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Authors: David Morehouse

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BOOK: Psychic Warrior
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Riley went into the monitor's room and talked with Kathleen, returning to the viewing room just as I was getting coherent.
“Stay in here and work on your summary; as soon as you're ready, come into the garden room. Kathleen and I will be in there waiting, okay?”
“Sure.”
“You doing all right?”
“I feel a bit weak, that's all. I'll be okay in a minute or two.”
Riley left the room and met Kathleen in the hall. I could hear them talking.
“So, what did you think?” asked Riley.
“He's fast, first of all. But that's not where it stops; he's accurate, as well.”
The two walked into the viewing room; I was just standing up from the table.
“Go ahead and get started on your summary,” Riley said. “You can use the garden room and we'll join you in a few minutes.”
“Wait a damned minute. You guys are walking around here talking about me like I wasn't even in the building.
Well, I am. And if you're going to talk about me, have the decency to include me. Now, what did I do wrong?”
“Okay,” Riley said, “you didn't do anything wrong. I just wanted Kathleen to see what you left us on the table here. Look on the table there in front of Dave.” He pointed to several small pools of liquid on the table. I'd coughed them up when I was choking early in the session.
“What is it?” Kathleen asked, keeping her hands in her pockets, but bending to get a closer look.
Riley looked at me. “Where do you think you landed at first? Don't think about it too much, just call it, tell us what it was like.”
“Well, I couldn't breathe, there was a lot of pressure, and the environment around me was thick and restrictive. When you told me to move upward out of it, I did, and I could breathe and move.”
“Yeah, but it wasn't that simple, was it? You coughed and choked on the thick stuff. You couldn't breathe for a reason. What was it?”
I looked at Kathleen, but she stared at me blankly. “I don't know. Honestly, I don't know.”
“You landed underwater, and you started choking. You were spitting this stuff out like a drowning man. It was unbelievable!” .
“That's ridiculous. I wasn't really in the water!”
“No, you weren't really in the water. But your physical body will manifest certain reactions to what your phantom body is experiencing in the target area. That's part of bilocation, and you're catching on to it very quickly, which is great. But the downside is you don't have enough experience to understand it, react to it, and deal with it quickly; and that can be dangerous.”
I stuck my finger into a pool of liquid and smelled it. “It's not seawater?” .
“No, it isn't,” Riley said. “But it's liquid that came from you, and that's enough.”
Kathleen said nothing. She gave the liquid another close look and then followed Riley into the garden room.
In a few minutes I joined the two of them with my notes and sketches.
Riley began. “So! Tell us what you saw.”
I laughed nervously. “Well, I tasted more than I saw at first. And it was pretty scary coughing it up. I understand that I was in some sort of water, but I don't have any idea where.” -
“The Baltic Sea,” Kathleen said.
“Really?”
“Really. Now tell us about the object.”
“Well, it was constructed mostly of metal. It was largely gray, although there was a good deal of black as well. I was fascinated by the three cylinders at the square end of the thing. They were the source of the vibration I reported, and appeared to be a power cell or propulsion device of sorts.”
“Were there people on this object?” Riley asked.
“I didn't see any, but then I didn't look for them. I kept my distance, pretty much.”
“You mentioned a box, with glass—do you remember?” Riley asked.
“Yes … yes, I do. I remember feeling that it had something to do with controlling the object. I think if there were people on this thing that's where they'd be.”
“Can this object turn or maneuver in any way?” Riley interjected. “Can it move on any kind of surface, or is it limited to what you saw?”
“I didn't see it do anything but travel in a straight line. But for some reason, I'm certain that it can do just about whatever it wants. It can travel over all kinds of terrain if necessary, but it's most at home where I saw it.”
“You mean on water.”
“Yeah, on water. Okay, what is it?” I asked.
“You tell me.” Riley handed me the target folder.
I gawked in amazement at its contents. “Damn! So, that's what it was.”
In my hand was an intelligence photograph of a Soviet
Pomornik
-class air-cushioned landing craft, fifty-seven meters
long with a 350-ton displacement. In the photograph the ship glided along the surface of the water on a cushion of air, powered by three huge encased fans mounted on the rear.
