"Moonrock (Chapters 1 - 5)" by James K Bowers

Moonrock

I.  Dr. Wallace Smythe, NASA

            The government does not always tell the whole story.  I admit that goes without saying, but our complacency leads us to expect the truth rather than lies.  The collective “they” of the government usually doesn’t lie but, then, omission isn’t lying, is it?  Of course not.  Just stamp something “TOP SECRET” or bury it in legal red tape.  Disavow any and all knowledge.  Answer with a curt and antiseptic “No comment.”  Make it plain that “the government has no position on this matter”.

            Oh, I suppose I should begin this where things are usually begun, that is to say, at the beginning.  In a sense, that might take us back as far as Jules Verne, who once dreamed of traveling to the moon, then used that fantasy to write one of the world’s earliest science-fiction novels.  I could also begin with the scientific visionary, Robert Goddard, often regarded as the father of modern rocketry.  Or, perhaps President Kennedy, who first established the goal of putting Americans on the moon and bringing them safely back to earth.  But, more precisely, the beginning, at least the beginning that is important to me, came on April 16, 1972.

            On that fine spring day, a Saturn 5 booster roared a challenge to gravity and Apollo 16 rose into the Florida sky on a plume of white exhaust and water vapor.  Sealed inside the capsule were astronauts Ken Mattingly, Charles Duke, and John Young, blazing a trail to the moon and into the history books.  This being the fifth manned mission to land on the lunar surface,  and with the memories of the Apollo 13 disaster still fresh, NASA had managed to iron out most of the wrinkles.  Going to the moon was becoming as routine as going to the moon could be.  The crew of Apollo 16 and the technicians at NASA’s Mission Control will adamantly claim that there most certainly were problems and glitches to overcome.  In fact the mission was cut short by a day due to concerns arising from several spacecraft malfunctions.  However, in spite of all difficulties they faced during this lunar mission, NASA and the Apollo 16 crew were not to be denied and worked diligently, completing all major mission objectives.

            The recovery crew aboard the USS Ticonderoga plucked the astronauts and the capsule from the Pacific Ocean after splashdown and with that, man had once again completed the hazard-filled journey to the moon and back.  Yet, as monumental as the event was, the public was by then only mildly interested in the mission -- nothing captured the attention of the world on this trip.  The space program’s latest success was unable to boast bold, 3-inch headlines and sometimes was given less than front-page coverage.  Well, so much the better for burying the part of the truth “they” didn’t want the public to know -- the part that I have come to know so well.

            The brave astronauts of Apollo 16 brought back over 208 pounds of moonrock.  This is what everyone was told, and it is the truth.  It just isn’t the whole truth.  The truth resides in the other sixty-eight pounds of return payload that “they” conveniently failed to mention.

            For its size, it is very heavy, measuring 11.4 by 11.4 by 47.7 centimeters, and is featureless save a small, perfectly round bulge on one of its long sides.  The center of this bulge is 13.2 centimeters from one end -- the end which eventually was called the “top”, though there was no real logic in this naming other than expediency.  Likewise, for convenience, the side with the bulge came to be known as the “front”.  It has a lusterless dull blue color that hints that it is painted or coated, but all attempts to acquire chips of the finish have failed decisively, often ruining expensive equipment in the process.  Unlike metallic objects, it is warm to the touch, giving one the impression that it is more closely related to high-impact plastic.

            In any case, there is no explanation for why it had been on the moon.  There is no hint of how it had gotten there, who (or what) had lost it or intentionally left it there.  From the moment it became obvious that this object was not of terrestrial origin (roughly five seconds after Charles Duke said, “Hey, John, what do ya make of this?”} the artifact has been cloaked in secrecy.  And the world was told, with great fanfare, about the 208 pounds of moonrock and the scientific windfall that those mundane rocks might represent.  Again, the truth, but not the whole truth.

            Then there was Wallace Charles Smythe.  Wally -- a classic science geek if ever there was one -- complete with white lab coat, plastic pocket protectors, Coke-bottle glasses, and (get this) a slide rule that he carries and uses to this very day.  Never a worry that he’d give away government secrets.  He rarely spoke and when he did, what he said was usually so laden with obscure technical terms that very few could recognize the language as English.  Just where NASA found Wally, or how Wally determined that NASA was the place to be, is anyone’s guess.  However, the fact remains that very late in the 1960’s the mutually beneficial connection was made and Wally found himself in one of NASA’s less celebrated research labs.  It was here that Wally quietly made his unremarkable way through the mind-numbingly boring career that he so desperately craved.  And it would have been here that Wally quietly retired after many years of faithful service.  Except that it was in that nondescript research lab that Wally and the Apollo 16 object happened to come together.  That the government had not acknowledged the object’s existence didn’t concern Wally; only the mysteries to be unraveled were of interest to him.

            The object was immediately of singular interest to Wally, sapping ever greater blocks of time from his other projects, until it became an all-consuming obsession.  Wally, never much more than skin and bones in the first place, began skipping lunch to spend his time pondering its mysteries.  Then, when he decided he was making no progress, Wally began spending a few extra late-afternoon hours in the lab.  When this didn’t satisfy Wally, he began missing a supper or two over a week’s time.

            According to some, Wally just “fell in a hole and kept digging”.  The less satisfied Wally became with his lack of success with the “Apollo Stone” (as he had dubbed the object) the more time he felt compelled to commit to further study.  Hours of effort mounted.  Colleagues worried over him, particularly when he chose to remain in the lab overnight with his pocket protector, slide rule, and the ever-perplexing Apollo Stone.  But, his health did not appear to be greatly affected by the stresses of his study.  Moreover, if one discounted his overzealous interest in the alien artifact, he remained lucid and very Wally-like in all other respects.

