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  “You are the first,” the soft, attractive (he now noticed) female voice announced. “Prepare for training.”

  “Training?”

  At this point the huge plate-glass “window” activated, displaying a beautifully three-dimensional starfield. Cherko took his seat.

  “Cool....”

  “In 1960 a project was initiated. You are a result of that project.”

  Result?

  “What was this project’s purpose?” Cherko asked.

  “You are not authorized an answer to that question.”

  Cherko raised an eyebrow.

  “But I am the first?”

  “You are the first.

  “You possess unique abilities that will be tested and advanced. You are never to discuss this training, this room, nor your travel to and from here. Major Turnbull is your only contact on this project. You are not to discuss this training or anything else about this place with him.”

  Turnbull’s three-dimensional image briefly appeared on the huge screen, as the voice instructed. It was a little too much Turnbull for his tastes.

  “You will continue all unit training at your operating location, then you will be picked up by the van that delivered you here tonight.”

  The van’s image briefly flashed up on the large screen.

  “Here, you will perform project training. Training will last as long as it takes for you to master all skills. If you advance quickly, training will accelerate; if you require longer, training will adjust.

  “Prepare for your initial lesson.”

  The computer screen before him fired up, and on it, in green phosphorescence, were displayed ten evenly spaced 3-D boxes, each containing the laying down, reverse “S” of a stationary sine wave. The sine waves took up the main center portion of each of the ten display boxes. Each box also contained twelve hash marks running down the left side ordinate axis of each individual sine wave’s box. In the upper right-hand corner of the screen were the words “Total” and “Recent.”

  “You will now hear a tone, and on your screen see ten sine waves.”

  Cherko jumped, swatting at the air around his head.

  He did hear a tone, but it sounded as if it was right up against—actually inside—his head, as if he’d wore a headset, or came from some buzzing bee. He again swiped at his ears, but of course that didn’t affect anything. Working his head and shoulders, he settled in.

  “You will now listen to the tone and mentally duplicate it. Mentally hum it without verbalizing it.

  “Begin.”

  Cherko looked to the sine waves on his screen as he listened to the tone. It was actually a pleasant sound, one that reverberated within him in an oddly comfortable manner. Cherko mentally reproduced the sound.

  “That was easy,” he said.

  “Now examine the sine wave in the first box on your screen. Look for movement.”

  Cherko studied the box.

  “Movement?”

  Though the sine wave was perfect, rock-stable, and non-fluctuating, he could swear he detected a hint—just a hint—of movement. He didn’t know if it was just wishful thinking or something he was actually doing, but he continued to stare at the wave and mentally reproduce the tone that filled his head.

  “As you gain proficiency, the sine wave will flatten toward the center axis-of-abscissa coordinate line. Each hash mark to the left defines thirty degrees of flattening from the 180 degrees of sine wave. You are to flatten each sine wave toward the abscissa axis, making a straight line.”

  Cherko chuckled.

  “Oh, I will, will I? And I am to do this by just thinking about it?”

  “Please focus,” the attractive voice gently chided.

  “You gotta be kidding—”

  “As you do this, an indicator line will display atop the flattened sine wave indicating your degree of flattening by pointing to the hash marks. In the upper right-hand portion of each box you see ‘Total’ and ‘Recent.’ ‘Total’ represents the flattest you’ve ever attained for that sine wave, and ‘Recent’ is your most-recent degree of flattening for that sine wave.”

  Cherko continued mentally humming the tone and focused on the first sine-wave box....

  * * *

  For the next several hours Cherko performed in this manner, when he finally experienced a mental “click” inside his head. With this “click” he saw the positive portion of the sine wave above the abscissa x-axis in the first box suddenly flatten, or “squash” down toward the abscissa axis coordinate line, as if a hand had forced it down. As this happened, another horizontal line appeared on top of the squashed sine wave, reaching out across to the hash marks on the left.

  “I did it!” Cherko shouted, jumping to his feet. “Yeah!”

  But he’d only flattened the top part.

  “How do I flatten the bottom?”

  “Focus on each portion.”

  Cherko sat back down. As he focused on the bottom portion, the top portion began to return to its original sine form.

  “Crap!”

  He sent it back to where he’d had it.

  “That’s more like it.”

  Cherko focused on the bottom portion of the wave, while continuing to maintain the top portion’s flattening. It took some effort, but eventually he was able to flatten both portions of the sine wave to within one hash mark on either side of the center line.

  “Come on,” Cherko said under his breath, “I can do this....”

  Both halves of the wave flattened to a perfectly straight line, and “Total” and “Recent” both read “180.”

  “Ha!” Cherko exclaimed, again jumping out of his seat. “I can’t believe this—I did this with my mind? This for real?”

  “This concludes this session’s training. You will return tomorrow at the same time to continue.”

  “That’s it? No hug? No kiss?”

  Silence.

  Cherko’s screens went blank, and the lighting in the chamber dimmed.

  Cherko looked around him and got to his feet. As exhilarated as he was, he was also physically and mentally exhausted. He’d had a long day, with two full-on training sessions, and was going to have to start it all over again tomorrow (well today). Grabbing his jacket, he headed toward the elevator. It swooshed open to allow entry. He entered and turned back around to face the chamber. Just as the elevator doors began to close, the chamber’s lighting faded to black.