I could only think of one thing to say: “Fascinating!”
“Yeah, fascinating,” Riley and Kathleen said in tandem. Riley smiled and shook his head. “I take it back. I told everybody you were a dumb-ass infantryman and I was having to shove this stuff down your throat with a pitchfork. But I'm beginning to think you might be catching on. This is good.”
I didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted. “So when do I get to give the lectures?”
“Oh, not long. Maybe in five or ten years.”
We all laughed and headed for the office. I needed a good night's sleep.
THE CHANGELING
M
y next mission time was posted on the assignment board, with a huge red “T” beside my name.
Another training target
, I thought.
Someday it won't be
. Kathleen and I entered the viewing room and started to hook up all the monitoring apparatus.
I'd been in the unit for eight months now, and I'd graduated from coordinate remote viewing a few weeks ago. That meant I was no longer required to sit in a viewing chair, or take the coordinates sitting up, or produce an ideogram. For extended remote viewing, ERV, all I did was lie on a specially designed platform bed, count down, and make the separation into the ether. I was still hooked up, and still monitored by Kathleen in the room as well as by the audio and video monitor.
ERV technique was to place the tasking sheet on the small table next to the platform. I would look at the tasking sheet, focus on the encrypted coordinates, and then lie back, adjust the lighting, and go. With ERV, I could stay in the ether a good deal longer than under coordinate remote viewing conditions. Some of the viewers, like Mel and even Kathleen, preferred the discipline of the CRV protocols, but I became attached to the free-form process of ERV; once I had made the switch, under Levy's tutelage, I never went back.
Adjusting her own light, Kathleen took up her position
at the desk overlooking the platform I'd call home for the next hour and a half. I looked at my tasking coordinates a final time: “Coordinates seven eight five six four, nine three four five two; describe the target and any significant events.” Within minutes I was in the ether and on my way to the target. Paul Posner monitored the changes in my physical body which indicated to him that the separation was complete.
“He's gone,” he said.
“I know.” Kathleen had been with me so often that she could tell by my breathing rate when I was gone.
I made the long fall down the tube of light and passed through the membrane into the target area. I never got used to the sickening feeling of the descent; no matter how many times I did it, it was like making a night parachute drop with combat equipment. Your heart jumps into your mouth every time you step out of the aircraft and into the empty night.
I slowed to a stop some feet from a cold stone wall. Righting myself, I studied the rough granite and lines of mortar. Grass grew up against the wall, which stretched some hundred feet to my right. The surroundings were barren and drab, the air cold and damp. Kathleen interrupted my absorption with the place.
“Where are you?”
“I have no idea. It's cold and damp, and very lonely … . I feel very lonely here.”
“What are you looking at right now?”
I turned slowly, surveying all that was around me, describing it to Kathleen as it came into view. “I see a large stone wall, maybe a hundred feet long. The grass is poorly kept, and the ground beneath me is wet and spongy-looking; there are large patches of muddy ground as well. I see a small but very old stand of trees in the distance. The bark of the trees is dark and the leaves sparse.”
“Do you see any buildings?”
“From where I'm standing, I don't see anything but what I've described. Should I move?”
“Yes. I want you to move ahead through the stone wall and describe what you see.”
“I'm moving now.” The wall pressed against my phantom form with the sound of Velcro tearing open; in the center of the wall it was dark. It was at times like this that I learned that everything indeed has a spirit. The wall had its own history, and it seemed to weep as I passed through it. I left the darkness feeling as though I'd left a painful, clutching memory behind.
After this training, I never doubted that all things are animate. To hear or feel an object speak had been unfathomable only a few short months ago; now, it was a not so uncommon event. Every viewer experienced it at times; we learned to listen and trust what we heard. Levy had taught me that. A target's surroundings recorded the history of the place without prejudice and stood ready to bear witness to all who had the ears to hear.