            Weeks passed. Then months, yet no great breakthroughs were made regarding the Apollo Stone -- not by Wally, nor by any of the few other scientists lucky enough to schedule their research around Wally’s nearly ‘round-the-clock sessions.  It remained as much an enigma as the day Charles Duke spotted it lying in the lunar dust.  The Apollo Stone was still as puzzling and useful to mankind as a block of concrete is to a chimpanzee.  Indeed, the thought that it was nothing more than an extraterrestrial brick had occurred to several who examined it, including Wally.  Of course, the government would have to have absolute proof that it was harmless.  Only then would the government set in motion the ponderous mechanism that would lift the cloak of secrecy and allow the world to speculate on the origin of the brick.  As it turns out, Wally was unable to convince even himself that it was merely a brick.

            Years passed and Wally’s interest went through several cycles, waxing and waning like the moon itself until March 13, 1986 -- the day Wally got his first brief glimpse beyond the mysterious fog that was the Apollo Stone.  What might have caused a greater stir at NASA was overshadowed by the technical and administrative witchhunt that followed the tragedy of the Challenger disaster.  The timing of the heartrending loss of six astronauts and America’s beloved “teachernaut” was just a quirk of fate, but any leak to the media regarding the Apollo Stone could be easily discounted as the ramblings of an employee deeply distressed from the loss of the Challenger.  Quite convenient for “them” but a frightful reminder of how fragile and fleeting life can be.

            Wally had again foregone leaving the lab for his lunchbreak, though he had long since abandoned his old practice of skipping lunch entirely.  After years of disappointing study of the artifact, Wally simply placed the Apollo Stone on his cluttered desk and ate while idly tossing ideas around in his head.  He had finished his tuna sandwich and cheese puffs and was humming absentmindedly to himself between sips of generic diet lemon-lime soda.  The Apollo Stone hummed back.

II.  Major L. Neuman, USAF

            I was first introduced to Major Neuman at Edwards Air Force Base in the autumn of 1989.  The exact date is of no real consequence but, for the record, it was on a Tuesday -- September 19th -- not that the government is likely to corroborate anything revealed here.  The Major was serving in the capacity of USAF Liaison Officer to NASA for Pacific Operations, a title that means very little or quite a lot, depending on one’s perspective.  Most, including the Major’s superiors, agreed that it was a post that entailed little more than routing correspondence between NASA and the Air Force.  The Major knew otherwise, and shortly thereafter, so would I.

            The day I first noticed the announcement in the base newspaper, I ignored it.  “Enlisted personnel E4 and above:  Volunteers needed to fill challenging billets in Liaison Office.  Unmarried personnel preferred; frequent travel and/or extended deployment may be required. Contact Maj Neuman, x4583.”  I was a happily unmarried staff sergeant working as an avionics tech for some of America’s most advanced weapons systems and, hell, I was already subject to frequent travel or extended deployment.  Well, this Major Neuman, whoever he was, must have been a complete bonehead.  I figured I was neckdeep in “challenging” already and could easily do without any further aggravation.  I pitched the newspaper in the trash.

            On Sunday evening, while cleaning my room for the routine Monday morning barracks inspection, the paper caught my eye as I emptied my trashcan into the dumpster behind the barracks... and I thought about the call for volunteers again.  In retrospect, I probably should have shrugged it off and ignored it a second time, but I didn’t.  I grabbed for the paper as it dropped from the can into the open maw of the dumpster.  It was partly soaked with Friday’s unfinished cola and had a glob of Mike Lewis’s Saturday “chaw” clinging to it, but the part I was attempting to save from the landfill was mostly clean and, above all, still readable.  I tore the announcement from the desecrated corpse of the newspaper and stuffed it into my pocket.  Then I shuffled back to my room with the now empty trashcan, not entirely thrilled with the prospect of finishing the cleaning, but knowing that I had better (or else...).

            Monday morning was the usual circus of errors.  I had just finished swapping out several “flaky” components in an F-16’s missile system and waited as the plane was towed out of the maintenance hangar to be replaced with my next patient.  Airman “Butch” Wellsley was only trying to do what he’d been told, but I blew up on him anyway as he jockeyed the next plane into my repair bay.  “Dammit, Butch!  This is a recon bird!  It doesn’t HAVE weapons. Tote it down to Hangar 5 and fetch me the right one -- it’ll have big numbers on the tail... AF33639 not AF33936 -- just look, ya can’t miss ’em.”

            Well, there goes a good half hour.  I watched as Butch proceeded to correct his mistake, admitting to myself that, “No, he can’t miss ‘em, but the dyslexic sonovabitch sure can screw ‘em up.”  Half an hour.  I caught the attention of the Maintenance Chief across the hangar and gave him the universally recognized signal for “I’m going outside to cool off before I wig out and choke an Airman to death”.  He gave a nod and a wave and I tossed my toolkit on the workbench as I wandered out of the maintenance hangar.  Half an hour.  I decided to call Major Neuman to see what he had to offer and, in doing so, discovered to my surprise that “he” was a “she”.

            I introduced myself briefly and she made me spell my name, then asked for my service number.  I expressed my curiosity and some mild interest in her call for volunteers.  She apologized and said there was little that she could tell me about the job that I would be expected to do; but said she would be more than happy to administer a short battery of required tests if I would report to the Liaison Office at 0730 the following morning.  She must have sensed my reluctance and added that she would clear my participation in the testing with my superiors.

