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“How was North Dakota?”

  “Windy.”

  “You oughta feel right at home, here, then.”

  Cherko smiled uncomfortably. He could envision this man’s professional and sharp voice filling his ears within a cockpit, barking out headings, DRs, or ordnance releases. Now, something he would never experience, except in his imagination. So much for boyhood aspirations.

  The short jaunt onto the site felt longer than it actually took, but they’d finally arrived to another dirt parking lot alongside a huge building that looked a lot like it was made out of rock. It had absolutely no windows nor any other building identifiers. It looked like your basic cube construction, several stories high, faced with a tan pebble material that made it look like a vertical insanely pebble-strewn beach. It fit in nicely with the surrounding barren landscape. But it also reminded him of his assignment up at the Perimeter Acquisition Radar Attack Characterization System, in North Dakota. Turnbull pulled to a stop and snapped on the parking brake.

  “We’re going to enter through those doors before us,” Turnbull indicated to up ahead, “at which point you’re going to be searched.”

  Cherko sat up a little straighter.

  “Standard protocol. You’ll go through this every day. Once inside, I’m going to take you to our module, where you will be in-processed, and we’ll go from there. Questions?”

  Of course Cherko had questions, lots of ‘em. He may be “green,” but he knew better, felt the total politeness being extended; it wasn’t meant to be acted upon.

  “No, sir.”

  Turnbull and Cherko entered the doors, and true to the major’s word, both of them were searched. Both were “swiped” by a search wand, then only he was patted down. He was then asked to open his satchel, whereupon another SP poked around inside it with the butt end of a number two pencil. Satisfied, both were allowed to pass. Turnbull then clipped on his restricted area badge, which he pulled from a pocket. Cherko was issued his own and similarly clipped his to the lapel of his dark blue Poplin.

  Turnbull then led him through the entryway, straight on toward another door, where Turnbull removed his badge and swiped it through a card reader alongside the door. A reflective metal sign declared the use of deadly force was authorized. The green light from the card reader allowed them passage, they entered, and Cherko heard it click behind him as it closed and locked. As if on cue, Turnbull did an abrupt about-face, which landed him squarely into his own personal breathing space.

  “And one other thing before we proceed any further. Everything, absolutely everything that is said and done inside here—including how many times you take a shit—stays inside here. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant?”

  Swallowing hard, and beginning to sweat, Cherko nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Turnbull nodded, then again about-faced and took him down the long corridor that seemed to go on forever.

  * * *

  Turnbull had taken him into another module, with another card reader behind another door that had another Use of Deadly Force Authorized sign affixed to it. Sat him in a waiting area. He then disappeared into the depths of this new enclosure. It was cooler in here, and he was glad to be rid of the major for a spell. Gave him a chance to assimilate his situation. He was on a site that was still under construction, had very little personnel, yet still managed to have some kind of a highly classified, apparently operational, unit. A unit no one talked about, and where mannerisms were measured and scrutinized.

  Again, what the hell had he gotten himself into?

  North Dakota.

  He had North Dakota to thank. Or more specifically, one Lieutenant Colonel Willie Masterson, site commander...

  * * *

  Cavalier Air Force Station, North Dakota

  8 May 1985

  “What do you really want out of life—the military?” Colonel Masterson, known widely on site as “Willie” out of uniform, asked. They sat bullshitting in the on-site rec room. “Because once your desires and the Air Force’s diverge,” he said, making a “V” with his hands and shooting them off in diverging directions, “then it’s time to punch.”

  “Well, sir, to be totally honest, I’d always wanted to be an astronaut. But things just haven’t gone my way.”

  Masterson nodded. “I see. Well, you know, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Have you tried looking into becoming a payload specialist? Or a shuttle flight controller?”

  “I’d applied to the Manned Space Flight Config Center, down in Houston, but was told that what Air Force personnel were already down there were being released. I also had a By-Name Request in for flight-control work in Sunnyvale, California, with a Colonel Logue, but that also fell through. I’d called to check on the status of things, and the colonel told me he had an office all ready... that all I had to do was report in... but when I called Personnel, some Valley Girl lieutenant told me flat out that Space Command wasn’t releasing me No-Way, No-How. I was slated for some new base opening up in Colorado Springs, by way of the Mountain, as an Events Verification Officer. More missile warning.”

  “I see.” Masterson paused. “You still interesting in staying in... if you can get some kind of space work?”

  “Well, the goal—”

  “The goal is to become an astronaut, I understand. But, you could get your foot in the door from one job, which could eventually lead you to your goal. How are you at flying?”

  “Well, as much as I love it, I get airsick.”

  “Right, you had a hard time there.”

  “But did close out my in-flight checklists.”

  “Good... good. I do know some flyers who kept getting airsick through Fighter Lead-in training, but once they got operational were usually able to handle things. That’s always an issue, I spose. Anyway, I mention this because—if you were interested—you could try to get into Flight Test School, out at Edwards.”

  “I’d thought of that. But I am a bit worried about the whole air sickness bit.”

  Again, Masterson nodded. “Well, then, I guess you got some decisions to make.”

  Cherko nodded.

