“This way, sir,” the standing guard said, and directed him toward biometric equipment to his left. The guard wanded him.
Cherko had his picture taken, then stood on a plate in the floor where his weight was measured. He saw a retina and hand scanner, but wasn’t directed to use either.
“You have all my other stuff?” he asked the guard, who just burned him a look without a response. Cherko was handed his new restricted-area badge. His picture was in the upper right-hand corner. Along the same edge of the badge, he saw “Temp” printed in large open-block red letters down the side of it. Along the bottom edge he saw “S4.”
“Let’s go,” Shroot said, and they headed to the door behind the two security personnel. “Swipe your badge... you know the drill.” Shroot stepped on a metal plate, swiped his badge and bent over the retina scanner, then disappeared behind the door. Cherko did the same. Behind the door was a much smaller foyer-like area, a hand reader beside the next entrance. Shroot placed his right palm at the hand reader then also disappeared behind that door. Cherko followed. There were no green or red lights, and no clicking of a lock releasing or setting. He pulled at the door latch and it simply opened. When he passed through this door, he found himself and Shroot standing inside a huge, narrow corridor that seemed to extend a half a mile or more. There was also the slight hush of what sounded like white noise above them.
Another guard stood before them, armed with some form of a mutant M-16.
“You will now be escorted into another room,” Shroot said, “where you will be presented with a blue folder. This folder and its contents never leave that room. You will not leave the room until you have performed the actions described in that folder at the time hack given in the folder. A time display unit is provided in the room. If you need to use a restroom, do it now. You will not leave that room until you have completed the actions detailed in that folder. You have four minutes.”
“But, how am I supposed to—”
“Remember our talk.”
Cherko clammed up.
“When all actions have been completed, you will exit the room and a guard will escort you to me.
“Do you understand all I have instructed?”
Cherko nodded.
“Verbalize, please.”
“Yes, sir—I understand your instructions.”
“Good.”
Chapter Seventeen
1
Undisclosed location, Desert Southwest
6 July 1986
0240 Hours Pacific Time
The door to “the room” was opened. Cherko stepped through it and it closed behind him.
Locked.
The first thing he saw was the timer, already ticking away. He was already losing time and he just got here. Something about that really unnerved him.
What time was it?
He had no idea, his watch having been taken away from him by Shroot... but there sat this timer, ticking away on an empty desk with the Blue Folder Shroot had also told him about... and some other object of which Shroot had made no mention.
(complete the actions in the folder)
(couldn’t leave the room until he did)
And what was this thing—this tiny vial—standing on end beside the folder?
Cherko leaned in and took a closer look at the vial without touching it. Took his seat. Casting another glance to the ticking timer, he quickly turned his attention to the folder and opened it. Inside, a sheet of paper read:
You have until the timer reaches 11 to perform all actions.
On the next line of typed Courier, was:
You will now swallow the two pills in the vial. When complete, proceed to next direction.
The timer was ticking away from three. It seemed each tick was just over a second in length.
Cherko lifted the gray bottle and examined it. Considered what he was supposed to do with its contents, and scanned the room.
Another surveillance camera was behind him.
Lotsa trust.
Cherko shook the bottle. It didn’t feel right... slippery in a odd, hard-to-explain way, but not in a way that would slide from his grasp. In fact it barely even felt like he was touching the damned thing. He brought it in closer. Two small pills were inside.
“No water?”
So what were these supposed to do to him? Turn him into Superman? The Incredible Brain? Cause him to explode?
Terminate him?
He removed the lid, which felt like a hard plastic material of some kind—or glass. Hard to tell. Shaking the bottle, he transferred the two innocuous looking pills into his hand. They were also gray, and smooth, nearly circular ovals. He set the bottle and cap down and got to his feet. Hefted the things in a palm. He approached the door and stood before it.
“I’m quite the captive audience, aren’t I?”
Again hefted the pills.
Switched them into his other hand.
Time was a-tickin.
“Here goes nuthin.”
Cherko “saluted” his upraised hand and pills toward the camera, then tossed them into his mouth.
They went down easy—actively sliding down his throat, as if he’d taken water with them.
“That felt weird.”
He remained before the door a moment longer.
“Well, I don’t feel like Superman.”
Clearing his throat he sat back down.
* * *
Cherko had gone to the next sheet of paper in the folder. Things just kept getting weirder and weirder. The next sheet said:
Close your eyes. Focus on “Rosebud.”
Rosebud?
Wasn’t that a sled from Citizen Kane?
Cherko looked to the timer. It read 9:64.
Had it sped up?
He was certain it couldn’t have been more than a minute or two of actual time passing since he’d been in here.
You have until the timer reaches 11 to perform all actions.
Okay, Rosebud. He closed his eyes and focused.
Cherko sat back in his chair, tried to relax—which he found oddly enough, was surprisingly easy to do, even under these circumstances. Maybe the little gray pills had something to do with it.