            “Well, sure.  That would be great, Ma’am.  You’d need to contact Lieutenant Avery at extension 5830, but he’ll likely want something in writing.”

            “I’ll talk to Lieutenant Avery after lunch.  If there’s a problem, I’ll notify you.”

            “Are there any uniform or equipment requirements I need to be aware of for this testing?”

            “No.  As a matter of fact, why don’t you wear something comfortable?  Blue jeans or something like that.  Understood?”

            “Um.  I guess so, Ma’am.  0730 it is then.  Building 317, 2nd floor?”

            “That’s correct, Staff Sergeant.  Tomorrow.”

            “Thank you, Ma’am.  I’ll be there.”

            “Good-bye, Staff Sergeant.”

            “Good-bye, Major.”

            I set the receiver down and tried to fathom what it was that I’d agreed to, but realized the Major hadn’t told me a damned thing.  Anyway, I figured I had just enough time to grab a cup of coffee before Butch would be back with a plane, hopefully the right one this time.

            The day trudged on slowly after that.  Butch paid closer attention after his earlier mistake and brought me the right birds for the remainder of the day.  Unfortunately all the right birds were in need of repairs or upgrades, so I was kept busy for what seemed an eternity.  Exhausted by the day’s work, I headed to the chow hall for a quick bite, then back to the barracks for a shower.  I didn’t even venture over to the E-club for a brew.  I set my alarm clock, flipped on the TV and, before I knew it, I was asleep.

            Tuesday morning came much earlier than I had expected, but I had slept well for the first time in months.  Rested, but feeling somewhat uneasy in civilian clothes, I reported to the Liaison Office.  There was a small vestibule and waiting room and it was apparent from the number of bluejean-clad young men with short haircuts that the Major’s announcement had stirred more than cursory interest on base.  There were no formal introductions, only a few polite nods, and very little conversation.  It was odd that in this all-encompassing normalcy, there was an unspoken undercurrent that was anything but normal.  I checked in at the reception desk -- a young airman whose nametag read “Alversen” took my name and suggested I have a seat.  What do they teach ‘em in bootcamp nowadays?  There wasn’t an open seat anywhere in the room and several were leaning with mock-casualness against anything substantial enough to lean on.  I didn’t try to correct Airman Alversen.  I simply wandered across the room and claimed my own slice of wall to lean on.  I watched as several more arrived and were told to take a seat with the rest of us.  Someone opened the door behind Alversen’s desk and said something to him, but the door blocked my line of sight.  He glanced down at the check-in clipboard and called out, “Chamberlain, Edward.  You’re first.”

            Well, it didn’t take “Chamberlain, Edward” long to rise to his feet and make his way to the door.  It closed behind him and testing officially began.

            And we waited.  Every few minutes someone reappeared from “inside”, then another name was called and someone else would disappear into the office behind Alversen’s desk.  After forty minutes or so, I managed to claim a chair.  It was still overly warm from the previous occupant, but at least I was able to rest my legs a bit.

            And we waited.  I was beginning to have some second thoughts about this whole business.  Maybe being a weapons tech wasn’t such a bad deal and I would be up for promotion to Technical Sergeant in the fall if I made the cut -- maybe get myself a real desk instead of an electronics workbench.

            And we waited.  The room had become a little stuffy and someone finally had the sense to open a window for some fresh air.  The act prompted a disapproving look from Alversen, but he wisely said nothing, aware that every man and woman in the room outranked him.

            Then, to my amazement, my name was called before I was eligible for retirement.  I entered the office, and for the first time, met face to face with Major Neuman.  Her uniform was impeccable -- as if she had just stepped out of a recruiting poster.  She was pleasing to look at in that military sense of the word.  Not pretty, but certainly not ugly.  Her sandy blonde hair had a light dusting of grey and there were a few hints of the wrinkles she would have in old age.  She had placed herself in front of her desk rather than behind it, and offered her hand as she introduced herself.

            She smiled a diplomatically warm smile as she offered me a seat in a leather upholstered chair, then returned to the opposite side of her desk.  The Major gave me a few cursory instructions regarding the tests I would be taking.  The format for the tests was that neuron-slaying “multiple choice, fill in the circle with your number two pencil, close the booklet when I say stop” sort of thing of which the military had become incomprehensibly fond.  Everyone hated tests like these, but they had become as much a part of military life as wearing a uniform.  So, we didn’t have to like it, we just had to tolerate it.

            I probably should have just marked answers at random.  Two weeks later six of us were on a helicopter on our way to what we were told was “Training Base 47-Alpha”.

            “Where’s that?” I said.

            “It doesn’t exist,” replied the black-uniformed crew chief.

            And we waited.  The whuff-whuffing of the chopper’s rotors carried us all closer and closer to Training Base 47-Alpha, or the Land of Oz, or Neverland, or wherever.  Do not pass GO, do not collect $200.  Leave a pint of blood for a deposit.

III.  Commander Archibald Frazier, USN

            We flew in together, but were promptly split up.  Throughout training, I rarely had a chance to see any of the five who shared that chopper ride with me.  I have never spoken with them since, and I sometimes wonder if I would still recognize them after so many years.  In any case, we were each assigned to small training teams each ranging in size from four to eight members.  There appeared to be no logic to the matchings, but everything went so unmilitaristically well that we were led to suppose there might have been at least some casual forethought.

