3
Lake Clear, New York
25 December 1974
Fourteen-year-old Jimmy Cherko snowshoed through the hard and softwoods of the back forty of their property. Wisps of dancing snow crystals pirouetted across barren and snowpacked landscape. It was late, and he’d had a fun afternoon playing around with his brand new Iverson’s snowshoes, exploring the heavily snow-packed woods. The air was crisp and cold, and Jimmy loved being alone. The sound of his crunching about on his shellacked wood and leather snowshoes comforting. But the clouds were getting heavier, and it had again begun to snow. The late afternoon light grew steely gray.
He stopped, listening to the cracking and splitting of timber. The laboring of his breath. Watched his breath puff up about him like frigid ghosts; noticed his breath only came out of one nostril. Breathing in this freezing weather through his nose froze his nose hairs, mildly shocked his lungs. He breathed a little heavier.
Yep, only one nostril.
Weird. He never noticed that before; have to talk to Mom about it.
But, what if he wasn’t alone? What if he really was being watched?
The snow came down thicker, the temperature quickly plummeted. What late winter light there was quickly disappeared...
* * *
The snow was heavier now, and it lent a distinct hushed sensation to the woods. A calming... coziness. He could even hear it hit the ground and trees all around him.
Cherko came up on a spot he’d come to call “Devil’s Den,” from the Gettysburg battlefield spot of the same name. It was a huge boulder balanced atop another extrusion of rock, both of which were now heavily covered in snow. Why he called it that was long ago lost to him, since it really didn’t look anything like the actual battlefield location. But, it was rocky.
He paused.
Again looked up into the heavy, drab, skies. Blinked against the large falling flakes as they lit upon his face. It was absolutely magnificent. Peaceful. He could curl up in its snowy blankets and fall sleep within it.
Cherko looked back from where he’d come. Smiled. Looked to his tracks leading back into the darkening woods. Listened to the cracking and splitting timber. His labored breathing.
Really... what if he wasn’t alone?
What if he really was being watched by someone?
Something?
The snowfall was quite heavy; the temperature had dropped to what had to be near zero. What late winter light there was was gone...
* * *
Something was wrong!
Though the cold had already penetrated his garments, another chill passed through him.
He looked to his feet. Behind him. Before him.
The only trail was the one he’d made, packed several inches into the snow, yet he’d felt as if he’d already done this... already been here... already hoofed it up and over at least an acre of land...
But no other tracks.
And it was darker. Later in the day than he felt it should be.
Jimmy stepped up his efforts. Didn’t want to get stuck out here in the dark. It wasn’t that he didn’t know his way around in these woods, he’d explored them plenty, every inch of them, but things not only looked different at night, they also got colder. And he didn’t want to catch a load of crap from his parents.
Jimmy picked up his pace. There was still plenty of light to make it back in time...
* * *
He stopped. Listened to the cracking and splitting of timber. His laboring breath.
What if he wasn’t alone?
What if he really was being watched by someone?
Something?
The heavily falling snow no longer felt comforting, the temperature sharp, biting, and bone-cold....
Jimmy again found himself where he’d started. The echoes in the wood around him sounded different.
He began to sweat; broke out into an all-out snowshoe sprint.
Something was holding him back! Coming for him!
Frozen branches slapped and stung his face like whipping wire. Tears sprouted from his eyes.
He had to get home!
It was only a short fifteen-minute jaunt, but his legs grew weak, noodley. The cold bitter and biting. He snapped trees branches as he plowed into the darkness...
* * *
He stopped. Listened to cracking and splitting timber. Laboring breath.
What if he wasn’t alone?
What if he really was being watched by someone?
Something?
It was dark and freezing. Frozen sweat coated his skin. His toes and fingers numb.
He felt as if the night was closing in around him like some enormously hungry unseen evil entity.
Where was he?
What was happening!
Emotion welled up uncontrollably. Cherko cried, but did the only thing he could do.
He again took off in another sprint...
But, no sooner had he taken flight, when he was knocked on his butt after having run full throttle into a tree, a branch tearing into his face. Quickly pulling off a glove, he scrambled for the wound. Thanked God for not having taken an eye. Shoving his hand back into the glove, he got back to his feet. More carefully, he tearfully picked his way through the thickening darkness.
What was happening? Why couldn’t he make it home?
The sounds in the distant woods were no longer friendly nor comforting. He’d really wished he’d brought a flashlight. It felt very late.
Increasingly exhausted, Jimmy bumped his way to what felt like Devil’s Den—again. Openly sobbing, tears froze on puffy and cut cheeks, Jimmy called out to his dad, his mom, hands constantly windmilling and whipping the darkness before him.
Something was coming for him!
“Daddy!”
But his bawling only landed him right back where he started... and it was definitely below zero, because of that hard Styrofoam-like sound snow got at that temperature.
Again knocked back onto the ground, Cherko didn’t even bother to get back up. He lay there, snot bubbles blowing out his nose as he exploded into huge, soul-searing pleads.
