ERO

by F. P. Dorchak

  Alda was tall and slim, wore rimless, wire glasses and sported a graying goatee and well-kept hair. His face was friendly, as was, Cherko gathered, his demeanor.

  Cherko rose, hand outstretched in a greeting.

  “Yes.”

  Alda quickly shook his hand. “Dr. Alda. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Good to meet you, too—I hope. You can call me ‘Jimmy’”

  “Great. Well,” Alda said, smiling and gesticulating back to the chair, “have—or return to—your seat. Would you like water or anything? Sorry, no hard liquor; the board frowns upon that sort of thing.” Alda took up a seat in the other Victorian. Cherko once again took his. “So,” Alda continued, “what can we do for you?”

  “Well,” Cherko said, crossing his legs and calmly folding his hands in his lap, “I seem to rear-end trash trucks and freak out in MRI machines.”

  Alda nodded, pinning Cherko to the wall behind him with a penetrating yet sympathetic look.

  “Trash trucks, huh.”

  “Yeah, trash trucks.”

  * * *

  “Okay,” Alda said, “so, your mom has a history of sleepwalking, and you’ve also had occasional bouts with it yourself?”

  Cherko nodded.

  Alda looked down to his notes, stroking his goatee.

  “Your mother still sleepwalk?”

  “Yes. I just talked with her the other day.”

  Had he?

  He thought he had....

  Alda looked up to Cherko, his eyes deep, dark, and probing in a way that surprisingly made Cherko’s blood run cold. Cherko looked into those eyes; found he couldn’t look away. There was something unnervingly familiar in that look, a look that stopped him in mid-thought by a certain... recognition?

  “I’d like to try something.”

  “Okay.”

  “Free association. Familiar with it?”

  Still transfixed by Alda’s stare like a stuck bug, and feeling juuust as uncomfortable, he said, “You say something, I respond with the first thing that comes to mind, which’ll probably turn out to be references to my mother.”

  “Good,” Alda said, smiling. “I’d like you to lay back and kick up your feet on the Ottoman.”

  Cherko looked to his feet. Yes, there was an Ottoman there. Cherko kicked back; closed his eyes. Thought about the snow outside continuing to fall. Soft, sound-deadening, comforting.

  “Now, Jimmy, we’re going to clear our mind, and relax... if thoughts enter our mind, we’ll simply acknowledge them and gently guide them away....”

  Cherko found the relaxing easy to do. In fact, it was easier to do than expected, and before he knew it, he heard Alda’s voice as if it were coming from a very, very great distance....

  4

  First Lieutenant Jimmy Cherko opened his eyes.

  He was lying down. Looking up into a ceiling.

  Something wasn’t right. His elbow hurt. His mind... muddled.

  Was he home? Had he driven home?

  It felt so good to just... lie... there. To not be at work. Calm. Quiet....

  What do you think you—

  Jimmy bolted upright.

  What do you think you sa—

  Something definitely wasn’t right. Something... off—

  A back road. He’d been on a back road...

  Curtis Road.

  It’d been dark. Was alone. Gas indicator pegged beyond “E.”

  Nothing but darkness. Out in the middle of nowhere.

  Lights.

  Down at the distant end of the road. Heading toward him...

  You do not know what you’re dealing with, Morrow had said. There are organizations—

  The lights pull up to him.

  That sergeant. From his... his... interrogation...

  No—that wasn’t right.

  What wasn’t right about it?

  Cherko swung his legs over and hopped onto the floor. Shook his head; brought up a bloody-knuckled hand.

  What the hell? Something... something wasn’t right about that. About—

  That sergeant’s face. Cherko looked at the sergeant’s face.

  It disappeared.

  Just... Cheshired away.

  But, he was back on Curtis Road!

  What the hell?

  December 12th, 1985. He’d run out of gas, alright, but—

  The sergeant’s car was gone.

  He still stood in the middle of the road. Alone. It was pitch black. Quiet.

  He looked back down the road from where that sergeant had come.

  Had he?

  Lights. There they were. Still there. Heading his way.

  But there was something wrong about those lights.

  A shiver ran through him. It was cold outside. Late... going on ten-thirty. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  The light had moved, yes it had. But it hadn’t followed the road, had it; hadn’t stayed there...

  Was this real? Was he really seeing this?

  The light had drifted smoothly off the road, out into the fields to the east.

  Oh, no. No.

  It quietly and smoothly raced across the open, dark fields. Level, like it was on a rail, or something.

  What was happening...

  The light changed direction. Vectored toward him.

  No.

  This can’t be. Can’t be happening....

  The light paused. Was bigger now. Had come closer. Just hovered there, out in the field just beyond him and his dead car.

  No, this can’t be. Stuff like this doesn’t happen to me! Never happens to me!

  Was it real?

  December swamp gas in the Colorado Highlands?

  But how cool! How neat looking!

  A bluish-white light, he could now see, just hovered out there... like a ship offshore. Waiting.

  Waiting for what?

  The light again moved. Slower than when it had arrived to that spot. Toward him.

  Oh, no.

  Cherko’s breathing quickened.

  What am I going to—

  Relax.