  “You’re going on crew rest, aren’t you?”

  “Tonight’s my last shift, then four days off. Heading to Iowa to visit my girlfriend’s folks.”

  “Come see me when you get back. I might have something for you. Got anything to hide?”

  “Sir?”

  “Got any skeletons in your closet? If not—or you don’t mind confiding them to Father Confessor U.S. Government—I might have a very interesting position for you.”

  “Nothing to hide, sir.”

  Masterson nodded. “Think things over, Jimmy, and stop by when you get back.”

  Masterson got up, slapped him on the back on the way out, and said, “Hate to lose a good officer.”

  * * *

  Wearing his sharply pressed “crew blues,” adorned with the silver Combat Crew badge over the right breast pocket, the basic space badge over the left, and a fresh haircut, Cherko knocked on Lieutenant Colonel Masterson’s office door.

  “C’mon in Lieutenant!” Masterson hailed from inside, “close the door.”

  Cherko entered and closed the door. He was about to come to attention, when Masterson put him At Ease.

  “Have a seat, son. Have a good trip?”

  Cherko nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Think through things? Get laid?”

  Cherko cleared his throat, smiling, and turned a little red as he shifted in his seat. “Ah, yeah—yes, sir.”

  Masterson chuckled, waving an unconcerned hand between them.

  “Okay, I got something for ya, and as I said last week, I think you’re gonna like it. There’s a unit, a highly classified one not talked about in the community, taking up residence at a new base east of Colorado Springs. I know a little about what they do, but not a lot, since I touched base with them in a previous life. Anyway, I contacted the commanding officer there, and he said they were actually short a man and would consider you.
So I sent them your file—hope you don’t mind—”

  Cherko shook his head, smiling. “No, sir, not at all.”

  Masterson nodded. “Well, they took a look and are checking into your background. Don’t know if you’re familiar with how this world works—it’s called the ‘Black World’—but everything’s hush-hush. When you go up for one of these jobs you don’t know what it is unless you’re already inside... and even that’s not a given. When you go for one of these jobs you have to have focus and God and Country, because once you’re in, you’re in, there ain’t no going back, at least not until your hitch is up. From what I’ve heard about this job, the work is fascinating, though they can’t tell you what the job is until you’re cleared and inside. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Still interested?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good man. They’ll get back to me soon, since I told them you’re ready to PCS. I told them it’s only a matter of months before you leave, but they said no problem. Once I get your foot in the door, it’s all up to you, but I sense you’re a good man looking to jump-start your career, and let me tell you, if you make it in there, you will have a career like no one else. Not even bland old astronauts.”

  “Really.”

  “I wish I could tell you just the little I know and have heard. These guys know about shit no one’ll ever know.”

  “Wow.”

  “Wow is right. So,” Masterson said, getting to his feet and extending his hand across his desk, “welcome back, Lieutenant, and keep your fingers crossed. You’re about to embark on quite the career change, one that Valley Girl butter bar down in L.A. would kill to get into.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  * * *

  Falcon Air Force Station, Colorado

  31 October 1985

  0601 Hours Mountain Time

  So, here he sat, in a tiny waiting room, inside some massive rock-like building, inside an empty module, awaiting further contact for in-processing into an organization that officially didn’t exist, for a job about which he had no clue, on a base still under construction.

  “Lieutenant Cherko?”

  A buzz-haired captain popped his head into the room.

  “Yes?”

  “Ronnie Morrow. I’m your sponsor—and will also be your trainer.”

  Cherko stood and shook hands. “Good to finally meet you.”

  “Would you come with me, please?”

  Cherko grabbed his satchel and followed Morrow down another, much narrower and smaller hallway, all the way to the end and another door. The place was empty and smelled new, their footsteps thumping down the corridor. There were many doors, all closed, with combination locks on each of them. Morrow stopped before the last one, quickly entered a combination, and popped it open. They entered a much smaller enclosure where Cherko saw elevator doors immediately before them. Morrow directed him into the elevator and followed in and hit a selection. Down they went.

  “So, how was the drive down?” Morrow asked.

  “Long.”

  “You find a place okay?”

  “Yeah, thanks. Took your advice and am staying at that apartment complex you recommended.”

  Morrow nodded. “Good—hey, here we are!”

  The elevator came to a stop. The doors opened and Morrow led the way out. They exited into yet another enclosure, at the short end of which was a security checkpoint and gate. Morrow went before him to the bulletproof-glass-and-wire mesh that enclosed the guard.

  “We’ve got your paperwork in order. Just show your ID.”

  Cherko did as instructed. The guard checked his ID then shuffled some paperwork back to him, through a slot in the glass.

  “Sign this. This is your temporary badge,” the guard said, “you’ll use this one just for down here. The captain’ll show you how to use it. For now you’re coded as a ‘visitor,’ so it won’t work anywhere without an escort. We’ll get your biometrics set up for that during in-processing.”

  “Biometrics?”

  “Physical attributes associated with your entry into closed areas, like fingerprints.”

  “Oh.”

  “Welcome to the unit, Lieutenant,” the guard said.

  Cherko nodded.

