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  ERO

  A Novel By F. P. Dorchak

  “Witty and fast-paced—blending a thorough understanding of space technology, satellite operations, and UFO history—Frank Dorchak's latest novel is pure genius. Having worked with Frank in real-time satellite ops, I know that his unique perspective will grab you and take you where you've never ventured before.”

  Dan Brune, former Major (USAF), and Satellite Mission Director

  Copyright 2013 by F. P. Dorchak

  Digitally published by F. P. Dorchak at Smashwords, 2013

  Cover design by Kirschner • Caroff Design Inc.

  Digital formatting by A Thirsty Mind eBook Design

  All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, may be reproduced in any form by any means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  I thank the following for all their help and inspiration: Rob Butts, Dan Brune, Madelon Rose Logue, Dave Lirette, Jan (C.J.) Jones, Bob Garner, Karen Lin, Andy Krajnak, Whitley Strieber’s Communion books, Dan Sherman and his book Above Black—Insider Account of Alien Contact and Government Cover-up (and his gracious allowance of my incorporation of his actual Intuitive Controller experience into my novel), the International UFO Museum, at Roswell, NM, Barry McMillan, Jerry Johnston, Nathan Kettner, Sherry Fields (for keeping me on the straight and narrow!); my dad (ex-U.S. Navy submariner RM1SS), journalist mom, and the rest of my family; Tom Heaton, Matt Bille, Liz Scheier, Steve Saffel, Cherry Weiner, my incredible cover artist, Lon Kirschner... and of course, the X-Files. A very special thanks to astronaut and ex-coworker Colonel (USAF, ret.) Rex Walheim, STS missions 110 and 122.

  Above all, I am ever grateful to my wife, Laura, for her constant unwavering support and faith.

  Of course I took liberties; this is fiction...

  ... or is it?

  FPD

  For Laura

  Table of Contents

  Quote

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  About the Author

  Research Reading

  It has been said within the intelligence community that the more unbelievable, far-fetched, or improbable their actions... the less likely the public will believe.

  Chapter One

  1

  100-Mile Low Earth Orbit

  4 November 2021

  0903 Hours Zulu

  The missile, a brilliant fuzzy puff of light set against the stark blackness of space, arced from around the backside of the globe and above the thin, fragile blue film of the Earth’s atmosphere, its Multiple Independently Targeted Reentry vehicle packed with nearly a dozen five-hundred kiloton warheads. The MIRV hurtled unerringly toward destinations on North American soil. Behind it, like a bizarre thermonuclear biker gang, followed a chorus of additional fuzzy puffs, also targeted for twenty-nine-to-forty-nine-degree northern-latitude impact locations. Missile warning’s Space-based Infrared System tracked the MIRV, but its link to midcourse shoot-down capability resources were already elsewhere employed.

  Above and below the 100-mile Earth orbit, flashes spiked against the Earth’s backdrop as satellites were attacked by kinetic-energy anti-satellite weaponry. ASATs that plowed directly into orbiting hardware, burrowing through telemetry, tracking, and control modules, pulse-code-modulation boards, and nickel-cadmium batteries like cosmic buckshot, smashing them into useless space junk.

  Other targets found their defensive countermeasures useless as they experienced a barrage of intense particle-beam attacks. Still others fell victim to the more subtle, unseen electromagnetic pulses that fried internal components.

  Yet, within minutes those satellites that had survived had activated dormant payloads and unleashed massive electromagnetic pulse bursts directed toward Earth itself, which seared through the circuitry of airborne and ground-based equipment. Other orbiting platforms launched miniature warheads toward preselected objectives. Terrestrial and airborne defenses answered back with additional kinetic ASAT launches and directed-energy blasts.

  * * *

  BE-4701, also known by its more industry-common name ERO 28, orbited in the midst of the space war. Despite the carnage, ERO 28 continued spying Earthward with its advanced electro-optical telescopic eye. It deployed its own defensive countermeasures and sent occasional bursts of directed energy particle beams toward objects it considered threats. As ERO 28 maintained its decaying orbit, it passed through a field of satellite debris, which took out two of its four solar panels on one side, one on the opposite, two of three hardened batteries, and further crippled its already damaged superstructure and subsystems. The debris also largely disabled most of its remaining defensive countermeasure capability.

  ERO 28 could, however, continue to attack.

  As the spy platform came within striking range of CHINASAT-102, it swiveled its laser toward the intruder and fired off a burst. CHINASAT-102 fell silent.

  ERO 28 continued its orbit over the Asian continent, collecting intel and sending bursts of laser fire aimed at both terrestrial and on-orbit objectives.