  Relax? Easier said than—

  Cherko’s pulse and breathing slowed.

  Ok. Did I do that? Did I—

  The light was gone.

  His car was gone. Curtis Road—gone.

  He stood in a field.

  This wasn’t right.

  He’d just been on Curtis Road, out of gas—

  Something was behind him. He felt it. Electricity crawled across the surface of his skin. He was on fire.

  Slowly, he turned.

  The outline was difficult to make out in the darkness, but it was clearly not his car.

  “Oh, my God....”

  “What do you think it was you just saw?”

  Cherko turned a little more to his right.

  A figure. Dark... like that other thing... stood just beyond—

  * * *

  Cherko was back, standing...

  Where was he standing?

  Jimmy had fallen back against, what—a table?

  What table?

  He pushed himself away and looked to it. Blinked. It was suddenly hard... so hard... to think. Jimmy brought a hand back to his head. Looked to his hand.

  Healed.

  Felt his elbow—no longer tender.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus.

  Someone was coming. Yes.

  He turned around and looked up. There was someone... someone in the... room?... with him. He blinked, but when he opened his eyes he could have sworn he’d seen someone standing before him, but... but, he now found himself standing back in that field.

  Looked behind him.

  A dark shape hidden in the dark—part of the dark?

  We brought you back.

  Cherko spun around.

  Back where?

  Here. To remember.

  Remember what? I don’t—

  As Cherko looked to the figure standing before him, the truth was he did
remember. This wasn’t the first time. No, not by a long shot. From this shadow Cherko felt... familiarity.

  Female.

  Compassion.

  They’re coming for you and we are warning you. You are being used.

  What do you mean?

  They know of your abilities. Been watching you for a long time.

  Who?

  They will tell you one thing, act another. It is their way. They chose you.

  Chose me? I came to them.

  They engineered you to do so. But that is not important. You must be aware of our warning. We will make it so you remain aware of this warning.

  How do you—

  We must also continue to make the rest of our encounters unknown to you.

  Do what? Why—

  For your safety. Ours. We cannot give you conscious memory of us for all of our safety. You will remember nothing of our encounter except to be wary of those for whom you work. Wary of all you meet. No one is what they seem. We will continue to watch and monitor you. You gave us permission long ago.

  So, I was just on a—

  I must go.

  Wait, not yet—

  The figure was gone.

  He felt groggy, like his mind had just gone on an extended vacation without him. Fuzzy. He closed his eyes, squeezing them hard. Unsteady, unsteady... mentally tried to reach out into the darkness. When he opened his eyes...

  He was surrounded by men and machines.

  Choppers, two on the ground, several more (he felt by their thumping concussion in the airspace about him), airborne, circling and hovering. His arms were held outstretched to his sides. He found supremely unsmiling men held him pinned as if in some absurd crucifixion. He was surrounded by other similarly unsmiling men with weapons trained in his direction. Shaking his head again, he came to focus on another standing before him. A man with stars on his uniform. A man who silently nodded at him, chomping a cigar amid a cocky smile.

  Cherko inhaled cigar smoke and coughed.

  “Sir,” Cherko said, clearing his throat, “what’s... what’s going on, here? Where am I?”

  Lieutenant General Hammond snorted.

  Chapter Fourteen

  1

  Lake Clear, NY

  12 July 1976

  0101 Hours Eastern Time

  Everett Cherko lay in bed, eyes closed. Had he slept at all? Dreamed? He couldn’t be sure, but it was definitely late. He reached out for Renée.

  She was there.

  She moved only slightly so, but made one of those sleep sounds that indicated she was definitely in a profound slumber. Thank God.

  She was still in bed.

  He rolled over and looked to her, paused a moment or two, then continued over onto his back and looked up into the ceiling.

  Damn that kid, but if he didn’t ask the goddamnedest questions.

  Jimmy hadn’t known what he’d been asking at the barbeque earlier today—yesterday, he corrected, looking to the bedside clock hour—but the question had brought him back to 1962. To perhaps the strangest moment of his twelve-year naval career... something he couldn’t quite remember, and which continued to haunt him. Something he wished he could ask his skipper about some day, or anyone else who’d been on that boat with him fourteen years ago.

  Damn, time was a trip.

  Time passed—moved on—but memories, feelings didn’t. They were still there, fresh as the day they’d first been experienced—

  Now wait... hadn’t something also happened on another patrol? Another boat?

  Yes... there had been another time... on another submarine. Another incident that had also scared the crap out of him—

  Everett sat upright.

  How could he have forgotten—shit! Clear as day!

  A chill ran over him. He cast another look to Renée to make sure he hadn’t woken her.

  The Sailfish, his first sub... something freakish had happened there, too—how could he had forgotten? 1957... yeah, ‘57. He’d made Second Class Petty Officer. They’d been on patrol to the Barents Sea.

  A cold sweat sheeted Everett.

  Something strange... just like... just like the Threadfin in ‘62.

  What the hell?

  Why had he never recalled the Sailfish incident? Two incidents he couldn’t remember, two incidents which caused him to sweat like a cornered criminal.