            I was assigned to Team 11, issued linens and uniforms, loaded up with equipment, and shuffled off to a barracks so quickly I had no time to think.  When I was settled in, there were a few minutes to get briefly acquainted with the others in my new team.  Master Sergeant William Ellis, British Royal Marines, was the quietest of the bunch.  He smoked a pipe, didn’t say much, but heard and remembered everything.  He and Corporal Janice Merrill, a Canadian, were the only “foreigners” in our team.  Janice was bubbly and talkative; certainly no relation to the taciturn Brit.  According to all accounts, Bill McCavert, an Army Spec5 and son of a New Jersey hardware store owner, was our resident complainer.  If Bill was satisfied with something, you could bet your bottom dollar there was trouble brewing.  The other two in Team 11 were U.S. Marines. Corporal Tina Collins was an insatiable technology geek -- loved computers, radios, and anything else that had transistors, diodes, or resistors.  Staff Sergeant Robert “Moose” Mosely was probably a margarita or two short of a party, but the M-60 “tanker” was strong and tough enough that his nickname came as no surprise.  The “Moose” could probably bench-press a Cadillac.

            Each of the teams, eighteen in all, had a team commander and an assistant commander with the mutual responsibility of leading us through our training at TB-47-Alpha. Our assistant commander was Mr. Leonard Monk.  “The Monk”, as he was referred to, was rumored to be a C.I.A operative.  Anyone with the straight story on him wasn’t talking and he was as quiet as death.  We simply took for granted that our life expectancies would be greater if we kept a low profile.

            Our beloved team commander was U.S. Navy Commander Archibald Frazier.  Everyone in Team 11 was convinced “Archie” was certifiably insane, perhaps even Archie himself.  The words “fanatic” and “zealot” come easily to mind when searching for an adequate description of the man.  That impression of our commander probably wasn’t helped by his bright red hair that, no matter how short it was, always seemed to be in need of combing.  Commander Archibald Frazier was a Navy SEAL -- had been one long enough to gather his own barnacles.  Without being at all rude or repugnant about it, Archie would pounce on every available opportunity to explain just what your shortcomings were and why you would never have made it as a SEAL.  All you had to do to earn one of these lectures was to do anything the non-Archie way and, from all appearances, we were masters of the non-Archie way.

            There were only two things that kept us around for another day of Special-Op training: Archie and the desert.  If you trusted what your eyes told you, both were merciless and endless. From the moment we stepped off the chopper we were aware of Archie.  The desert, however, took a more casual approach to introductions.  About two weeks into training we discovered that TB-47-Alpha (or “Oz” as we had renamed it) was about 150 miles on the other side of nowhere.  Needless to say, this news was not greeted with hoopla and fanfare.

            Bill decided he had had enough of Archie after a half-dozen days of practicing the non-Archie way.  He waited until nightfall, and with little more than a compass, two canteens, and a couple of MRE’s (Meal, Ready to Eat), Bill hopped the fence and headed for civilization.  We, to this very day, have no idea how Bill got past “the Monk” undetected.  It was all luck and timing, I suppose, and his vanishing act went unnoticed for almost half an hour.  Archie was not pleased and we were informed of his displeasure in terms that were plain, simple, straightforward, and as subtle as a mortar barrage.  Archie’s attitude toward us immediately changed.  He used to be relentless, now he was a relentless bastard.  But, what the hell, at least he was our bastard.

            A few days later the team was herded into one of the air-conditioned Quonset huts that they passed off as a classroom here in Oz.  We were treated to a slideshow featuring recent photos of Bill, cold and shivering in the desert’s early dawn but not yet showing signs of dehydration.  Close-ups told more of the tale.  He looked tired and his eyes had the furtive look of a hunted animal.  It was a sobering five minutes.

            After the slides the lights snapped back on, harsh on our blinking eyes.  Archie took a few minutes to explain that the rest of us would not follow Bill’s example.  Archie explained there was no avoiding the inevitable.  There was no escape through the desert and Bill was lucky he had been found before the desert “got him”.  Training Command was boiling mad with “the young fool” over the incident, but the “good news” was that no one leaves TB-47-A without graduating.  Bill would be recycled into a new team sometime in November and he would, we were informed, have the unenviable pleasure of starting training again at day one.  We now had reason to believe that Oz was ruled by the Wicked Witch.

            The following day, we got our own replacement.  Team 18 had been disbanded to fill in holes that had appeared in other teams.  I did some quick math and discovered that if the attrition rate remained constant, they would have to disband five more before we were finished here.  We got a wild daredevil of an Australian Army demolition expert.  Sergeant Michael Gravlin hailed from a patch of Australia that he claimed looked just like TB-47-A, but with “more hills, rocks, and snakes”.  He claimed to like beer more than sex and was eager to get done with training.  He theorized that with him temporarily out of circulation the laws of supply and demand would mean lower beer prices by the time we graduated.

            Archie wasn’t exactly pleased with Michael’s accent.  Michael’s performance was nearly always up to Archie’s standards, but Archie demanded that anything done the Archie way must be done while speaking English.  Will Ellis, as usual, kept his opinion on this matter to himself.  The rest of us were just grateful that Archie had returned to his old relentless ways.

            By the third week, we were used to the daily pre-dawn run.  A mere lung-wrenching three miles in our first week, the daily ritual had increased by a mile each week.  None of us were exactly thrilled about it and most of us were more than a little worried that Archie would keep upping the ante until, one fine morning, we all dropped dead before breakfast.  I don’t think Will Ellis cared one way or the other, but he didn’t smoke his pipe as much anymore.