It wasn’t his Daddy that found him.
* * *
Colorado Springs, CO
13 December 1985
0858 Hours Mountain Time
Cherko sat up alone in the darkness, pulse pounding and sweat pouring off him.
He brought a hand to a long-healed scar on his cheek.
He remembered no such scar...
Snow. Darkness. His dad?
Dizzily shaking his head, and emitting a long, drawn-out grunt, he swung out of bed and got to his feet; felt the adrenaline drain from his body.
Good God, he was exhausted!
Where was he?
What time was it?
He collapsed back down on the edge of his bed, head in his hands and stared at the clock. Nine a.m.
He still had some time left to catch up on sleep. Why was he so tired?
But, it had all felt so real.
He got back to his feet and paced the room. Went out into the kitchen.
The dream was fading fast... something about snow... snowshoeing? The Lake Clear house.
Running?
Cherko got a sip of water. Stared out to the empty poolside area from his kitchen window.
He felt like he hadn’t been able to get away from something.
He set down the glass. He really needed some sleep.
He headed back into the bedroom. The dream... what was it about the Lake Clear house?
But it hadn’t been a dream, had it? It had been something more, something real. It had been more of
A memory.
Chapter Seven
1
ERO Operations Center
13 December 1985
1315 Hours Mountain Time
Cherko sat at his training console, slowly swiveling and rocking back and forth in his chair.
Ronnie Morrow was late.
He glanced over to the o
perators and noticed they were different from yesterday. Yesterday’s crop must be on crew rest. At least that was a saving grace from his nose-rubbing embarrassment, but he’d thought they still had a couple days before their rotation was up. In any event, this was good. He only had to deal with his embarrassment with Morrow.
Images of that ship’s prow again filled his head.
What the hell was a ship doing out in the middle of a desert?
And a car crash. Lights.
Cherko turned away from those in the ops room; and closed his eyes.
Ship’s prow... desert. Hot. Sand. Desert. Dark.
Cherko found himself entering the ship... dark, it was dark inside. Blisteringly hot. There was some lighting—but it was still dark....
A shadow in a doorway. They speak.
Gone.
Cherko was now in another place... a building. Air-conditioned. Cool. Computers... mainframe. Programmers, coders... talking to them—he was talking to them? A coder showed him her screen (you show me yours, I’ll show you mine)....
The ops door opened, and Cherko opened his eyes and spun around—as did the certified operators.
Morrow.
“Afternoon!” Morrow hailed cheerfully. He set down training material on the console before him, material covered by Top Secret/SCI cover pages. “How we doin today?”
Cherko looked to him.
“As well as can be expected after having had my head gold-plated and handed to me on a silver platter.”
Morrow busied about with the paperwork. Cherko eyed him; noticed one of the crew members glance over to them.
“Okay—you ready for some really cool stuff?” Morrow asked.
Cherko stared at him. “What about... you know—the grilling... the poly—”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Jimmy, but let’s move on. This is the most interesting part of the job—”
“But, what about last n—”
“Nothing happened last night,” Morrow said, still holding the insanely happy smile on his face.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Cherko again noticed the crew casting glances their way.
“Nothing happened, Lieutenant. We had some downtime, you were done early... I sent you home.”
“But I s—”
Morrow’s look turned dark; piercing.
Cherko looked away toward the on-console crew, who pretended to hear nothing.
“Okaaay...,” Cherko finally said, looking back to Morrow. His darkness had departed.
“Good! So, let’s get to it! Pull off that hood, and let’s rock!”
* * *
ERO Operations Center
2 February 1986
0210 Hours Mountain Time
Newly (and highly) qualified 31 January as a certified ERO operator, and assigned to grave shift, Jimmy Cherko sat at the workstation he’d been training at for the past three months. All three screens before him were up and operational. His mission for the scheduled support, his fifth for the shift, was to peek in on another domestic spy satellite. It had been having intermittent problems, and Maryland needed answers yesterday.
Completing initial configuration, Cherko swung the on-orbit telescope across deep space toward the Earth... then paused. Glancing to either side of him using only peripheral vision, he briefly slewed the telescope back half a degree. He sat for a moment just staring out into deep space.
Okay, this wasn’t an astronaut position, nor was it the Starship Enterprise, but like his commander at PARCS had promised, okay, it was pretty fricking cool. He was swinging around on-orbit equipment and snooping in on officially and unofficially existent satellites orbiting Earth.
Yeah... pretty sexy.
And what else existed out there? Out there in deep space? Other races? Other worlds? Aliens? UFOs?
As a kid in sixty-eight, he remembered watching the newly released 2001: A Space Odyssey at a Lake Placid, New York movie theater. He’d been seven years old. Up to the showing of the movie and after, his family’d periodically eaten at the Lake Placid Howard Johnson’s, in that back room with the big plate-glass window, at a long table alongside a fireplace. He remembered all the placemats had color pictures from the movie. The big, dark, monolith. The space station. Poole and Bowman, the astronauts. If he hadn’t been grabbed by space and astronauts up to that point, he’d certainly been hooked then.