Rosebud.
Images of Orson Wells filled his mind, as well as other vague black-and-white scenes from Citizen Kane, but he quietly set them aside. His instructions didn’t say anything about playing with the mental images around the term, just to focus on the term. As Cherko focused on his task, he felt his body begin to tingle.
Now, something was definitely happening....
He felt as if he was... merging with... what?
Sensed an incredible buildup of power within.
But it was more than that. He felt as if there was
An intelligence.
Activating.
What was activating? Had he thought that or—
Cherko suddenly felt dense. Incredibly dense. But not in a heavy way. Felt as if his body was somehow extending out to the ends of the universe... tilting on edge. Rotating.
Growing.
He actually felt tipsy—like he was psychically drunk?
Rosebud.
Saw darkness. Felt air, but the air felt funny.
Electrical?
Smelled sand.
His ears began to ring.
Cherko opened his eyes and found himself looking out over a red desert.
2
Brigadier General Harley Becker stood outside in the desert terrain of area S-4, at the Papoose dry lakebed, pacing back and forth while chomping at the bit. He stared at the object before him, currently illuminated in red light and 100 yards away. It was encircled by a top special forces Black Team armed to the teeth.
“C’mon, baby, do it,” he said, gritting his teeth as he paced.
He nervously glanced to his watch, then spun around to look out into the darkness of the Nevada desert; up into the night sky.
What the hell was really out there?
“S
ir!” an assistant called. “Look!”
BG Becker spun back around. Figures, the one time he looked away....
His jaw dropped.
The red-illuminated object slowly lifted several feet into the air. It dipped slightly, somewhat unstable.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” BG Becker said. “It actually fucking works.”
There were mild hoorays uttered by project personnel, which were quickly muted. Members of the Black Team even backed away a little from the now-hovering object.
Becker’s assistant, Dr. Hill came up beside him.
“I told you,” he said, turning back to watch the craft.
“And I’d never have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes.”
“We could find no other way, no other way to make it work... it had to work, had to.”
“Twould appear so, Doctor.”
* * *
Cherko felt himself floating out of body. It was an extremely pleasant sensation, but he wasn’t in that room any longer. He was... outside... looking out over a red desert. Everything was red. He spun around in place to check out where he was.
There—people. Pointing toward him.
Man, what a neat feeling!
Was he floating?
Rosebud.
Focus on the word.
Cherko rose up. Instantly he was (he felt by something that acted like, but wasn’t called, an “altimeter”) one-hundred feet into the dark air. He left the redness up here. Reaching out, he felt something out in the darkness was on the way... something was happening...
He looked down, he could still see those people gathered below. Looking up to him. Curious about them, he found himself instantly back down where he’d started, but felt no sense of motion.
Well, that was interesting.
Rosebud.
He’d been flown to an undisclosed location, ushered into a tiny little room, told to take some pills, and to focus on a word.
Rosebud.
And now he found himself here. Wherever “here” was.
So... what about the him back in that room?
Rosebud.
* * *
BG Becker walked over to Dr. Hill, who was now fiddling with equipment.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it Doctor?”
“Well, it depends upon what set of physics one chooses to work with, doesn’t it? Under our set, we’ve only just begun to chart any of this, but apparently under this craft’s set, our views are rather Newtonian.”
Becker nodded.
“Hyperdimensional physics, General.”
The craft shot straight up, out of sight.
“Shit!” Becker uttered, taking several steps toward where the craft had just been. Dr. Hill shot a look up into the night.
“Damn it, I thought we’d had a script—get those lights back on it!” Becker shouted. Eight-hundred million candle-powered carbon-arc searchlights were instantly swung upward. But within seconds, the craft had instantly returned, startling its security forces. One man was knocked to the ground by nothing more than his own surprise, as the craft and his surprise came within inches of each other. And as the craft instantly reappeared, there had been no ground wash whatsoever. No air disturbance. One moment it was gone, and the next—returned.
BG Becker continued to stare at the craft as it hovered ten feet above the Nevada desert.
“We need this,” he said, “we need this bad.”
* * *
Cherko opened his eyes.
The timer clicked to eleven.
Stopped.
He sat motionless in the chair, hands calmly on his legs.
Well, that was... incredible.
Had he actually done what he thought he had?
Had he actually piloted some craft with his mind?
Is this what this had all been about? And why had it been so easy? It’s not like he’d ever done anything like this before....
So, it had never been about transcribing mental alien stenography. Or disabling enemy satellites. Had it always been about remotely piloting UFOs?
No shit.
Cherko closed the folder and smoothed his hand over it as it lay before him.
Doesn’t this fetch some rather interesting scenarios? If he’d really, in fact, done this... what else was he capable of?
Now, this was sexy.
A smile slowly worked its way across his face. He turned and glanced up at the surveillance camera behind him.
