life-long list of failures.

  He hadn’t been good enough to get in to yet another academy.

  He’d found out years later in talking to his father that he’d missed that Annapolis appointment by one point.

  One stinkin point!

  His dad had told him that the Annapolis superintendent had actually called him and told him that he had just missed the entry criteria by a single point, and could he quickly retake the tests? There was still a chance....

  But his father had informed the officer that where they lived, in boondock upstate New York, those tests were only administered once a year.

  Persistent teen he was, he figured, try another route on his quest for space. He’d applied to a couple colleges and found he’d been accepted to two in Arizona. He’d picked Northern Arizona University, at Flagstaff. He’d shoot for an astronomy degree, and try to enter pilot training. So, Cherko applied for the Reserve Officer’s Training Corps through college and took the entry tests at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, at Rensselaer, NY. Though he failed to qualify for a pilot slot (how quickly the failures were piling up...), he did qualify for a navigator slot.

  Flying high, he headed off to college, and graduated with a physics degree—with an emphasis in astronomy. NAU had not yet had an astronomy degree, though Lowell Observatory was up on a hill just west of Flagstaff, the same observatory where Percival Lowell had discovered Pluto in 1930. A fresh butter bar second lieutenant, he launched into navigator training, at Mather AFB, California. He did well in the academics (a ninety-eight average)... but couldn’t perform cockpit in-his-head calculations, and choked during a nav procedures laboratory exercise, wherein which he plotted a course leg directly through a thunderstorm....

  What the hell was the matter with him?

  Couldn’t he do anything right?

  How the hell did he expect to become an astronaut if he couldn’t do any of these things correctly?

  Then after three more attempts at getting an astronaut slot while in the Air Force, he again failed, failed, and failed. It was like he just wasn’t destined for greatness, no matter how intensely he promised his teenage self on that little patch of granite up back behind the chicken coop. He’d always thought he’d been destined for something big, but was quickly beginning to doubt any of it.

  Cherko turned away from the dark skies, and made for the apartment steps that led up to his second-floor apartment.

  So... he found himself in missile warning, and now some cool job (he was told), about which he still had no idea.

  But it wasn’t flying, and it wasn’t as an astronaut.

  But it was about space.

  And maybe that was all he could settle for. Second best. Never first, never last, but always—always—somewhere in between. A guy had to grab what he could, when he could. Second best was better than last.

  After spending the day in-processing into a super-secret unit that didn’t officially exist, on an Air Force installation that wasn’t completely constructed, he would take what had been graciously handed him by a colonel who had seen something in him.

  But, still, his little voices nagged, did he get the job based upon his own merits?

  No.

  He’d gotten it from his commander doing him a favor.

  Couldn’t he do anything right—or on his own? Couldn’t anything go the way he wanted things to go?

  Life was tough, but he had it good, so quit whining. Grow up and be a man, for Chrissakes
. Things happened for a reason, and he may not understand it at the time, but everything that ever happened to him always seemed to bear itself out at some point. He had a college education, was gainfully (if covertly) employed, so call it a day and move the hell on.

  Standing on the landing before his apartment door, Cherko reached into his pockets and fished out his keys. As he began to insert his key into the door, the apartment door next to him opened.

  “Hi!” the longhaired redhead beauty greeted, closing and locking her door.

  Cherko smiled, still trying to open his door. “Hi.”

  “You must be the new guy?”

  “Yeah; just moved in this week. Jimmy Cherko,” he said, turning to the woman and shaking her hand.

  The woman smiled an absolutely stunning smile, eyes deep and dark, and shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Jimmy Cherko. I’m Erica. Erica Taylor.”

  “I seem to be having issues with this lock,” Cherko said.

  Erica eyed him as she made like she was looking for something in her purse. Cherko again tried the lock.

  “Oh,” Erica said, “sometimes these locks just need a jiggle or two.”

  Cherko jiggled it. Jiggled it again. It opened. He smiled back to Erica, who had returned to her faux pocketbook search.