  Another object, an advanced unmanned space vehicle, its light-absorbing hull dark against the background of interplanetary space, vectored toward ERO 28. The platform sensed its approach and fired at the object, which it identified via an updated data load, as USV-A-7. But USV-A-7 deflected the attack by shedding its radar-and-laser absorbing skin, continuing undeterred. Although the intruder did not behave as ERO 28’s upload predicted, ERO 28 continued its attack, blasting away more of USV-A-7’s onion-like outer hull to expose the titanium battering ram core that had been housed within the composite skins.

  ERO 28 updated its data, immediately downloading this critical turn of events through classified satellite relays, and initiated evasive maneuvers by attempting to autonomously fire its thrusters to change its orbit.

  Those thrusters that still operated.

  The titanium battering ram remained undeterred.

  ERO 28 fired lasers until it had exhausted its remaining power supply.

  The hurtling ASAT impacted ERO 28 with a soundless flash, a collision that was not as full an impact as had been intended, given ERO 28’s partially executed evasive maneuvers. But it had been enough to put any remaining satellite system capabilities out of commission, as subsystem after su
bsystem sputtered and began to shut down....

  * * *

  Mission Specialist James Cherko’s head slammed back into the bulkhead behind him, the sounds of his own screams, as well as those of warning klaxons and sparking and exploding equipment panels ripping into his head. Acrid smolder tickled his nostrils and filled the enclosure.

  Images flashed.

  Playing with siblings in the woods.

  Star patterns.

  Earth.

  A woman laughing.

  Astronaut training.

  Deer.

  Earth, Earth, Earth...

  A jarring volley of rifle fire?

  Hiking through a wintry and wooded back forty...

  Straining, he tried to move.

  Pinned.

  He was pinned?

  Lightheaded—dizzy—and confused, he opened his eyes. Sparks and smoke filled the module. Flashing lights, lots of flashing and steady-state lights. Red and orange. Indicator “idiot” lights on control panels. And those damned klaxons....

  Time. He was running out of time.

  Why hadn’t the fire suppression system kicked in? He was gonna choke to death if he didn’t—

  He glanced at a time display unit.

  0905 hours. Zulu. 0405 hours Eastern.

  Why was he running out of time?

  What was his timeline? Time for what?

  There was something... something he needed to be doing....

  Cherko tried to get to the control panel, free his arms, his legs, but

  What the hell?

  Pinned. All were firmly pinned.

  In his head he’d already begun running emergency procedure and malfunction protocols. Mentally trying to project what had possibly gone wrong, what could be affected, and what to do next. Mentally searching out and disabling shorted panels, initiating CO2 fire suppression, and verifying backup life support subsystems were green and operational. He was—

  Pausing, he scanned the length his body.

  What the hell, goddammit—what the hell was the matter with him?

  The interior of the space station swam crazily before him.

  How was this possible?

  He was wrapped within an unreal, cocoon-like structure that encased his body like a form-fitting cage. From shins to collar bone he was held within an unyielding metal grip. Cold, unforgiving. A grip that proclaimed, nothing personal, pal, it’s just my job. As if the station itself had, for some insane, ungodly reason, reached out and wrapped itself around him.

  Cherko continued struggling—he had to act now—but was firmly anchored within this absurd confinement. Sturdy strips of metal crisscrossed his body like wide X’s, pinning his arms to his sides and his legs against each other. On this structure were also blinking and steady state lights and switches. Entire panels of them.

  “Goddamn it.”

  Cherko stopped; intense dizziness again sweeping over him. Images of

  His wife’s face.

  Standing before a wall?

  Pouring over training manuals—

  Writing them?

  Something round, something high, something red... staring out across an expansive, open field... hacking at something with an ax....

  He blinked; shook his head.

  Get your head out of your ass!

  Shut down those panels!

  Idiot lights... have to deal with... klaxons... safe the vehicle and payload!

  Idiot lights... what was it about frigging idiot lights?

  Focus.

  Cherko stared at the panels.

  Think, goddammit, th—

  Where was he?

  He scanned the module.

  Where was he? What were the lights trying to tell him?

  Life support panels.

  Communications and control panels.

  Encryption modules.

  Command module. He was in the command module of—

  They’d been attacked... there’d been a collision?

  ELINT.

  SIGINT.

  He was...

  He was on an electronic and signals intelligence space station. A... manned... orbiting... laboratory? Yes, that was it. MOL.

  He grunted.

  A spy platform? There was nothing experimental nor scientific about any of this.

  Okay... he was onboard an orbiting platform collecting intel. Fine. But, good Lord, things had finally gotten so seriously out of hand, and someone... someone had goddamned launched. Pressed the button and goddamned started world war fucking three.

  Wife kissing him.

  Making love.

  Maneuvering through a mountain pass.

  She’s laughing... about what?

  World War III.

  Where did that leave Humanity? Where’d it leave him?

  In an empty command module on an orbiting spy platform on the receiving end of thermonuclear disaster.

  Armageddon.

