Awake Page 8

There was also talk among the men of the squadron of a possible end to hostilities; some sort of treaty was about to be signed was the rumor the circulated. A visit to the region by the prime minister fueled these rumors.

  Of course, unknown to anyone, things were about to change.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Matheson was enjoying a movie in his room (Thomas was out) on a particularly hot night when someone knocked on the door.

  Matheson opened the door to a man around his age, dressed in a khaki uniform. “Yes?” Matheson said.

  “Are you leftenant Matheson?” the man said.

  “I am.”

  He pulled out a badge. Matheson noted the words intelligence branch.

  “I'm warrant officer Ed Johnson,” the man said. “I'm with the intelligence branch. Can I come in?”

  “Sure,” Matheson said. He nodded at the couch. “We could sit there. What can I do for you?”

  They sat down; Johnson had declined an offer for a drink.

  “We've been working with the defense research and development department,” Johnson said. “It's a technology that has the potential to change the world.”

  “I see,” Matheson nodded. “And how can I help you?”

  Johnson smiled. “I'll get there in a moment, sir. This technology involves the creation of controlled wormholes. You may have heard the term if you're a fan of science fiction. It's a way to, well, travel...to distant places, to different worlds, and even to travel through time.”

  “Really,” Matheson said. “That's pretty incredible.”

  “This technology isn't something we just invented. It's based on research we've conducted on individuals who can create these wormholes just by thinking about them. No one understands how these people can do it, but we know they can. And we can track it when it happens – when one of these wormholes is opened.”

  “Is that so?” Matheson said. He knew where this was going and was almost paralyzed with fear.

  “It's true. And we know that you've been creating wormholes. It took us some time to find you as the technology is in its infancy.”

  Matheson nodded. “And what do you want with me?”

  “The intelligence branch and the research branch are working together. We're creating a department, a covert department, of officers and agents. We're concerned that there are others like you who can open a wormhole through time, and we need to stop these individuals. The theory our scientists have is whenever someone changes something in the past, there's a kind of ripple effect that changes things in the present.”

  “And how would we even know there had been some kind of 'change' in the past?”

  “Some of the people who can create the wormholes are sensitive to these changes. Like I said, the technology is in its infancy, and our understanding of the phenomenon is fuzzy at best. But stopping the people who screw with time is just one part of the mission. We need to stop unauthorized individuals from using these wormholes.”

  “And who exactly is 'unauthorized'?” Matheson asked.

  “Everyone,” Johnson said. “For now, it's everyone. A day may come when the government licenses individuals or groups to use the technology. Until then, we need to control it.”

  “It all sounds rather authoritarian,” Matheson said. “I'm not so sure I'd want to be involved in something like that.”

  “I understand,” Johnson said. “But measures need to be taken to protect the greater good. The wormholes could be used for terrorism. Imagine a suicide bomber who could just appear, out of nowhere, in a crowded area. Or someone who wanted to assassinate government officials. There are too many scenarios where the use of the wormholes would be abused.”

  “I see,” Matheson said. “And when would I join up with this organization? I still have five years left on my tour.”

  “We're on the verge of an end to hostilities here,” Johnson said. “I can't say more than that. When this war ends, you'd leave your squadron on a temporary basis for training. After that, you'd continue to fly, and you'd be pulled off flight duty on occasion. The details are still being worked out; we wanted to make sure we could have you on board. We're recruiting folks like you.”

  “There are others like me?” Matheson said. “I thought that might be the case.”

  “Yes, we've found several and we're in talks with all of them.”

  “What if I refuse?” Matheson said.

  “You really don't want to go there,” Johnson said. “Let's just say you'd be made to...forget that you had this particular ability.”

  Matheson recoiled. “How the hell would you do that?”

  “There are ways,” Johnson said. “The government is taking this very seriously, leftenant. It's a matter of national security.”

  “I understand. Fine, I'm in. What happens next?”

  “Next?” Johnson said. “For now, nothing changes. You'll resume flight duties. There is one small thing.”

  “What's that?”

  “Your roommate – the major – he's gathering a group of jumpers.”

  “Jumpers?”

  “That's the slang we use for the people who can create the wormholes; we call them portal jumpers. Major Thomas, according to our intelligence, is trying to get a group of jumpers together. As to why, we're not certain. We need to find out what he's up to.”

  “You want me to spy on him?” Matheson asked. “Really? He's not said anything to me about recruiting anyone, and he hasn't asked me.”

  “He's doing it,” Johnson said. “We're working with a jumper who heard from a friend that it was happening.”

  “Second hand information, you mean,” Matheson said.

  “Sure,” Johnson said. “This individual is a good source. But we need to verify if the claim is true or not.”

  “I fly with the man, it's not exactly easy for me to just start monitoring what he's doing. There's a trust involved here, and I don't want to break it.”

  “At this point you don't have to do anything,” Johnson said. “If you get any details, you'll want to let me know.”

  “And how will I do that?”

  Johnson handed him a card. “That's my phone number, and email address. I'll be in country for a couple of weeks, but you can reach me anywhere in the world with that number.” He smiled. “It's a free call, too.”