  “Well...,” Cherko said, just about to enter his apartment.

  “Where you from?” Erica quickly asked.

  Cherko paused, and set down his satchel just inside the doorway.

  “Originally upstate New York.”

  “Really? I’m from Vermont! Burlington.”

  “Well, isn’t this a small world. I’ve been to Vermont—Burlington—a couple times. I love riding that ferry across Lake Champlain.”

  Erica smiled a big, open-faced smile; checked and smoothed out her ponytailed hair. “Wow, never met anyone out here who even knew about Burlington, let alone the ferries!”

  Erica stopped searching in her purse, clasped it in both hands and set it down before her. Cherko now looked to her and totally took her in. She was absolutely stunning. Tall, extremely well built, and, he now also noticed, attired in work-out garb (Spandex and sweat shirts; she wore two sweat shirts, it looked like) that really made her physique stand out.

  “So... heading to the gym? Know of any you could recommend?”

  “Sure,” Erica said, “there’s a couple around town, Lynmar Racquet Club, a couple Bally’s, but I really like this little one called the Holiday Health Club down on Academy and Galley—Academy’s the main north-south drag through town. In fact... I even have a card. Here,” she said, and turned around to reach down into her gym bag behind her. Cherko raised an amused eyebrow, smiling, as he caught an extremely good shot of her tight behind.

  “Here you go,” she said, standing back up and handing him the card. “What are you smiling about?”

  Cherko took the card. “Uh, Holiday Health Club? Cool. Thanks, I appreciate that. You heading there, now?”

  “It’s just a couple minutes south on Academy, on the right, just before Galley. In fact, here,” she said, suddenly taking back the card (and touching his hand in the process), “I’ll write directions down on the back... and my number,” she said, glancing up to him. “In case you have trouble finding it... or have any other questions.” She handed back the card, smiling and shifting her weight to one foot. “Hope to see you there.”

  “Maybe you will.”

  As Erica bent over and gathered up her gear, Cherko again got another shot of her well-formed back end.

  Erica made her way past him, lightly brushing against his hips, and Cherko found himself unable to look away. She gingerly stepped down the concrete-and-metal steps to ground level, where he found he continued to watch her as she got into her car. She again, casually (or so it seemed), looked up to him, smiling and waving goodbye as she pulled away.

  Smiling—and embarrassed—he waved back and entered his apartment. As he closed the door behind him, still grinning ear-to-ear, he thought, okay, unknown job, second-rate career choice... but—wow—a knockout for a next-door neighbor.

  Maybe things were finally looking up.

  Chapter Four

  1

  Eastern Plains of Colorado

  1 November 1985

  0030 Hours Mountain Time

  The window-blackened blue Air Force van that carried First Lieutenant Jimmy Cherko—in civilian clothes—rattled and shimmied over what felt like hard dirt road. He didn’t know how long they’d been on it (he’d been directed to leave his watch at his apartment), but they went down on this road after having taken a right turn off smooth pavement.

  Cherko had finished his orientation into his new ERO unit what-was-now-yesterday, had met his commander, Director of Operations, trainer, and other assorted personnel, and after filling out some paperwork had begun training. But, when he’d returned to his empty apartment later that afternoon (after having met that hot chick on the landing), he’d received a mysterious call from DO Turnbull. Turnbull had told him that at midnight tonight a dark blue Air Force van would arrive at his apartments. He would have three minutes to get into it. He was to ask no questions, say nothing to the driver, dress in civilian attire, and leave his watch and all questions behind. When the van arrived at its destination, he was to disembark and proceed into the building he was dropped off before. Pass through two sets of doors.

  That was all the major had said before hanging up.

  The van had shown up precisely at midnight. Hitching his glasses up on his nose (he couldn’t wear his contacts 24 hours a day) and hurrying down the apartment stairs, he entered the vehicle. Once inside he saw all the windows had been blackened out and he was separated from his driver by another blackened window that stretched across the front.