  Everett got out of bed and left the room. Made his way barefoot down the stairs into his ranger office. Without turning on any lights, he walked through the house, into the living room. There he stood before the picture window and opened its curtains; stared out across the darkness into the waters of Lake Clear. Across the road.

  What were under those murky waters?

  What was under...

  2

  Barents Sea, 100 NM north of Murmansk, USSR

  31 October 1957

  0011 Hours Zulu

  Sailfish, submersible ship, radar picket 572, U.S. Navy, hung quietly at periscope depth at 10 knots, holding an easterly heading. The Control Room within the Sailfish was busy, each man performing their assigned duties as they listened in on Soviet communications. In the radio shack, twenty-one-year-old Radioman Second Class Everett Cherko adjusted his headset and several dials on the receiver panels before him. Tweaked frequencies. He checked his watch. Almost time to terminate patrol and return to warmer climes, no more Rooskies sniffing around for them. There had been intel of increased Soviet activity out here, and other boats had either been elsewhere employed, or in port for extended overhaul. The Sailfish had been available and had taken on the assignment.

  Executive Officer Lieutenant Ford poked his head into the radio shack.

  “You good?”

  RM2 Cherko nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  The XO nodded back, then departed for the Control Room.

  Everett pulled off his headphones. Hopefully they’d picked up whatever the spooks’d been looking for. He could begin transcription on their way back.

  * * *

  The Sailfish made its WSW heading into the Norwegian Basin, submerged to 100 feet, 15 knots. Ping Jockey, or Sonarman First Class Billy Bickford, stationed in the forward torpedo room, stared at his scope. Clear of contacts... underwater ridges, mountains, and valleys notwithstanding. Steer clear and they were home free. Back to friendlier waters and even friendlier women.

  As boring as this was, it fascinated Bickford that the boat was, essentially, blind. It navigated its way underwater like a bat... and that utterly amazed him.

  A loud pinging assaulted his headphones, and the sonar scope displayed not just a blip, but a huge one... one that was just... there... right alongside their 350-foot-six-inch hull. SO1 Bickford jerked back in his seat. The screen had been clear and empty, and the next moment something followed alongside. At shouldering distance.

  “Control, Sonar!” Bickford called into the 1MC internal communication system. “Contact—starboard quarter!”

  Lieutenant Commander S. R. Hoffman, Captain of the Sailfish, looked up from his charts in the Ward Room.

  The Diving Officer, Lieutenant (junior grade) Henny, quickly made his way to Bickford’s side.

  “Jesus,” Henny muttered. “How in the—”

  “No idea sir. One moment the scope was clear, and the next... there—just like that!”

  “Sonar, this is the Captain,” LCDR Hoffman hailed from the Ward Room over the 1MC. “What’s contact’s range?”

  “Fifteen feet, Captain.”

  Henny then reached over and flipped the gray 1MC toggle switch. “Helmsman, Sonar. Perform an emergency course to port, one-eight-zero degrees.”

  “Sonar, Helmsman—aye, emergency course to port, one-eight-zero degrees!”

  “Let’s see what it—” Henny began, but was unable to finish.

  Hoffman, Henny, Bickford, and the rest of the men in the Sailfish were all struck dumb.

  Sonarman Bickford and the helmsman both looked straight ahead, hands dropped into their laps.

 
Lt (jg) Henny returned to his nav plotting board and stood before it. Stared straight ahead into the bulkhead on the opposite side of the Control Room.

  LCDR Hoffman stared down into the charts before him.

  Each and every seaman aboard the Sailfish developed a blank expression and simply stood or sat or lay wherever they’d found themselves.

  RM2 Everett Cherko was transcribing code from their Murmansk diversion when he simply stopped and folded his arms on the table before him. Stared into the receiver panel.

  And the Sailfish herself came to a dead stop in 100 feet of Arctic Circle water.

  All Everett Cherko was thinking about was how calm and relaxed he felt. And that the glass gauges on the receiver panel needed a better cleaning—how had he missed those crevasses where the glass met the gauge rims? He’d need to get at those with a good toothbrushing.

  Everett slowly turned his head and looked to his left.

  Someone stood in the radio shack entranceway.

  A couple someones.

  Everett smiled. He was about to say “hello,” but felt too relaxed to say anything, really, so just... smiled.

  The figures approached.

  3

  Everett continued staring out at the dark waters of Lake Clear.

  Yes, he remembered. Remembered that patrol. Remembered that the Sailfish had been diverted to the Barents Sea. Remembered... well, didn’t so much as remember as felt something else had happened. Something else that seemed to take him to the brink of a deep, dark, abyss... then summarily jilted him. He thought ‘62 had been bad enough, but now he’d come to find ‘57 had also turned into a banner year.

  Led right into the mouth of madness, then left him hanging.

  What was it—what had happened that caused him to bristle whenever he thought back to that—now those—patrols? Patrols he could not, for the life of him, complete their memories....

  Chapter Fifteen

  1

  Colorado Springs, CO

  19 June 1986

  0700 Hours Mountain Time

  Cherko awoke with a start.

  Looked to the clock.

  Seven a.m.

  Looked to the window.

  Sunlight. Filtered in through closed mini-blinds.

  Looked to his clothes.