  “I would hope so,” Matheson said. “Fine. I'll see what I can find out.”

  * * *

  As it would turn out, Matheson wouldn't have to do any kind of spying on Thomas; Thomas would come to him.

  They had just come off of a 12-hour shift, patrolling the no-fly zone, when Thomas suggested they head to the officer's club.

  “I'm pretty beat,” Matheson said. “I was wanting to grab some sleep. Maybe some other time?”

  “Just for an hour, maybe?” Thomas said. “I just had a few things to talk to you about.”

  “Well, okay,” Matheson said. “Sure.”

  They headed to the officer's club the old-fashioned way; Thomas stopped at the bar for a pitcher of water, and they grabbed their usual table.

  “No beer for you?” Matheson said.

  “I think I'm going to need a clear head for this,” Thomas said.

  “What's up?”

  “The thing you can do – those portals you can open up? There are others that can do that, too,” Thomas began. “I've met several people, actually.”

  “Really?” Matheson said, carefully. “How'd you do that? How'd you find them?”

  “Oh, I heard about this guy and we started talking about it,” Thomas said. “He knew about someone else, and before long I had met several guys who can do what you can do. Although they can't do exactly what you can do; you seem to be unique in that regard.”

  “I had no idea,” Matheson lied, although he knew that Thomas was also lying – or in the very least leaving out parts of the truth.

  “We all agree about one thing, Charles: this power...or ability...or whatever you want to call it – it can be used for the greate
r good. And these guys want to be involved, in whatever way they can. But we need you.”

  “Why do you need me?”

  “Like I said, these guys have very specific abilities, but no one can do what you can do. We need your leadership.”

  “My leadership? To do what?”

  “I want us to be organized, and I want to offer up our services to the world. We can put an end to poverty, and hunger! We can get goods and services to people who need it, and the expenses would be minimal. It's a great opportunity to do a lot of good.”

  “Just good, right?” Matheson said. “It would be awfully easy to become corrupted by this kind of power.”

  “Of course,” Thomas said. “Good things. That's all I want to do. And we need someone to set the example for others. That's why I need you.”

  “When would we do all of this?”

  “I'm not entirely sure, yet,” Thomas said. “But I was thinking I could offer up our services to the government...maybe they'd let us discharge early, or let us do this for a short time once this war ends.”

  “It sounds pretty ambitious,” Matheson said. “I think I could get involved. But I'd need some time to think about it.”

  “That's fine,” Thomas said. “I'm still working everything out. Just don't take too long, okay?”

  “Sure,” Matheson said.

  * * *

  Matheson wasn't entirely certain about contacting Ed Johnson; Thomas really seemed to want to do something good for the world.

  After a couple of days of soul searching, Matheson died to make the call. The base had a bank of telephones set up near the post exchange, including a couple in booths. The booths were empty, and Matheson entered one. He pulled out the card Johnson had given him and dialed the number.

  After a moment the line was picked up. “Johnson.”

  “Warrant officer Johnson, this is leftenant Matheson.”

  “Yes, sir, how are you?”

  “I'm fine. I talked to Major Thomas. Or rather, he talked to me. He told me what he's doing. I've got to tell you, it sounds like a great thing.”

  “My informant tells me he has some kind of 'save the world' plan,” Johnson replied.

  “That's right,” Matheson said. “He wants to put this power to good use, helping the world.”

  “I'll bet he didn't tell you the assassination part.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He wants to use the whole 'help the poor' part as a front. He also wants to get into the assassin business. For the greater good, of course.”

  “He never said anything about that,” Matheson said.

  “Of course not,” Johnson said. “He wants you in. He might not even bring it up.”

  “If you know so much, why do you need me?”

  “If you're a part of his group, you'll know first-hand about all of this. My informant isn't a part of this inner-circle.”

  “Your informant seems to have reliable information. And Thomas wants to make a proposal to the government, although he didn't say whom he had in mind.”

  “I don't think he's going to do that,” Johnson said. “Again, it's just a front.”

  “Does he even know what he's doing is potentially illegal? How could he know?”

  “There's nothing illegal yet, obviously. We just need to make sure that he doesn't bring has plan to fruition.”

  “Fine,” Matheson said. “I'll try to find out more.”

  “Thank you, leftenant,” Johnson said. “We'll be in touch.”

  Matheson hung up the phone. He was feeling decidedly uneasy about this whole operation.

  He headed back to his barracks room, and wasn't surprised to see Thomas there. Thomas was sitting at the couch, drinking a beer and watching television.

  “Hey Jeff,” Matheson said. “How are things?”

  “Just doing some relaxing,” Thomas said. “Big shift coming up.”

  Matheson headed into the small kitchen area and got a soda out of the refrigerator. He joined Thomas on the couch.

  “I guess there could be worse things than flying a state-of-the-art fighter jet,” Matheson said.

  “True,” Thomas said. He took a sip of his beer. “So, what do you think about joining up with my little group? Are you going to do it?”