            Our first four weeks in Oz were followed by what Archie called “Phase Two”: an intense four weeks of weapons training.  I saw more types of handguns, shotguns, and rifles than I knew existed.  We were trained to use several models -- how to fire them, break them down, clean them, and put them back together.  Janice and I were a little bit like fish out of water through Phase Two, but the others took to the firing ranges like they were born there.  I was familiar with the M-16A2 and was marginally comfortable with the M-1911A1, but time allotted for familiarization was too limited for me to get a good feel for any of the other weapons.  Janice was pathetic with any weapon fired from the shoulder, but was absolutely frightening with a handgun.  If it was inside fifty yards and no smaller than a fifty-cent piece, it had better have paid its life insurance premiums.  In the third week of the phase, we got a taste of heavy weapons and team-crewed infantry weapons.  The most notable of these were machine guns, mortars, and man-portable anti-tank weapon systems.  Lots of noise.  Lots of heavy metal.  Lots of potential destruction just waiting for a place to happen.  Will Ellis perked up in week three of the phase.  Apparently a basic tenet of his philosophy was: “Happiness is a belt-fed weapon”.

            Our final week of weapons training consisted of bigger guns.  After learning the basics of artillery pieces and tank-mounted hardware, we even spent two days of live-fire.  While most of us tried unsuccessfully to suppress an involuntary twinge from the sound and concussion, Moose Mosely just grinned like a kid at the circus.  Please, Br’er Fox, don’t throw Moose in that briar patch.

            Most of the training during the final weeks was individualized training, geared to boost our existing strengths rather than correct our weaknesses.  For these sessions, we were almost always broken into pairs, though we spent some days in two groups of three.  I found myself most often grouped with Tina, Will, or Janice.  Only rarely did I have the opportunity to spend a day with Michael or Moose, but those sessions were the most exiting and usually consisted of reducing something to smoke, dust and rubble.  In nearly every instance this process was accompanied by a loud report or explosion, and followed thereafter by wild hoots of elation from either or both of them.

            The strict military atmosphere that had pervaded our first eight weeks in Oz seemed to become more relaxed in our final weeks.  Archie said something about it not being conducive to “jamming technical components into our cranial receptor assemblies”.  We were, on the other hand, still advised to avoid the non-Archie way at any costs.

            Tina and I became close friends during the final training phase.  We spent more and more time “geeking”, as the others put it.  Then, one evening, it dawned on me how Archie was molding this group into a unit that would survive nearly any situation.  All of us were trained in small arms combat.  Will and Janice formed a command and control element.  Moose and Michael were well-versed in heavy weapons and explosives. Anything of a mechanical nature could be handled by Moose or Janice.  Tina and I were included for communications and technical support.  As I continued to ponder what Archie was doing, it became more obvious that whatever came up, two or more of us were trained to handle it.

            I thought about it for hours.  Then I got up and made my way to Tina’s room.  I entered quietly.  I was about to wake her then thought better of putting my hand on the Marine’s shoulder.  I had no desire to be the proud owner of a broken jaw.

            I stepped back.  “Tina.”  Just a whisper.

            “What? What is it?”  The whisper had been enough.  She rubbed her eyes and blinked in the moonlight as she sat up.  “Jesus!  What time is it?”

            “I dunno.  I couldn’t sleep,” I said.

            “Well, I could.  Go back to bed.”

            “You know, Tina, they haven’t told us why we’re going through bootcamp all over again.”

            “You worry too much.  Maybe tomorrow they’ll remember to tell us why we’re here.”

            I had no answer and the silence was awkward.

            “Oh, damn,” she sighed.  “Come on.  Crawl in.  No funny stuff.  Just get some sleep and hope Archie or the Monk don’t go looking for you before 0500.”

            Tina curled close and was back to sleep in no time at all, her breath steady and soft on my chest.  She was warm in the desert night, but still I couldn’t sleep.

IV.  Professor Niles Johnson, National Security Agency

            In contrast to my initial estimates, only two more teams were disbanded to patch up teams that lost members.  Our team remained stable after Bill McCavert’s break for freedom.  As I understand it, Bill was plugged into a new team being trained at a separate facility.  We never heard any rumors of Bill making a second run for freedom, but every once in a while “Bill’s Breakout” came up and we would engage in some harmless speculation.  Tina and Moose had money riding on when he’d make his second break.  It was something to pass the time in the evenings, and as hilarious as some of the discussions were, the undertones bordered on the sinister.  We were here for the duration, nearing graduation, and still not a word had been spoken of the purpose for all this grueling training.

            In our final week at Oz, Archie and the Monk ushered our entire team to Quonset 8 after breakfast.  It was a fine Tuesday morning with the sun low and bright in the east and the night’s chill still hovering close to the ground.  There was a light breeze blowing southward through Oz, enough to elicit a shiver or two but not enough to carry stinging sand with it.  Archie and the Monk said nothing as they stood outside the Quonset door.  What needed to be said would be said by the bespectacled and balding little man waiting for us in the fluorescent glare inside Quonset 8.

            The six of us, in our uniforms of desert camouflage, trooped into the room anticipating yet another boring lesson in God-only-knew-what.  On the wide platform at the head of the classroom, the quaint little man sat on a wooden chair.  He brushed specks of lint from his rumpled suit and sipped water from a clear plastic chowhall glass.  The blackboard behind him was bare save a few ghostly smears of chalk dust left from the last erasings.  His briefcase leaned against a leg of the small table that served as a desk.  On the desk was a cloth covering something -- roughly cubic and measuring about two feet to a side.  We didn’t much care what it hid, knowing that it would certainly be the focus of anything important he might say.

            The gnome of a fellow began by introducing himself and from that point on, things rapidly went to hell in a handbasket.