* * *
The once-again red-illuminated craft settled to the ground. No one moved as they all watched it come to a complete stop. Dr. Hill checked his watch. “Okay!” he declared, “All systems have powered down—let’s go, people!”
The transport team moved in to return the craft to its underground storage bay—but before anyone could do anything, incredibly brilliant flood lights appeared out of the night sky and quickly descended to just about ground level, where they hovered.
From out of the dark, appeared men. Scores of them. All clad in black, AK-47s aimed at the individuals gathered around the craft.
The Black Team that had been in place found themselves barrel to barrel with counterparts of themselves in a classic Mexican Standoff. Neither man’s cold, steely gazes flinched as they eyed each other, trigger fingers at the ready.
They... were them.
Becker fumed.
Overhead, a whisper of blades passed. Becker looked up to see a dark chopper pass overhead and felt the blast of its subdued prop wash. He watched the bird descend just on the other side of the Black Team that now held his group hostage.
Someone was going to pay. Dearly.
Out from the blackness strode a large, lone individual, tall in stature. Becker quietly checked his sidearm and undid the holster flap.
The figure unhesitatingly strode out of the darkness right up to him. He wore no cover, but did wear the dark utility uniform of the Black Team members that held them captive. No name tag, nor any other identifying features, save one.
Stars.
Three of them. The rank of Lieutenant General in subdued stitching.
Becker hissed. “Son of a bitch.”
The unknown individual came right up to Becker before stopping. His face was hard, but not as old as Becker would have expected for a man of his rank.
Great; outranked by a younger fast burner.
The LG shook his head with a look of bored disdain. He cast a glance to those around them before he spoke, and when he spoke it was more like he was chastising a wayward subordinate than addressing an honored colleague.
“What the hell you think you’re doing, General?”
“Where’s your cigar and why haven’t you pissed down my legs?” Becker spat back.
“The first one kills, and as for the second—be happy to oblige,” Hammond said, reaching for his fly.
“Oh, I think you’ve already done that.”
Hammond eyed Becker for along moment; removed his hands from his fly.
“So, you think you can come into my territory... snatch one of my resources... and use it for yourself?”
“Apparently,” Becker said, grinning.
Hammond gave another once-over to the standoff around them. Looked uninterestedly to the craft about which Becker’s people were still huddled.
“But I certainly do appear to have you by the balls at the moment, don’t I?”
“For now.”
Hammond narrowed his gaze.
“Don’t ever—again—fuck with my resources,” Hammond said. He turned and walked away. “Because, if you do,” he called back over the shoulder and chopper noise, “I’ll have to take you out! And that’d be a damned shame, General! A damned shame!”
Hammond continued back to the chopper.
* * *
Cherko sighed and got to his feet, a smile still painted across his face. Well, maybe this was worth the series of life failures and missteps he’d taken to get here. Maybe this was what he was finally meant to do. Wasn’t mea
nt to rocket into orbit—at least not as he’d planned—but this would certainly serve nicely.
Cherko opened the door... and walked into the barrel of an AK-47.
“Lieutenant James Francis Cherko?” came a voice from somewhere behind that barrel.
“Yes?”
The AK-47 crisply lifted up and pointed away from his face into the ceiling; the stern-faced operative behind it backed smartly away. The hallway was filled with black-faced, black-uniformed men with weaponry, and they parted to allow a tall, powerful-looking man to come forward. A man with three stars on black lapels.
“Lieutenant, we’re here to retrieve you,” Hammond said.
“Retrieve me?”
“You’ve been ‘misappropriated,’ Lieutenant. I’m here to reclaim what’s mine.”
Cherko saw no name tag on the general’s uniform.
“Excuse me, sir, and with all due respect—but who are you?” Cherko felt a wink of familiarity and furrowed his brow. “Have we met?”
“We have detained Mr. Shroot, as he calls himself,” Hammond said. He cast a look behind him. Cherko saw Shroot under armed guard and not at all happy about it. “And are to return you to your unit. Come with us, please.” The general extended an open hand between them toward the exit.
Before Cherko could ask another question, the general turned and left the doorway. Cherko looked to the men and muzzles before him, then dutifully followed.
3
Unmarked XH-60 Blackhawk, 3,500 feet, Heading 169
6 July 1986
0317 Hours Pacific Time
“Sir,” Cherko finally decided, airborne in a black helicopter and heading toward a destination he wasn’t all that positive was the right one, in a formation with several other, sleeker, attack choppers. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
Hammond scanned the airspace around them.
“No, Lieutenant, I cannot. At least not until we’re on-deck. Secure.”
Cherko again looked outside the chopper. He could barely make out the other choppers in formation with them. The quiet thud of the blades made him feel as if he were in a spy movie. Here he was in a chopper, “extracted,” it had been called, from an area he now saw was remote desert.
ERO Page 20