  Road trip.

  But, now, the van was slowing down, though Cherko’s pulse was picking up.

  Where the heck was he and why all the drama?

  Fleeting images flew through his head.

  He saw himself sitting before a console. Something peculiar was going on... a display before him.

  A display within a display?

  Something about a desert, bright lights, lots of people....

  The van came to a complete stop. Cherko sat motionless for a moment longer. He then unbuckled his seatbelt, slid across the seat, and exited. As soon as his feet hit ground (there wasn’t a parking lot, sidewalk, or road around him—the bus just seemed to park out on open prairie), he looked up and paused; a waning gibbous moon was part way across the cold dark sky. He remembered star-and-moon gazing as a kid with his dad’s huge ex-Navy binoculars....

  The van honked.

  Cherko glanced back to the shadowy vehicle. Looked to its headlights. Highbeams that shot out into dark nothingness like laser beams.

  No trees, no buildings, no roads.

  Out in the middle of nowhere.

  Then he turned back around and looked to the odd structure before him. He couldn’t quite make everything out in the darkness and shadows, or the building’s exact scale and his proximity to it, but it was some kind of apparently small, box-like construction. He found it hard to define it a “building.” It actually reminded him more of a hut, like an ice-fishing hut. Or storage shed. One lone light shone above its door, a plain metal door with a simple vertical pull-bar for a handle. There were no other markings on it. No signs, no “Welcome to Hell,” no nothin. As Cherko approached the door, he startled several nearby pronghorn. He watched them dart off into the darkness.

  Cherko approached the structure and grabbed the handle. It was heavy, solid. Cold. Belied its appearance. He glanced back to the idling van one more time before pulling open the door and disappearing behind it.

  * * *

  It was warmer in here, but not by much. And it was quite a small vestibule he found himself standing within, much like a closet. But there was another door before him.

  Turnbull had mentioned two.

  The door he just passed through closed
with a smooth though heavy clunk, and he turned back to it. Gave it a push. Locked solid. Not an ounce of give. This was definitely like no ice hut he’d ever been in.

  “Great.”

  Cherko gave the door two more good pushes for the hell of it before returning to the other door. He was “in,” and there obviously wasn’t any room for changing one’s mind. He approached Door Number Two.

  The door was smooth, no handles, and blended in nicely with the walls. Too nicely, actually. In fact, it reminded him of the doors on Star Trek’s starship Enterprise, except that there was a metal plate on the wall to the left of the door in the shape of a left hand. No brain surgery here. He cautiously placed his left hand into the grooved-out area of the wall plate. No electric jolts, but the door did as expected, and swooshed open, just like the Star Trek doors. He recoiled a step, left hand still upraised, surprised at how quickly the door had zipped open. Remained open.

  Cherko lowered his hand and peered inside.

  An elevator.

  “Doesn’t anyone do anything above ground, anymore?”

  He entered it.

  As soon as he was inside, the doors swooshed closed and the elevator shot into action, throwing him momentarily off-balance as the floor seemingly dropped out from underneath him. But no sooner had he regained his composure, when the elevator stopped and its doors again opened—this time, into a small chamber approximately six by ten.

  “Well, ain’t this cozy.”

  Cherko cautiously entered the chamber. The elevator door quietly swished closed behind him. He also re-approached this door, but this one did open. He stared into the empty elevator a moment before backing away.

  “Please sit, Lieutenant,” came the soft voice from behind. Cherko spun around. The voice was a mixture of electronics and what had to be human vocals, and came from the empty room. Cherko saw no speakers, but found a chair to his left, beside a computer workstation set into the wall. It was under a large, dark, plate glass-like window. The monitor for the computer workstation was also large, perhaps 30 diagonal inches. A keyboard sat beneath it. The monitor was blank. Cherko noticed that though the air he was breathing was cool, he was not uncomfortable. He removed his jacket.