The Stargate Chronicles: Memoirs of a Psychic Spy

by Joseph McMoneagle

  In my first session against the building, I was given a set of geographic coordinates, clearly somewhere in the north, probably in the Finland or Eastern bloc region.

  I began the session by reporting that it was a very cold wasteland. But within it was a very large industrial-type building with huge smoke stacks and not too far in the distance was a sea covered with a thick cap of ice.

  Since I clearly was in the right place and on the right target, Fred showed me the picture of the building, which looked to me like a very large storage shed, an extensive, unremarkable flat-roofed building. Fred asked me what I thought might be going on inside it.

  I spent some time relaxing and emptying my mind. Then, with my eyes closed, I imagined myself drifting down into the building, passing downward through its roof. What I found was mind-blowing. The building was easily the size of two or three huge shopping centers, all under a single roof. In fact, it was so huge I was only able to see one or two walls that ran lengthwise down the center as support walls. Even these were open in segments along their length. I felt as though I were standing inside the building and able to actually see vividly what was going on. This rarely occurs in remote viewing, but for some reason it was happening on this target.

  In giant bays between the walls were what looked like cigars of different sizes, sitting in gigantic racks. One seemed older and I felt as though it were under repair, but the other was absolutely huge, beyond anything I could ever have imagined. Thick mazes of scaffolding and interlocking steel pipes were everywhere. Within these were what appeared to be two huge cylinders being welded side to side, and I had an overwhelming sense that this was a submarine, a really big one, with twin hulls. The entire area was filled with a cacophony of sounds and loud machining noises. The air was filled with smoke from dozens of very bright arcs of light emitting brilliant blue flashes. There was so much input, it was difficult to even begin to report on what I was seeing. I did some very poor general drawings of segments of features I perceived inside and said that I thought there was a ship or something, possibly a submarine, under construction inside the building.

  Two or three days later, Fred asked me to visit the building again.

  What I didn't know was that my session was reported back to the NSC and created some dissension. The almost unanimous belief at the time, by all the intelligence collection agencies operating against the building, was that the Soviets were constructing a brand-new type of assault ship—a troop carrier, and possibly one with helicopter capability. A submarine was out of the question.

  On my second visit, I got up very close to the larger vessel and was amazed at its size and height. Hovering beside it, I guessed it to be about twice the length of an American football field and nearly seventy feet in width, and at least six or seven floors high (if it were sitting next to a standard apartment building.) It was clearly constructed of two huge elongated tubes run side-by-side for almost their entire length. (I didn't think this was possible with submarines.) There seemed to be other separate tubes or compartments as well. Its primary drives were completely shrouded and looked quite different from normal. I moved up over the deck and was surprised to see that it had canted missile tubes running side by side. This was critically important because this indicated that it had the capacity to fire while on the move rather than having to stand still in the water, which made it a very dangerous type of submarine. It was so huge and the hulls were so thick, it was evident that they were using some new form of plasma welders to blend the steel plates together.

  After the session, I did a very detailed drawing of the submarine, adding dimensions, as well as noting the slanted tubes, indicating eighteen to twenty in all. This material, along with the typed transcript of my session, and additional validating RV material that had been produced by Hartleigh, was forwarded to the naval lieutenant commander at the NSC.

  (We were told that the material we provided was actually rejected out of hand by the others working at the NSC. It is critical to note here that one of those "others" working in the NSC at the time and participating in the collection of material relevant to this specific problem was Robert Gates. Gates one day became a deputy director of the CIA. Later he sat in front of cameras on Ted Koppel's Night-line in 1995, when the Star Gate project was openly and deliberately exposed to the public and systematically ridiculed, and said that no remote viewing had ever been done that was "critical to national interests," and "at no time had remote viewing material ever been used as standalone material.")

  We soon received a follow-on request from the naval lieutenant commander to return to the target and to try to provide an estimated time of completion for the larger submarine. It was clear that one of the problems dealt with the fact that the building in which the mega-sub was being constructed was actually situated some distance from water.

  I revisited the site and, based on the speed of construction and the differences in the condition of the submarine from one session to the next, I guessed that it would be ready for launch about four months later—that would be sometime in the month of January—a singularly crazy time of year to launch a submarine from a building not connected to water, near a sea frozen over with ice yards thick. (I reported that very soon a crew of bulldozers and other types of heavy equipment would arrive to cut a channel leading to the sea.) The folks at the NSC had a lot of fun poking at the psychic intelligence.

  Satellite photographs taken of the facility in mid January of 1980 showed a new canal running alongside the building and out to the sea. Standing at the dockside was the new and huge boomer, which had never been seen before. Tied up alongside it rested the now somewhat dwarfed Oscar Class attack sub, which had been in for repairs in the other bay. Clear in the photographs were twenty canted missile tubes. The completely new submarine was named the Typhoon Class, a tribute to the amount of water it displaced.