  “Okay, for now I’ll be escorting,” Morrow said, “so once I enter, swipe your badge and follow me in, okay?”

  “Kay.”

  Morrow stepped upon a platform, swiped his badge, then bent over a device that he appeared to be looking into.

  Cherko followed. “Just swipe the badge?” he asked Morrow.

  “Just swipe the badge,” Morrow said.

  Cherko swiped the badge and moved on. The guard nodded as they went through the door on the other side of the gate.

  They entered another hallway, similar in size to the module above, but in this one were people, both officers and enlisted, busily hustling about. Cherko and Morrow wove a short diagonal across the hallway into one of the open-door offices on the right. Here there were office signs, and this one said “Orderly Room.” Morrow spoke with someone at a desk, then turned to Cherko.

  “The colonel’ll see you now,” he said, showing him the office. “We’ll be seeing more of each other later. Good luck, and welcome to the unit!”

  “Thanks,” Cherko said.

  “Cherko?” came a hail from another office, in farther and off to his left. Cherko followed the voice and entered the colonel’s office. An office nameplate “Lieutenant Colonel Galen Laasko, Commander,” was on the wall. There was no organizational identifier.

  Cherko snapped to attention before the colonel’s desk.

  “First Lieutenant Jimmy Cherko, reporting for duty, sir!”

  “At ease, Lieutenant,” the colonel said, coming out from around his desk to shake his hand. “Pleasure to have you aboard! Have a seat,” he said, motioning to a chair.

  Cherko sat, and the colonel returned to his seat.

  “So, I take it—and you better not—have any idea about your job?”

  Cherko chuckled, shaking his head, “No, sir, I do not. But I’m looking forward to new and important work.”

  “Oh, it’s important, alright. Perhaps one of the most important jobs you’ll ever do. As you may have guessed, you’ve been cleared for the position at a Top Secret/Codeword level, which you’ll be briefed upon when you in-process. It was quite helpful getting your polygraph done up in North Dakota, really sped things along for in-processing, and will help us out in the long run. Anyway, I welcome all newbies as soon as they’re brought in. You’ll find us a tight knit bunch. A real family. We work hard, play hard. You come highly recommended from my old buddy, Willie, so we’re looking forward to great things from you. All our OER ratings are tops. There are no slackers here, and no one ever gets below a ‘one’ on any evaluation. If they do... they’re out. That simple. Every one of us, from me on down to the stripers are highly, highly motivated, top-notch professionals.”

  Colonel Laasko flipped through the papers on his desk before him. “So... I see you’re twice highly qualified at PARCS. Never nailed with a Crit or even a Minor, is that right?” he asked looking up.

  “Yes, sir. I knew my job and did my best. My trainer trained me to perform multiple inputs all the time, even when not necessary.”

  “Explain.”

  “Well,” Cherko said, “on grave shifts, when no one was around, he’d purposely overload my training scenarios with no-win situations, and almost every input was paired with another critical or no-win situation, so I was constantly making judgment calls—many of which involved life-threatening situations. It forced me to make quick—though informed—decisions. To think on my feet. Sometimes a two-hour scenario was over in half an hour or less.”

  Colonel Laasko nodded, raising an eyebrow. “I see. So, how do you explain chewing out a major?”

  Laasko set down the papers and regarded him squarely.

  Cherko squirmed.

  “I assure you,” Laasko said, “Ma
jor Turnbull, our Director of Operations, will not be so easily handled.”

  “Sir, it’s not what you—”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I was in a training evaluation on day shift. There were a lot of civilian contractors, and even government personnel, in the area. My trainer made the mistake of not placing himself between me and the phone to NORAD—the one we use to pass system assessments. So, while I’d been performing the training scenario, out of the corner of my eye I noticed my DD—my Deputy Space Systems Director—was dealing with an input, and as he went for the phone, his trainer, who stood directly between him and the phone, physically body-checked him back away from the phone as he leapt for it. I thought that funny at the time, but was busy with my own scenario. No sooner had I observed that than I experienced an input on my screen that appeared to be a real-world threat indication—not a training input. So, I’d implemented system reporting—for real. I was on the phone to NORAD. To make a long story short, my DO had entered the area while I was on the phone, wondering what the hell was going on. Both he and my trainer, who still sat on the other side of me, stared at me. My DO told me to give him that phone, that he didn’t want some second lieutenant selling the site down the drain. I insisted to them both that I had what looked real—not a training input—but my DO was giving me a lot of... well, grief. We never got along all that well to begin with, and he told me to hang up. I held out the phone to him and told him that if he felt it was a false event, then he could tell NORAD. It was soon found out that training had made mistakes in setting up that scenario and that I had acted properly. Once all was taken care of, I politely asked the major to step outside the TOR—our Tactical Operations Room—and down the hall a minute. Once down there, as respectfully as I could... yes... I chewed him out.”

  “Chewed him out? How is that any kind of respectful?”

  “I told him that in the TOR, I was in charge, and that no one—not even the site commander—could tell me what to do, if I felt I had a valid event... that technically I had the last word in there in things relating to missile launch detections—and that further, he had absolutely no right to chew me out in front of a room full of operators and contractors. And, finally, I demanded an apology.”