            “Good morning, trainees.  You may be seated.”  We hated that degrading term, but sat down all the same.  “I am Professor Niles Johnson of the National Security Agency, and I am here to discuss with you the purpose for which you have been training so diligently.”  This caught our attention -- no boring lecture, this one.  “First of all, let me remind you of the nondisclosure agreement you signed upon acceptance to this program.  What is said in this room is highly classified information and must not be divulged to anyone without proper clearance, authorization, and need-to-know.  Understood?”

            We responded with a jumbled chorus of “yessirs” that floated in his direction and seemed to satisfy him.

            “Very well, then.”  The good professor, without the dramatic flourish we expected, reached over and tugged at the cloth covering the object on the table.  Well, no need for drama.  What we saw was hardly impressive.  Inside a Plexiglas enclosure stood a slender grey object.  On the side facing us, near the top, was a circular bump.  “Anyone here ever seen one of these?”

            Silence.  More mind games?  Some kind of demented group psychology test?

            “I thought not.”  He grinned as if it was some kind of joke.  We must have missed the punchline.  “This is a full-size replica of what is known as The Apollo Stone.”  Great.  This guy’s an archaeology professor.  They’ve run out of things to do with us and now we have to learn Greek mythology or something just so the taxpayers get their money’s worth.  “To our knowledge there is only one on the entire planet... and the one we have came from the moon.”

            It was turning out to be one rip-roarer of a training session.  The gnomish gent was definitely on a roll.  “I am the Director of a new entity with the Agency.  The Office of Extra-dimensional Exploration, or O.E.E., was formed in 1987 in direct response to the research of Dr. Wallace Smythe, a NASA scientist.  Since that time, the United States has been working closely with its most trusted allies to determine how best to proceed.  Dr. Smythe discovered the Apollo Stone’s function in 1986, but we were unable to control the Stone with any precision until a few short months ago.  With that hurdle behind us, we were able to initiate the next step in our program.  That next step required that we train and prepare several ‘dimensionauts’... It will be your job to explore the worlds beyond the Apollo Stone.”

            More silence.  So, the guy wasn’t an archaeology professor after all.  However, he probably was delusional.  We were convinced there was more to the story.  Something about Elvis, Bigfoot, little green men from the stars, a three-headed Iowa piglet with gills, or the top secret cloning of JFK seemed most likely.

            “Your superiors will brief you on other pertinent details prior to your deployment.  Thank you for your dedication and loyalty.  And welcome to the O.E.E.”  He picked up his briefcase, stepped down ungracefully from the teaching platform, and waddled to the back of the Quonset.  He paused to adjust his spectacles, opened the door and walked out into the brightening day.

            For what seemed to be a very long while no one said a word.  Oddly enough, it was Will Ellis who first broke the silence with a softly muttered, “What the bloody ‘ell was that?”

            Janice ran from the Quonset, leaving her breakfast in a half-digested splash just a few feet outside the door.  Black coffee, scrambled eggs and too much greasy sausage.

            Moose and Michael grinned at each other until neither could hold back the laughter.

            Tina’s eyes met mine as she repeated, “Dimensionauts?  Deployment?”

            All I could do was shrug. If it was bullshit they’d let us know soon enough.  They’d screwed with our minds before and each time gave us the same lame excuse about gathering psychological data.  We were only days from graduating from Oz, so, why not one more quick psych-check before we go?  Why not make sure they’ve built their Frankenstein correctly before they apply juice to the electrodes?  Dimensionauts?  Yeah, right.

            Archie turned us loose to spend the rest of the day at the barracks, telling us all other training for the day had been canceled.  He dismissed us right there at Quonset 8.  Didn’t even march us back to the barracks.  The team walked back, at first as a single group but eventually fragmenting into the usual pairs.  The Aussie and Moose, still having entirely too much fun with Professor Johnson’s whole unbelievable spiel, hooted and howled over everything from the man’s appearance to various unnatural couplings that might have led to his existence.  Bill, to his credit, helped the still-green Janice keep whatever might remain in her stomach where it belonged.  Tina and I brought up the rear, neither of us speaking, but both glad for the quiet company.  We were almost to the barracks when I finally asked, “You still think I worry too much, Tina?”

            It was her turn to shrug.

V.  Lindsey Collins, “the older sister”

            Graduation was no big event.  A salute from Archie and the Monk, and a scrap of pretty paper that said we had successfully completed “U.S. Army Special Deployment Survival Training”.  Right up to our final day we thought they would tell us the Dimensionaut thing was all an elaborate psych-test.  But they didn’t.

            They did, however, give us a little more insight into how the Stone worked.  We weren’t given much specific information regarding its operation, but in general it appeared to use a Base-4 system in whatever passed as its math co-processor.  It was activated by certain sequences of audio tones and would “repeat” the activation sequence with a buzzing hum reminiscent of a perfectly tuned electric razor.  Further sequences would open “portals” to other locations, again accompanied by the Stone’s answering hums.

            Based on the few accounts available, mainly those of Dr. Smythe, it seemed that these locations beyond the portals were not of our universe, but rather other “dimensions”.  It was, of course, impossible to state in any certain terms if this was true or not, but all the facts gathered thus far supported the theory.  Of the several GPS transmitters dropped on these other worlds, not one signal has ever been located.  This, in spite of Dr. Smythe’s claims of passing through a portal that opened in downtown Little Rock and another that placed him near a small villa south of Madrid.  Neither of those transmitters were ever located, either by signal or by physical search of the areas Dr. Smythe described.