When I left the wall, I felt it reaching for me; it was a feeling I had had as a child, of the unknown and unseen reaching for me as I left a dark room at the top of the stairs, and hurried down to light, safety, and the company of others. To me, the wall spoke, and it spoke of pain.
“I sense something wrong here.”
“Do you see any buildings?”
I shook off the emotions and surveyed the area again. I had no idea what the target might be. Usually, my targets were things or places, but here I recognized nothing as yet. Nothing but stone and emptiness—and the small buildings in the distance.
“I see some buildings, maybe a hundred yards away. I'm moving to them.”
“Good! Focus on the buildings. Go inside and tell me what you see and feel there.” .
I stood outside the closest building. They were aligned in a neat row, their corners matching perfectly, the pitch of their roofs the same. In all, I could see four, maybe five of them. Tall pillars jutted from them, scratching at the grayness of the sky.
“I'm standing at the nearest corner. The buildings are constructed mostly of stone, but there are a few walls of red brick. Some of the brickwork looks like repairs, patches. There are tall brick pillars sticking up from the buildings, maybe two or three per building.”
“David, slowly touch the building.”
“Okay … It's a rough granite; the only wood seems to be in the trim and rafters.” In a few seconds I was overcome with grief. My phantom body quivered as I held fast to the building. My heart ached, and a sense of complete despair and depression enveloped me. Spikes of hatred and denial stabbed at me. “I—I have to let go. I can't touch it any longer. I'm sorry, I just can't.”
“Tell me what you feel. Be specific, ask questions, search for answers; you have to work—work hard!”
“Uh … I feel hopelessness. I feel forgotten and I've given up. I don't fear anything any longer, although there is much to fear here. This place is filled with hatred and evil … . There is no goodness here, no light, only darkness and curses. The spirit here is gone, broken and empty. Everything here feels poisoned. Everything here feels dead. Everything here is horror.”
“I want you to go inside the building. I want you to search in the same way you've been doing. Touch and ask for answers. Go inside now.”
I passed through an arched stone doorway leading into a vacant chamber. “I don't see anything but an empty room.”
“Look harder; touch the floor and the walls. Find the answers to this place.”
I reached out to the nearest wall and let my hand pierce it. “Oh, my God, this place is sad and empty. The walls feel they are evil, but they aren't, I can tell they aren't. No, wait! They don't
feel
evil, they have
seen
evil—yes, that's it. This room has seen unspeakable evil and the stench will never leave. The spirit of this place is stained; it will never be cleansed.”
Kathleen was impressed with these results, but I was still
missing the most important aspect of the site, and she knew why. “David, you're doing fine, but you aren't looking, at the entire target. You are allowing yourself to ignore it. You have to open your eyes; you can't allow yourself to see selectively. Open your eyes!”
I struggled to see what she wanted me to see, but I couldn't. I felt too overwhelmed. “I'm trying, Kathleen, but I can't see anything else. I hurt from being here. I want to come back now. I feel filthy and I want to come home and wash. I don't want to be here anymore, do you understand? I want to come back.”
“Okay, David, break it off and come back.”
It took me twenty minutes to pull myself together. Kathleen met me at the front door of the viewing building with Paul in tow.
“Tough session, huh, buddy?” Posner said. “Don't feel bad, it's a—” He stopped in mid-sentence. “Well, just don't feel like the Lone Ranger on this one. Finish your summary and you'll see soon enough.”
Kathleen patted me on the back and gently shoved me out the door and into the sunlight. I looked at her, but all she would do was smile back.
I made several sketches of the wall and the buildings, including the tall brick pillars and the stand of trees on the far side of the wall: I wrote my summary, which amounted to about four pages, and presented the package to Kathleen at her desk.
She thumbed through the sketches, frowning, read the summary, highlighting various passages and descriptions, then made two photocopies of my work. “Sit down,” she said. “So—what do you think it is?”
I paused, trying to find the right words. “I think it is a very strange and evil place. I've never felt the place itself talk to me like that. I felt very odd being there, as if I was supposed to listen to the place get something off its chest. I felt as if it were grabbing at me, trying to get me to stay and listen to its tale of woe.”