  That damned noise! Could someone please turn off that frigging racket!

  Was he the only one onboard? Where were the others? He remembered...

  Launch.

  Aboard the Orion... a booster... three of them. There had been three of them.

  Roscoe Pullman. NSA.

  Wayne Garcia. U.S. Navy.

  And him. U.S. Air Force—

  Good God that noise was deafening!

  Again Cherko struggled against his restraints, wrinkling his nose against the growing, module-filling smoke.

  What the hell was happening? Why the hell am I pinned onboard a dying space station?

  Flashing lights everywhere. Frigging idiot lights.

  Another memory.

  Close... he...

  Had to hurry. Checklists. Running out of time. No time. The coup d’grace would come. Would it be another kinetic energy projectile? An EMP blast? He was about to quickly become an unknown and unremembered casualty of war, floating (the proper term was “falling,” actually) overhead a population in which some 90% would be annihilated or driven to extinction from collateral damage anyway. No tears would be spilled over him. He was just a spy, and all spies went unremembered and unacknowledged.

  Making love in Garden of the Gods with—

  He again looked to the time display unit.

  And what was it about the time?

  Besides his immediate situation, why was he so certain he was quickly falling behind some timeline?

  God, he felt like such an idiot!

  How could he have gotten himself stuck like this, a hundred miles above any help?

  Idiot.

  Idiot lights!

  That’s what they’d called them, back then, back in... in flight training....

  2

  Mather Air Force Base, California

  21 September 1983

  0700 Hours Pacific Time

  Second Lieutenant James Francis Cherko sat in the cockpit of the T-37B “Tweet,” twin-engine jet trainer, scanning its console. He couldn’t believe he was actually, finally, here.

  Navigator training. Class 84-11, baby!

  Mather Air Force Base, Sacramento, California. All the paperwork was signed, oaths taken, and medical examinations—which included in-depth physicals, max VO tests, and finger and footprints taken—done. He’d passed with flying colors, to pardon the expression, except his eyesight hadn’t been grand enough to land him that coveted pilot slot.

  But his vision had been good enough for the Backseater role, the Navigator, EWO, or Wizzo. As an Electronics Warfare Officer or Weapons Systems Officer he could still fly (jets or heavies), whatever his role finally ended up being upon graduation. In this day and age navigators rarely just navigated any more. These days they dropped bombs, pulled triggers, or worked complex electronic eavesdropping or jamming gear.

  And it was so weird, he—and the rest of his class of the 452nd Flying Training Squadron—had even already gotten a chance to actually wear their wings. They’d worn them when they’d had their photos taken during in-processing. Hadn’t eve
n begun training, yet there he and the others were with those burnished navigator wings firmly planted upon their proud chests above their left-breast uniform pockets. A taste, a teaser, of their collective goal. Their pictures taken early so that upon graduation the governmental publicity machine, which had already kicked into action, would send Hometown News Releases and photos everywhere. And to him those wings had felt so heavy, so important. This was Real Life. Real Stuff, baby, no longer theory and textbooks, no sir, this was out there in the Real World, flying around in million-dollar aircraft trying to keep the Free World free by dropping bombs, pulling triggers, and fucking with enemy electronics.

  And now he was seated in the side-by-side cockpit of the Tweet training simulator, preparing to be briefed on its controls and procedures. Instructed about idiot lights and Emergency Gang Loading of the oxygen regulator: in the event of a loss-of-oxygen situation, slam all three switches into the “up” position for emergency maximum flow of oxygen.

  Idiot lights.

  The Instructor Pilot had briefed that moments ago.

  Idiot lights.

  The IP went on to point out all the controls and indicators and brief them about proper cockpit entry and egress, and that when they heard two words, uttered three times by the pilot, there was to be no debate about it, no conversation—no thinking. Action and only action, and you couldn’t do it fast enough. With these words came two simple actions. Raise the yellow handgrips on both sides of the seat, then squeeze the single or double triggers, depending upon which model within which they flew.

  Bail out! Bail out! Bail Out!

  The words.

  Hand grips raise... trigger(s) squeeze!

  The action.

  Unthinking. Ingrained. Like covering your nose and mouth to sneeze.

  He’d just memorized his first checklist.

  But the idiot lights... that term just struck him funny. Funny, in a bizarro Twilight Zone sort of way. If he were to ever deal with idiot lights, he hoped it wouldn’t be at 60,000 feet, in a ground-sky-ground-sky-screaming-toward-Earth fighter jet emergency... but he truly felt that sometime, perhaps way into his future, Idiot Lights were going to, indeed, play a major role in his life. Idiot Lights were going to wake him up in a manner of speaking he couldn’t yet fathom. Idiot Lights, he felt deep down into his twenty-two-year-old soul, were going to play a huge life-changing role in some disturbing, indefinable way, and it was truly going to be a matter of life or death.