            To make matters worse, the newspaper the adventurous doctor brought back from “the other Little Rock” was dated Thursday, June 5, 2003.  The change he got back from the two dollars he invested in his research totaled thirty-five cents -- the coins, a quarter and two nickels, were stamped with dates ranging from 1990 to 2002.  I’ve seen the coins.  The back of the quarter features Mississippi rather than the familiar eagle with spread wings.  None of us have seen the newspaper.  It is so classified, I imagine “they” stamped it: SUPER-ULTRA-HYPER TOP SECRET -- SHRED BEFORE READING.  I often wonder if ol’ Wally thought to Xerox parts of it before he handed it over to “them”.  And, I remember suggesting to Tina, “Hell, who knows... that GPS transmitter may magically appear in Little Rock when June 5, 2003, finally rolls around -- all we have to do is wait thirteen years to find out.”

            There also seems to be a strange time-dilation effect when the Stone is used.  Wally, although gone only a few hours each time insisted he had been “outside” for days.  After further study it was determined that a full “outside” day elapses in the span of roughly fifty-three minutes of our time.  After several measurements, this ratio seems to be constant although the duration of any trip “outside” varies.  Some of the O.E.E. eggheads have suggested that this phenomenon may be a “natural limitation resulting from the physics of dimensional ‘distance’ from the Apollo Stone” [Lyons, Thomas L. and Federman, Marissa V. “Physics of Dimensional Bodies and Distortion of Real-time,” OEE Technical Manual TS-J7355v2 (Nov 1989, classified TOP SECRET)].  Sounds like mumbo-jumbo to me, but if you can’t dazzle ‘em with brilliance, baffle ‘em with bullshit.

            Since we had the pleasure of spending Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years in the warm and nurturing presence of Archie and the Monk, the O.E.E. saw fit to allow us three weeks between Dimensionaut training and our first deployment.  All we had to do was wear GPS locator bracelets.  Not a real problem, I guess, but Big Brother creepy when you actually think about it.  “Well, I probably won’t forget to wear mine,” I thought, as they locked the titanium band on my left wrist.  We’re not supposed to talk about what we do or where we’re going and “they” do this?  Might just as well hang flashing neon signs around our necks that say, “Ask me about my highly classified government job!”

            Over dinner, Tina and I spoke of our plans for the next few weeks.  She was going back to Minneapolis to spend time with her family.  She seemed particularly eager to visit with her sister, Lindsey.  At first I felt a little “left out” as she went on about her plans, but the sparkling of excitement in her grey-green eyes was infectious and I found myself sharing in her elation.  We talked about her family for a while, then she asked about my plans.  I debated about what to tell her and what to leave out, not wanting to spoil the moment for her.  To this day I don’t know exactly what I said, or how much of my family history I divulged.  I do remember being lost in her eyes, entranced, enchanted.

            I had grown apart from my father ever since mother and both of my sisters died in a 1982 auto accident.  As the years passed, he had become increasingly distant and we seemed to have nothing to talk about that couldn’t be covered in a day or two.  I had already decided to spend only a week “back home” then just head for N.A.S. Pensacola and wait for the rest of the dimensionaut team to show up.  A couple weeks lounging around in the barracks, crawling from one bar to another, or watching the Blue Angels train for their annual tour would probably do me some good.  “They” wouldn’t be sending me anywhere without the rest of the team anyway.

            “Come to Minneapolis with me.  It will be fun, I promise.  Look, we can stop off in your home town on the way to Pensacola.  It’ll cut my visit a little short, but they won’t mind.”  Then she smiled at me.  “Lindsey’s been dying to meet you.  They didn’t censor everything in our letters from training camp.”  Any respectable bachelor would have bolted immediately.

            I don’t recall agreeing to Tina’s impulsive offer, but that must be what happened.  The flight into Minneapolis was tolerable.  Which is to say it would have been miserable if not for Tina’s company.  The stewardess was rude and mechanical, both of which could surely have been cured by a couple hours of sleep.  I felt sorry for her.  Even sorrier when we were stacked in a holding pattern for an extra half hour waiting for landing clearance.  I began thinking Minneapolis was being run by the military when the gate refused to extend to dock with the liner’s cabin door.  A mobile stairway was driven out and we deplaned the old fashioned way and trudged through the ice and snow to the terminal.

            “You’re familiar with the terminal.  Where will your family be meeting you?” I asked.

            “They won’t, silly.  I never tell them exactly when I’ll be home.  They get too wound up with anticipation and then they don’t act like my family.  Let’s get our bags.  We’ll take a taxi.”

            “Sure, boss.  Whatever you say.”

            Don’t let anyone tell you that Minnesota winters are mild. There’s more than enough snow and ice for everyone and if not, they could have my share just for the asking.  I was glad I didn’t have to do any driving.  The taxi driver was a veteran, though, and soon we pulled off the main road and into a long lane.  Tina’s folks had a huge house; not exactly a mansion, but it was also obvious her family was not likely to be starving.  The driver stopped in front of the house and got out to retrieve our bags from the trunk.  Tina waited on the walk as I helped with the bags.  I handed the driver a twenty for the fare and a tip, then added another ten for getting us here in one piece.  He nodded and thanked us, hopped back in his taxi and headed back down the lane.

            The porch light came on and Tina smiled.  “C’mon!  There’s two of us and I told them I wasn’t going to be on leave for a few more weeks.  They don’t have a clue who’s out here.”  I shrugged and smiled back.  We picked up our bags and she nudged me to take the lead up the walk and onto the porch.  The inner door was flung open and I could see a couple of people in the doorway, their view as clouded as mine by the frost forming on the panes of the outer door.  Tina said, “Just wait ‘til they open the door and ask if this is the house where Lindsey Collins resides.  I’ll take it from there...”  And I was fine with all this until she said, “Trust me.”