“‘Tale of woe'—you didn't include that in your summary .”
“Well, it just came to me. I think the place has a terrible history, and the image of that history will never leave it. That's all I can think of; do I get any feedback?”
Kathleen smiled. “I guess so. You were fairly close.” She pulled out the target folder and tossed it to me. “See what you think.”
I sighed, pulled open the envelope, and extracted the first of five black-and-white photographs. A Nazi death camp.
“Dachau,” I whispered. “I completely missed it, didn't I?”
“Whatever gives you that idea?.”
“I missed it! I fucking missed it! I had no idea I was looking at this. And look, the ovens—I didn't even see the ovens where they burned the bodies. Thousands of bodies.”
“Oh, no? What do you call these? Kathleen pointed at my sketches, then set them alongside the photographs.”These brick pillars look like the stacks for the ovens to me. And what about the emotion of the place? You damned near drained it all out. You did fine; quit beating yourself up. This is a difficult target; nobody waltzes in and waltzes back out. Every time you go to a place like this you leave something behind. Every time you go here you will experience something more evil, more lost, more godforsaken. You were right when you said the place was stained with evil”
“Why the hell did you send me there, anyway? What could possibly come from it, besides another nightmare for me?”
“Everyone gets sent there; it's part of the training program. Every person in this office has been there, and everyone here has been affected just like you.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone except Judy. She crawled around in the ash and bones of the ovens and never picked up anything out of the ordinary. She came back and described the place as a military post or something like that.”
“Why is it important for us to go there?”
“You have to experience the extreme out there in the ether, in order to be able to understand the nuances of some more obscure targets: double agents, test pilots, politicians. In the near future you will learn how to reach the minds of these men and women and tell us what they are thinking and feeling. If you can't train yourself to grasp the extreme, overwhelming evil of Dachau, how can you expect to grasp the more subtle nuances of a pilot test-flying the latest Soviet fighter? Learning the extremes is the first step in the process of getting your eyes. You want them, don't you?”
“Of course.”
“Then you will have to pay a price.” She stood, collected the folders, and shook my hand. “You did very well; I'm proud of you, and you should be proud of yourself. Look, let's call it a day. This was a tough mission and I don't want to run you on your afternoon session. I'm going to tell Levy that I think you should hit the road and get some rest. Why don't you get your files cleaned up and I'll take care of him, okay?”
.“I don't need—”
“Listen to me; if Mel were here he'd tell you the same thing.”
“Okay, whatever you say, professor.”
Kathleen was right: I needed to go home; the mission had really shaken me up. Levy understood completely. As I drove home, images of that place followed me; they lasted throughout the night. I'd never forget.
 
The next morning was uneventful except for a blowout between a couple of the remote viewers and the two channelers. There are a lot of arguments among remote viewers as to the effectiveness of channeling. By definition, channeling involves the use of either oral or written data transfer. The channeler invokes a so-called “spirit guide” during the session. Through the guide, the channeler will allegedly talk to the “thing” being contacted. Placed in the, context of the military spy arena, this approach obviously
has severe limitations. It appeared that Carol, who was essentially Judy's protégée, had turned in a poor-quality session summary. She had been working with Lyn on an operational target for about two weeks and had completed about five sessions. Now Lyn wanted a complete summary with sketches, but he was dissatisfied with the results, including almost meaningless conclusions like, “There is blue at the site.” Lyn, who was a remote viewer, had every excuse to present this nonsense to Levy as evidence of the dangers of mixing channeling with remote viewing. Lyn was a consummate trainer of remote viewing and he hated to see potentially good viewers waste their abilities on the channelers' unproved methods. Whenever something like this happened, and it often did, tempers flared and opinions and accusations flew. I learned to ignore the blowouts, to stay the hell out or suffer the consequences. You couldn't talk quietly about anyone in the office—after all, in a group of remote viewers, how could you talk about someone without her knowing it? I kept my own counsel and kept my mouth shut.
BOOK: Psychic Warrior
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