  We now know that the Typhoon submarine is the largest submarine ever built by anyone. Built in the Severodvinsk Shipyard on the White Sea near Archangel, the first moved out into the water for sea trials in early 1980, and was commissioned as TK208 in 1981. It was followed by TK202 in 1983, TK12 in 1984, TK13 in 1985, TK17 in 1987, and TK20 in 1989. They were all stationed in the Russian Northern Fleet at Litsa Guba. The sub is now known to be multi-hulled, consisting of five inner hull segments constructed within a superstructure consisting of two parallel main hulls. The inside is coated with sound-absorbent tiles, and in all there are nineteen separate watertight compartments. The submarine carries twenty RSM-52 intercontinental three-stage solid-propellant ballistic missiles situated in two rows of launch tubes in front of the main sail between the two hull sections. Each missile consists of ten independently targeted multiple reentry vehicles, or MIRVs, each having a 100 kiloton nuclear warhead (or city buster)—ranges of 8,300 kilometers (5,000 miles) and accuracy of 500 meters (a couple of city blocks). The submarine is 172 meters long and 23.3 meters wide (or about 1.75 times the size of an American football field in length, and about 70 feet tall, or close to six and a half stories.)

  This new submarine constituted a fairly large and distinctive new threat to our national security. It could target 200 American cities in an arch that covered most of the continent. Six of them could stand off shore and pretty much decimate 1,200 of our major cities with absolutely no lead time or warning.

  Any hopes that remote viewing might be viewed by the NSC as valuable were severely damaged when we later heard that some thought my material was just a "lucky guess." Perhaps that was the viewpoint of a CIA Russian analyst on loan to the NSC at the time, who would later ridicule the project as useless, as never producing anything of national significance. Could it be embarrassment that someone sitting in a small room in a condemned building somewhere on Fort Meade could invade what all of modern intelligence technology could not? Could that be threatening to billion-dollar budgets for newer forms of technology? I've thought many years about the matter. My conclusion is that it really had to do with nothing more
than stepping on the toes of a few egotistical individuals, who at the time were highly exposed at a significant governmental level, and couldn't get beyond hypothetical troop carriers without the assistance of remote viewing. Simply put, we produced information of national-level interest at a time when it was unavailable from any other source, something that some people said then—and still say today—that a good remote viewer can't do.

  Chapter Nine

  Downward Spiral

  The rest of 1981 was filled with a growing list of both clients and targets. My own health began to give me growing problems as a result of both increasing stress and lack of exercise. Up until about mid-1980, I spent a considerable amount of time in the gym at Fort Meade, usually working out during my lunch hour. I found that hard exercise of any kind was an excellent counterpoint to lying on my back. Scotty, Fred, and I sometimes played three games of what we called "combat racquetball" during our lunch hour. That's where it's always two against the guy with the next shot at the ball. Full-body blocking is appropriate, and body slams against the wall, as in ice hockey, while frowned upon, were usually employed with great effectiveness. Given that Scotty was bigger than I was, and Fred was actually the smallest of us three, I admired Fred's game. Fred really had game! Scotty could make a falling upper-corner three-wall shot with his body parallel to the floor with ease. On the other hand, my backhands were blazing arcs of blurred metallic blue metal (the color of my racquet). The number-one rule in combat racquetball is never—never—never turn around to see where the ball is. Sometimes the next player on the ball would drop back and wait for the ball to come off the rear wall, just to break the stride of the other players. The "stride" was born of the average time it took to return the ball to the wall, while a shorter and shorter stride became the norm as a result of better play—you got to recognize it like a heartbeat. So, when the beat suddenly stopped and nothing seemed to happen, the next player waiting for his turn to hit the ball had a natural tendency to turn to see what happened to the last player—presuming he missed it, or that he perhaps collapsed somewhere on the court from exhaustion. In any event—the number-one rule and perhaps the only inviolate rule was that you never turned around to look.

  One day our play was the best I'd ever seen. People were watching from the upstairs peanut gallery. We were on a roll, with recovery after recovery and I sensed a beat was developing—probably two-thirds of a second between shots—the ball hitting maybe 175 MPH. When it came around to me again I let it go by, intending to take it off the wall, breaking the beat. Turning to catch it when it did, I had my back to the rest of the court. The ball came hard off the back wall and I hooked it with my blazing backhand, which Fred (who had turned to see what was going on) stepped directly into. Since I always twist my racquet a full 90 to 120 degrees to put downward spin on the ball, my racquet face was parallel to the floor when the edge of it caught Fred across the face, just over his eye. What a great shot—and what a lot of blood. Fred just sort of stood there a few seconds; his eyes looked very strange, then he just kind of sat down. I thought I had killed him.

  It turned out to be a sizable cut that looked a lot worse than it actually was. He had caught the extreme edge of my racquet. Had he caught it full-faced, he probably would have needed a few weeks of microsurgery to remove the waffle marks. He wasn't mad, but I was absolutely horrified. I stopped playing racquetball. It was becoming harder and harder to get time for anything anyway.