Now, here he was, not quite an astronaut, but yeah, he was “in orbit,” all right, and that was pretty damned cool—and he couldn’t tell anyone about it.
Redirecting his telescope-control trackball, Cherko swung the video back in toward Earth, and his target satellite. Behind him, Captain Ronnie Morrow, now also his crew commander (he couldn’t seem to get away from this guy!), paced, checking in on all the operators.
“How you doing, Cherko?” Morrow asked.
“We have acquisition, sir,” Cherko said, continuing to adjust his controls. “Zooming in now.”
Morrow nodded and moved on.
Cherko attained target lock and zoomed in. The distant, extremely shiny object quickly came into a more refined and focused view.
This blew Cherko away.
He was moving around a multi-million dollar piece of hardware in space—real time. Not only the subject, but the very idea of doing this fascinated him. These things were orbiting about two-hundred miles, more or less, above... say the distance between the far side of Denver and Falcon AFS. Not very far, indeed, when you thought about it, but, wow, literally a world of difference in view and concept....
As Cherko performed his surveillance, an object appeared on-screen, setting off an alarm. It left the atmosphere for an on-orbit trajectory. Tingling with excitement, Cherko quickly swung over to it. His on-screen telemetry identified it as “Experimental,” flagged as an “XP” in telemetry.
“Sir,” Cherko said, calling Morrow.
Morrow quickly came up behind him. “Keep to your own screens...,” he casually reminded the other operators.
“It appears I have a Bravo Romeo,” Cherko said in a low voice.
“You know the drill,” Morrow said.
The drill.
Cherko had learned that though each of them had some of the highest clearances, accesses, and need-to-know, it didn’t mean they had all-knowing program knowledge accesses and clearances. He had been trained that yes, there were astronauts. Astronauts the world knew about... and those not talked about. Those testing extremely classified craft—also called “platforms”—that not only involved SR-71s and U-2s, but also went way beyond any Blackbird or Dragon Lady platforms and into the realm of hybrid space vehicles. Whispers of one such vehicle was the Aurora. Morrow had neither confirmed nor denied its existence. And the only reason they had been cleared about any such programs had been because they occasionally ventured into their fields-of-coverage—like now. “Bravo Romeo,” stood for “Blue Ribbon.” The top-of-the-line sightings of ultra-secret, experimental exoatmospheric test vehicles. And they were only allowed this authorization for whatever they viewed on their own screens, not anyone else’s, so they were to keep their eyes in their own yard.
And, Morrow, had informed him, they also were granted their needs-to-know because the Air Force didn’t want any talk of UFOs. Their need-to-know was so that there would be absolutely no question whatsoever as to what they were looking at. The Air Force didn’t want UFO rumors in the ranks.
Cherko refined the resolution on his target. Whenever acquired they were to say nothing and just track and record. Silent Sentinels. No headings nor coordinates were to be called out. This could happen several times a shift, or go dry for weeks. You were to just sit at your consoles and emotionlessly do your job. You weren’t even supposed to think about—to give any further consideration to—whatever you were looking at.
And that was an order.
But when the day was done, the missions, you always wondered... what had your coworkers seen?
It seemed very busy up there. As you went about y
our life, you did so in amazement at all the heavy upper-atmospheric activity that went on above all our unsuspecting heads each and every day...
So... the “drill.”
“Bogie acquired and tracked,” Cherko quietly said, as he engaged autotracking on the space telescope.
Morrow nodded and casually walked away.
In situations like this, Cherko had been trained that nothing more would ever be said. He would enter his operator-input keyboard command which would terminate system recording on the current system log and began recording a new one, so that the current system’s log tapes could be immediately pulled and shipped back east. Where they went was anyone’s guess. Not authorized, G.I. New tapes were hung, and operators were even to log nothing in their classified shift logs.
Classified.
Nothing more was to ever be discussed.
Now, wasn’t that strange?
Cherko observed the autotracking of what appeared to be the Aurora, as it skirted the fringes of the Earth’s atmosphere. Unofficial crew talk was there were pilots in there. People. Real humans just like them, who flew those things. Unofficial astronauts doing a really cool job but unable to tell anyone, including their spouses. Their officer effectiveness reports never contained any information about their super cool work. All they probably had was some generic statements of “data masked,” or a bogus assignment listed, yet they continually got the best and quickest promotions.
Such had once been his dream.
He’d thought he’d been destined to be an astronaut, to be shit-hot in training, able to handle anything and everything thrown at him. Cool as a cucumber in all-things life threatening. A regular DoD 007. Work through the pain, get the job done. But his eyesight had thrown him out of pilot training. He’d asked about correcting his vision, and had been categorically informed that that was entirely out of the question. So he’d entered navigator training, attaining a near-perfect academic average... but was prone to flight sickness and unable to perform mental calculations when called upon. He had been, to his credit, able to work through any “pain” and discomfort to close out in-flight checklists during Barf Bag sessions, but that was far from being an in-flight 007.
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