            I made it to within five feet of the door and, just like it was scripted in a Hollywood movie, the door swung wide to reveal a man in his late forties or early fifties, a woman who looked much younger, but must be nearly the same age.  And Tina.  I stumbled a bit in my delivery, but managed to inquire of Lindsey in the fashion Tina had instructed.

            The man gave me an odd look, saying, “For someone who seems so sure of who he’s here to see, you sure don’t see well.  Lindsey’s right here behind me.  I don’t believe we’ve met, have we?  And who’s that with you, lad?”

            That was all Tina was waiting to hear.  “Surprise, Daddy!”

            “Ah!  My little leatherneck home for a visit!  Give the old man a hug and get in out of the cold!”  There was a mad flurry of greetings and despite the offer of warmth inside, it took several minutes until the doorway was cleared enough to shut out the cold.  As might have been expected, I was finally introduced to Tina’s father, Robert, and to her mother, Cheryl, then to her identical twin, Lindsey, who insisted that she be thought of as “Tina’s older sister” since she was born first.

            In the few short months that I had come to know Tina,  I was aware that she had both the compassion of a saint and a streak of devilish orneriness longer than a country mile.  Her father warned me that Lindsey might be worse, but said he wasn’t sure “‘cuz they broke all the gauges.  One’s a joker, the other’s a clown, but you can’t help but love ‘em.”

            I was shown to the guest bedroom by Lindsey.  She didn’t leave the room as I unpacked, choosing instead to sit on the edge of the bed and talk.  She did the usual twenty questions that any protective older sister might.  She didn’t seem dissatisfied with my answers and once or twice managed a smile or laugh that was all too much like Tina’s.  When I was nearly finished, she ended her interrogation and suggested, “How about we go downstairs and get a little food into the two of you before bedtime?”

            I smiled back.  “Sure.  Sounds great.  I sometimes think airline food is worse than what the military passes off as food.”  Having little experience with either culinary nightmare, she laughed, claiming the military mustn’t be treating us so badly if Tina and I were in such good physical condition.

            Lindsey and I made our way to the family room, where the rest of the Collins family warmed themselves by the wood fire blazing in the fireplace dominating one wall of the room.  It was long past suppertime but Mrs. Collins offered to make a full meal if given a few minutes.  Tina and I refused to let her go to all that trouble, but suggested instead that a light snack might be fine this late in the evening.  We would have felt odd eating while everyone else tried to catch up with Tina’s life and dissect my own.  I felt somewhat like a new puppy at Christmas.

            The conversation went on into the night, even though Mr. Collins had to work the next day and Lindsey had college classes to attend.  I found myself wondering how Tina could have found the strength or the need to ever leave such a warm and loving family behind.  I couldn’t understand why she would want to live in a barracks and eat in a chowhall.  Finally, Mrs. Collins put an end to it all with a mock scolding of her family and a smiling but stern, “And you too, young man.  Now, off to bed with all of you.”

            Tina, Lindsey, and I climbed the stairs slowly, none of us realizing how tired we were until faced with that uphill struggle.  We said goodnight and I closed the door of the guest room still warm from the fire and the social intimacy.  I changed out of my traveling clothes, tossing them in a small hamper in the half-bath attached to the guest room.  I tugged on my pajama bottoms and was about to put my arm in a sleeve when I decided against it and tossed the top half back in the drawer.  I never cared much for pajamas anyway.  I turned off the lights and wriggled down into the blankets.

            I was still laying awake in bed when she tapped lightly on the door.  I glanced at the red numbers glowing on the clock -- 2:37.  I said nothing, but the door opened and, without turning on the lights, she walked in and over to the side of the bed.  The moonlight was soft and bright behind her silhouette.

            “Couldn’t sleep?” I said.

            “No.  There’s still some stuff bothering me.”

            The silence set my nerves on edge when she didn’t say anything more.

            “Well, I owe you one,” I sighed as I moved over.  “Come on.  Crawl in.  No funny stuff.  Let’s talk about it a while then you get on back to your room before your dad decides he needs to break out his shotgun.”

            She slid in beside me, but unlike before, kept her distance.  She rolled on her side to face me and propped her head on her hand.  She was quiet for a moment, as if trying to gather her thoughts.  I was a little hurt by the implication of the space between us, but maybe intimacy was a bit awkward for her in her parents’ house.

            I couldn’t have been more wrong.

            “She’s always been the daredevil, you know.  I used to watch out for her all the time, but she’s been away now for three years in the Corps.  And, I can’t do it myself.  I have to hope there’s someone else watching out for her.”

            “Lindsey?”

            “Oh, yeah.  Sorry.  It’s okay.  Everyone else is sleeping.  It’s just... you have to promise me you’ll watch out for her.”  It took my brain a few seconds to comprehend what she was asking of me.

            “Uh, sure.  I promise.  But you didn’t have to ask.  I would anyway.”

            “She hasn’t told me what you guys are trained to do, but she keeps saying stuff about deployment.  Maybe I just worry too much.”

            “Maybe, maybe not.  Tina says I worry too much.”

            She smiled then and got up to leave.  Then, as if she had forgotten something, leaned over the bed and kissed me on the forehead.  “Thanks,” she said, and with that she left.  The soft click of the latch told me I hadn’t dreamed it.  I looked at the clock -- 2:43.