  But now I was no longer exercising, I was spending hours stressed out at work, and hours stressed out in traffic, and—given the hours I was leaving and arriving—my diet was long since shot to hell. I began to gain weight, and a disc injury I had suffered in Vietnam back in 1968 began to resurface. I had suffered severe disc problems as a result of the sudden decompression in a helicopter crash. Some of my vertebrae were crushed and fractured through and through, most of my separator discs were either already in pieces or decaying, and a vertebra between the C7 and C8 disc space was rotated more than 30 degrees out of alignment. My lower back was beginning to give me fits—from the stress and driving I'm sure. The pressure from these disc problems began to produce significant numbness in my left leg, hip, and thigh, as well as tingling and numbness in both of my hands, arms, and portions of my face. A significant amount of pain accompanied this—especially on cold or wet days.

  Hartleigh began to suffer a sharp pain in his left hip. We would sometimes sit and talk with each other about how bad it felt. I started gaining even more weight as a result of the steroid shots they began giving me over at Kimbrough Army Hospital.

  It wasn't long before the command began climbing up my backside about my weight and conditioning. I almost stopped eating, because that was about the only way that I could keep my weight down under the military maximum. This further added to my physical condition by making me extraordinarily tired all the time. Meanwhile, Hartleigh got worse.

  Eventually the doctor at Kimbrough called my commander and told him that I was going to be put on probation for both my weight and my medical problems. They couldn't seem to find a solution for fixing my trashed back. On the other hand, I was learning to do my remote viewing in spite of the pain. That's when I noticed something. If I could learn to do my RV in spite of mind-numbing pain, then I should be able to do remote viewing in spite of almost anything.

  (For a long time I was bothered by the excesses which everyone seemed to be going to in order to improve their remote viewing capability. First we blocked up the windows in the viewing room so we couldn't hear the birds chirping in the trees outside. Then we reduced the light to a level you almost couldn't walk through the room with. We kept adding to a long list, much of what was based on recommendations being made by the SRI lab. We removed everything from the room but a table on which to do the drawings, and a dental chair, which we bought at auction. The chair was kind of cool, actually. You could lean way back in it; it was semimolded to your body; and it was really very comfortable. They even painted everything in the room gray—the walls, ceiling, and table. The chair was already gray. We even had a rug installed that was close to the same shade of gray. Walking into the room under low light would give you vertigo if you weren't careful. In any event, I began to resent it. I began to view the long lists of "must dos" as simply a preloaded list for failure. When you screwed up a remote viewing, you could always find a reason on the list for why it failed. I began cranking up the light, sitting at the table, and even doing some of my preliminary work before ever getting the target while sitting at my desk across the street. It was clear to me that if you couldn't do this thing called remote viewing under any conditions, it was going to prove of little value on the street or in a war zone. The funny thing was that my viewing improved somewhat. I eventually got to the point where I could RV almost anywhere at any time under any conditions. Once I reached that point, it was more a matter of simply paying attention to the job and getting it done.)

  After a few months of arguing, the doctor at Kimbrough Hospital called me over one day and told me that he was going to officially recommend a medical discharge for the good of the service. It was clear that because of my back, I was incapable of doing my duties as a soldier. He so advised Branch.

  This created a major personal problem for me. Branch was obviously going to support him because they wanted my warrant officer space back where it belonged in my primary MOS area. What most people don't know, however, is that this is sometimes a move the military makes as a form of indirect punishment. I had obviously pissed off the doctor at Kimbrough by never getting better, no matter what he did, which was a reflection on his own officer's evaluation form and has a direct effect on his own promotion and ego placement within the scheme of things.

  The reason it's viewed as an indirect punishment?

  –If I retired (at that time I would have been eligible to retire within two years and three months), I would have received a full retirement as a chief warrant officer.

  –If I was medically
retired before I reached my eighteenth year, then I would not be eligible for that retirement check should my situation later change medically.

  –Once medically discharged with less than eighteen years' service, I would have gotten a rating of something less than 40 percent disability for my back problems, which would have been about a third of my possible retirement salary (win one for the Army system).

  –If, after I was medically retired, my medical problem was eventually fixed—in other words, in their opinion made less of a problem through the application of heavy-duty drugs—my disability rating would be reduced to less than 20 percent, possibly to 10 percent—now equating to less than a tenth of my possible retirement salary (a second win in the Army column.)

  –If they made the problem go away altogether, I would have no disability pay at all and no retirement, because I would not have made it to my eighteenth year (win three for the Army accountants.)

  –Applying for reinstatement at that time to complete my military career would then have been denied because I would have been too old (win four, trump, and checkmate).

  As impossible as this may sound to many, it has been done to hundreds of military veterans, officers and enlisted alike, over the years—but it wasn't going to happen to me.

  I challenged the doctor with the regulations, which simply stated that if I could pass the annual physical training test for my age group, the Army considers me healthy enough to serve. Back then this test required running a number of obstacle courses in minimal times, doing a minimum of overhead parallel bars, a minimum of pushups, and finishing a two-mile run within a specific time wearing the utility uniform (fatigues) and combat boots. Although at the time I was using a cane and couldn't get in and out of a car without help, I figured I could do almost anything to get through a single day of pain.