  * * *

  Cherko exited the strange building into the early morning darkness to find his idling, dark blue chariot awaiting. He entered it, glancing back to the structure within which he’d just spent a handful of hours. As the door closed, he saw the light above the building’s heavy metal door extinguish.

  The hut just seemed to have vanished.

  This job just kept getting weirder and weirder.

  He thought he’d been assigned to one deep black program, only to find he seemed to be assigned to something far more... dark.

  Had Colonel Masterson known about this?

  Had he known when he pushed for his assignment to ERO what he was getting him into?

  He supposed even if he had wanted to talk about it he couldn’t, given the highly classified nature of, well, everything....

  And over and above any other mundane considerations... what the hell had just happened in there?

  Okay, he wasn’t any kind of engineer or computer geek, but he was also no idiot. He’d studied physics, rudimentary electronics. He knew that whatever had just happened, whatever he had just done (barring whether or not he was being manipulated and it was all fake)... he had (apparently) just effected a change to some computer program with his mind.

  How was that possible—even given his limited knowledge of quantum physics?

  Was his ability unique?

  He was the first.

  First of what?

  And a reasonable follow-on question would be... were there to be others?

  More?

  Toward what e
nd?

  What was the purpose of this training program?

  And what was he to be used for?

  2

  ERO Operations Center

  1 November 1985

  1253 Hours Mountain Time

  Cherko exited the elevator onto the ERO level to find Capt Morrow awaiting.

  Was Morrow part of the Project?

  Cherko hadn’t slept all that well, and had had the most unusual dreams—but nothing he any longer remembered.

  “Afternoon,” Morrow greeted, smiling and sipping coffee.

  “Ditto,” Cherko replied. “Smells good; wish I drank the stuff.”

  “Didn’t catch up on your sleep all day? Well, no worries. We got your basic selection in the break room. Ready to begin training?”

  “Aye. But, I think I will need some caffeine.”

  “Before we get started, Turnbull needs to see you. I’ll escort you there.”

  “Haven’t been here long enough to do anything,” Cherko said, following the captain.

  He had an image of himself high above the Earth....

  Could this be what he thought it’d be about? Were things already set into motion? Was Turnbull going to discuss what had happened last night... what was supposed to continue after he was done with his training, here, every night?

  And what was it with all these visions?

  Let the weirdness begin.

  Morrow led him through the admin office to a back area that had “Major Turnbull, DO” inscribed on a nameplate. Morrow knocked once.

  “Enter!” Turnbull’s response was gruff and loud, and had actually caused Cherko to jump.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Cherko,” Morrow said.

  “Bring him in.”

  “I’ll come get you when you’re done,” Morrow said, departing.

  “Reporting as—”

  “Close the door and have a seat, Lieutenant,” Turnbull said.

  Cherko sat, mindful of his posture; again glanced to Turnbull’s wings.

  Turnbull folded his hands before him on his immaculately clean desk. Cherko shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

  “By now you’ve been in-briefed on your new program.”

  “Yes, sir. But I’m not exactly s—”

  “And by ‘new program’ I think you know what I mean.”

  Cherko nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “From this point on it will simply be referred to as ‘The Program.’ Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I am your only contact on The Program. Not even Colonel Laasko knows of it. You will not discuss this program with anyone unless I specifically introduce you to them. In person or otherwise. Do I continue to make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Once you’ve completed your training, I will give you further direction.”

  Cherko nodded.

  “Sir?”

  Turnbull paused.

  “What’s all this about? What will I be used for?”

  Turnbull bored into him. “You do not have a need to know for either question. When and if the time comes for you to know any such answers, you will be briefed. You would be well-advised to limit your questions about this program to none.”

  Cherko again shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. Again with the no questions. “Yes, sir.”

  “This is your assignment, Lieutenant,” Turnbull said, nonchalantly shuffling through paperwork, and not looking up. “This is why you were assigned here. ERO is only a cover for this other assignment.”

  Turnbull reached for a pen then pushed both the pen and a sheet of paper toward him.

  Cherko picked up the paper. Scanned it. Looked to Turnbull.

  “You kidding?”

  “Do I look like we’re kidding?”

  Cherko looked back down to the paper. Phrases like “in perpetuity,” “will never divulge knowledge of the Program,” and “grave consequences,” resulting in “termination” caused him to pause.

  Termination?

  Somehow he didn’t think “termination” meant just being cut from the program.

  Cherko again looked up; picked up the pen.

  Swallowed hard.

  Looked to the words on the pen: “Air Force. A great way of life.”

  Though he knew Turnbull was boring a hole through his soul, Cherko didn’t want to look back up into those hard eyes again.

  What the hell had Masterson gotten him into? Yes, it was spooky, yes, it was extraordinary, but also—

  He had been able to influence electronics with his mind.