  “I think so,” Matheson said. “If I can use this ability for good I'll feel better about using it. When were we all going to meet?”

  “Probably on our next day off,” Thomas said.

  “Sounds good,” Matheson said.

  As things would turn out, they never would get a chance to meet.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  They were patrolling the no-fly zone, over airspace in Yemen, when the accident happened.

  Matheson had been scanning the surrounding area when he saw the familiar plumes.

  “Shit, major, we've got incoming missiles!” he cried. “Coming right up our starboard side.”

  “Taking evasive maneuvers,” Thomas replied, and banked the jet sharply.

  Matheson began to radio to the squadron that they were being attacked when the missile slammed into the jet; the warning alarms blared loudly.

  “Mayday, mayday, we've been hit,” Thomas broadcast to the squadron. “We're ejecting.”

  Matheson braced himself.

  “Ejecting in 3, 2, 1, NOW,” he cried, and pulled the ejection lever; the canopy blasted into the atmosphere; Thomas and Matheson were launched into the air.

  The jet, dark black plumes of smoke coming from everywhere, spiraled down towards the ground.

  Matheson's parachute billowed into life, as did Thomas' chute. Air currents forced the two men into opposite directions.

  All the while Matheson was scanning the area, trying to see if there were ground troops, but he was too high up to see anything clearly; Johnson had become a speck in the distance.

  Matheson was worried that ground forces in the area would be tracking his and Thomas' descent, and Matheson wasn't too keen on the idea of being captured by a hostile enemy force.

  Matheson eventually landed, and as he untangled himself from his chute, he scanned the area. So far, nothing. He would have to make it to a safe area to contact his squadron. He thought he heard the sounds of engines, in the distance. He pulled out his compass and consulted it. Oman was towards the east, and he would head in that direction.

  The desert was not the best place to make an escape, but at least a breeze was blowing that helped erase his footprints from the sand.

  Matheson hoped Thomas was okay.

  He trekked through the desert for several hours, all the while not seeing anyone, or any evidence of civilization.

  He eventually reached a point where he thought he was probably safe, and pulled out his radio. He hoped it had enough range to reach his squadron. He was thankful that it was at least a secure broadcast.

  He relayed via radio the details of the missile attack, the possible location of Thomas, and his own location. His GPS device had been damaged, apparently; when he turned it on, all it did was beep at him.

  It was getting dark. Matheson decided he was going to continue walking and get his bearings. At the moment it would be nearly impossible for his squadron to find him. He hoped his GPS would start working again so he could deliver accurate coordinates.

  Through it all, he remained calm; his training had been good, and he was convinced that no ground forces had been dispatched to capture him.

  He wasn't as sure about Thomas; he hoped Thomas had also gotten away and was trying to head to safety.

  Matheson knew it would get very cold during the night; he had a steel and flint set to make a fire, but as he walked he wasn't seeing anything he could use to fuel that fire. The flight suit was at least insulated and provided some warmth, but it wasn't long before he could see plumes of his own breath in the cold air.

  All the while, his mind was nagging him with a thought: go through one of those portals. Get to your squadron. Let them know about Thomas.

  He
tried to push the thought away. Why should he do that when no one else could? If this had happened to any of his other squad mates, they could just magically conjure up a wormhole and pop through it to safety.

  But you can, his mind countered.

  Whether he could or not, Matheson felt like it was cheating, somehow.

  What about your partner? What if he's been captured?

  Matheson didn't have an answer to that.

  Matheson marveled at the night sky; he had never seen stars as bright as these stars, and there were more visible to him than he had ever seen before in his life.

  He was getting tired; he stopped for a moment. He sat down on the sand. He was also very cold and wished he could make a fire, but again there was nothing that could be used in making one.

  He imagined he could see the rescue party, cruising silently over the area, trying to get a fix on their location.

  They all had identification chips implanted into their skulls; didn't they emit a signal that could be tracked? Matheson thought he had heard that before, but wasn't sure. He knew the chips could be scanned, but did they produce a strong enough signal that they could be tracked from 36,000 feet in the air?

  He didn't know. Matheson realized he was actually drowsy; he got up and stretched. It would be dangerous to fall asleep in these cold temperatures without something to keep him warm.

  He continued walking. As dawn approached, he started to pick up faint broadcasts on his radio, and it wasn't long before he was in touch with the rescue party, and they caught up with him a couple of hours later.

  They returned to the air base for a debriefing; Matheson told them all he knew.

  Major Thomas, he was told, had not been found; it was thought he may have been captured by enemy forces. The cease-fire had been broken, and hostilities resumed.

  Matheson was devastated by this news. Prisoners of war were not treated well by the enemy; one of the captured officers had been decapitated, and the others who were released (or escaped) detailed their torture at the hands of their captors.

  Matheson was paired with a new pilot. Captain Hendricks was a capable pilot, although in his off-duty time he was only interested in drinking alcohol, something Matheson didn't enjoy doing, and the man seemed obsessed with pornography; it was all he could talk about, apparently, in the times Matheson joined him at the officer's club.