  He was being trained as a psychic spy—or telekinetic satellite operator—he didn’t know which, but both greatly appealed to him. He’d never been “anybody” before, certainly not anyone important. Just a guy. A navigator washout—and yes, that was exactly how he saw himself—not even good enough to be a pilot washout... but, now... now he had a chance to make something of himself. Become something important and greater than himself. Someone trained in honest-to-God superpowers.

  It fascinated him. He had to know more.

  He signed.

  But he had the oddest feeling of vertigo as he inked the paper. Again something about him in orbit. Looking down to the Earth. It was as if he were having a spontaneous out-of-body experience right on the spot.

  Then he handed both the pen and document (he watched both leave his hand in a curiously detached fashion) back to Turnbull, who signed in the space below his signature.

  “Best of luck,” he said, in a less than believable manner. Without looking up, he added, “Morrow’s outside.”

  Cherko exited the office.

  3

  Ronnie Morrow swiped his badge and entered the cipher combination. The metal door with the Use of Deadly Force Authorized sign on it clicked loudly. Morrow opened the door and escorted Cherko into a narrow enclosure with a heavy curtain drawn across the entire length of the small rectangular room before him. At the far left was a lone desk and chair. All sound felt deadened and muffled, which could only mean that the enclosure was soundproofed. Cherko also noticed the security cameras coldly eyeing from above. Morrow closed the cypher-locked door behind them. It again clicked as it locked. He hit a switch on the wall, and the curtains swiftly parted to reveal the soundproofed glass enclosure that looked out onto the low-lit ERO Operations Floor. Another door was set into the glass wall off on the right.

  “This is the Ops floor,” Morrow said directing to the room before them. “We have this soundproofed entryway, or ‘fishbowl,’ as we like to call it, as another layer of security and for guests.”

  “Fishbowl,” Cherko said, “I like that.”

  “Everybody does,” he said absentmindedly as he scanned the consoles and room on the other side of the glass. He then opened the glass door and he and Cherko entered the room.

  Were any of these individuals in “The Program”?

  All eyes briefly shifted to them before returning to their workstations. Cherko felt like he’d just been strip searched and put away wet, but still stood in the middle of the room in awe. It wasn’t much larger than the TOR in North Dakota, maybe even slightly smaller, but he was surrounded by high technology. No Flapper Boards and sixties technology, here. This stuff was clearly state of the art and sexy. A handful of consoles lined the wall opposite him, and to his right and in the center, on a slightly raised dais, was another set of consoles most likely for a crew commander, its centerline angled into the corner at Cherko’s one o’clock position. Operators sat at some of the consoles and there were two individuals kneeling on the floor underneath another set off to his right, performing what looked like maintenance activity.

  “Quite a bit different than what you were used to, I’m sure,” Morrow said, smiling. “Welcome to the Ops Center, Lieutenant, your new home.”

  “Wow... not like my old TOR at all.”

  Cherko noticed no unit patches on any of the crew members’ sleeves, only American flags on each operator’s upper-left shoulders where
a unit patch would be. Cherko made a move to examine some consoles, when Morrow grabbed him.

  “Not so fast, Cowboy. There’re some things you first need to know before going any further.”

  Morrow held up a hand, motioning to the two maintenance guys. Cherko and Morrow waited for them both to close up panels and exit the floor.

  “Not even them?” Cherko asked.

  “Not even them.

  “Okay, first off, you no longer work for the Air Force.”

  Cherko flinched.

  “Oh, you’ll still wear the uniform, get the paycheck and all, but you now actually work for an organization called NSA, or the National Security Agency. We’re a brand new organization hidden under not only NSA, but another layer of agency, called DEFSMAC, or the Defense Special Missile and Astronautics Center. Both DEFSMAC and NSA are never to be mentioned, whispered, written down, or even thought about outside this room.”

  “Not even out there,” Cherko asked, directing back to the hallway and main module outside the fishbowl behind them.

  “Nope. In the event of a security breach, you never really know who may be out there; it’s only in here, which has extremely limited access, can you be sure—and even then—question. You noticed how everyone looked to us as we entered?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Always, always, be on guard.”

  Cherko nodded.

  “And, as everyone from the colonel on down has already emphasized, this organization, this location, this operation does not exist. You thought PARCS was cool, well you ain’t seen nothing—and will continue to see ‘nothing,’ if you get my drift.”

  “Got it,” Cherko said absentmindedly, as he took in the huge display screens above the couple operators seated at their consoles. The center screen was black, while the two to both sides of the blackened one displayed what looked like star fields. At each console were three screens per operator, each operator’s workstation shielded by a vertical separator from the other. The middle screens were high-definition graphics, with the Earth at the center of their displays, sectioned off by country on some, grids by other operators, with what looked like real-time graphics of satellites orbiting the Earth. One of the consoles at one workstation displayed nothing but letters and numbers, while another screen at another workstation looked like an air traffic controller’s display. The third at each position was covered by a black cloth cowling. “Sanitized,” or covered, no doubt for his benefit—at least until he was in-briefed. There were also all sorts of phones scattered about the consoles, white, black, and red, several keyboards and trackballs, and a variety of push-button control panels. Many of the selections glowed a soft red, while some glowed blue and clear. The low lighting was just enough to highlight all the colored lights and switches.