by P F Walsh
Blending in on the street was not what she had planned when joining the Police force. Mostly, it was to cleanup and get a good paying job without too much bullshit and a good retirement. She could see that her life hanging with the Goth crowd was a dead end, in fact, sooner or later, they all seemed to disappear under a white sheet into an ambulance from an overdose. Worse, no one in the group was horrified at the event.
College education was a phase Moosey couldn’t afford and really wasn’t interested in, but she did complete high school, two years in the Army Military Police, a part she didn’t particularly enjoy, and then the Police Academy with honors. Her street smarts, however, were well respected among the experienced, older officers. She could just naturally anticipate how one of the street people would behave before they did it, a prime and essential skill for a law enforcement officer to stay healthy.
In the last two years of dredging among decaying social elements, uncleanliness, and dismal surroundings, depression had been gathering within her mind, taking hold in places that prevented her enjoyments and reliefs of a simple beer with the other officers, or watching TV. Even sleep was no longer the “pass-out” exhaustion she once had that let her sleep through the night. Being alone with no life partner and virtually no friends, considerations of whether life was worth living or not, became a more frequent thought.
On top of all those emotions and thoughts, a distinct erosion of the value of life occurred as it has for so many other law enforcement workers. If all those people shed their lives so worthlessly and didn’t value their lives, why should she? An ugly mix of anger, frustration, and futility of ever seeing it all somehow get cleaned up, manifested itself in a growing urge to kill one or more of those outcasts that no one would miss. Fewer creeps.
“Actually,” she thought, “that’s pretty much most of them.”
Moosey left the Police Station and walked to her car inside the fenced parking lot. She gave acknowledging nods to other Officers as she walked along displaying her badge on her waist belt. She carried her revolver in her side purse, always amazing everyone how such a big revolver could come out of her purse so fast.
“How am I going to go back to a pissant pistol after all these years of carrying ‘Henry?’ She asked herself. She didn’t think she would feel as fully armed, since when she took out ‘Henry,’ everyone stepped several steps backward immediately, and the street knew she had it, and wasn’t afraid to use it. It had taken her weeks on the shooting range to be able to control the gun along with lots of arm muscle work at the Police Gym. Her mind turned to being back in her rented room with a few drinks to calm down, maybe today more than a few.
The next morning, Moosey rolled out of bed and without shower or shame, took two aspirins and headed out the door to the bus stop to hit McDonald’s for breakfast and coffee. The local McDonald’s was one of the larger ones, offering space in the seating area where one could sit apart from others and watch the doors as locals came and went, some eating inside, and some taking out. There was a difference between the two groups that Moosey could see. The eat-ins really had no further place to be typically, the take outs mostly had jobs of one sort or another, and were being driven by the clock. Nuances like this were bundles of information for an observer like Officer Lang.
She watched as the door opened and three of the local gang came in, stopping and scanning the room before committing to stroll to the order counter. The leader locked his eyes on Moosey and tightened his mouth and he stared at her, giving her the “scary” stare that gangs all practice. Moosey smiled and raised her coffee cup in a mock salute, acknowledging they both knew who she was, and what had happened to their gang member. He was now in the hospital with one leg and a new stump.
She could tell he was considering getting it on right there, but she had the advantage since they were all bunched up at the door, not quite completely in and half out. It was easy for her to see he passed that moment when he saw her hand move to her purse while taking another sip of coffee. She knew there would be another time when things were more in favor of the gang. That was the first time she thought six rounds may not be enough if they rush me.
“Those minimal seconds for the barrel to come back down after firing might make things a little tight. A Glock would come down to be ready much faster,” she thought.
“The Glock might do OK with some 124 grain ST rounds, bigger clip,” another something to consider.
“Maybe a short trip to the gun store would be a good way to pass part of my day.” She thought. “I don’t have anything else to do.”
Moosey left the restaurant without looking behind her, a distinct rejection of the gang’s posturing threat.
Later, around dinner time after she decided that having a Glock would not be ideal for her passions, but may be sensible. It would pull off the pressure from the ‘Lieuy’ to hide the cannon for a while. She headed for the local Tavern frequented by the Police plain clothes division on the other side of town. The Tavern was its usual noisy place, full of what appeared to be chaos, as rousing laughter and a few shouts broke through the din. What was different about this place though, was the total sweep of every eye in the room at whoever came through the door, no matter what they were involved in, completely faulting the idea there was even a smidgen of inattention to a newcomer.
“Hey Moosey!’ Called one of the men at a table, “C’mon over and grab a beer!”
That call came from Jimmy “Crackers,” a long-time plain clothes detective from a family with decades of police service. Jimmy, whose real last name was Crocker, had always been accepting of her from the first tour she had in his area, he felt she just fit in perfectly to pick up sniffs of what was getting ready to happen, and then, who did it. And, she did, little by little, earning her respect over the past few years.
But this was the first time she had discharged her weapon, and that always marked a transition for a Police Officer in his or her career, sometimes admirably, and sometimes to the loss of a promising advancement. She wondered what his call would be.
“Hey Jimmy,” she said “Are they scraping off the grease on the burgers tonight, or leaving it caked on?”
“They’re leaving it caked on,” he paused, as he chewed his burger, “delicious, add the onions.” Jimmy watched as she slid into a chair alongside him, looking her over to see where her head was at. Moosey ordered a burger with the recommenced onions and a cold beer. Jimmy, sat munching on his burger and fries, waiting for her to open up the dialogue.
“Been a day.” She said.
“Yeah, I hear,” said Jimmy, “Nice shoot, you should have blown his head off. You know that squirm has gutted six people including one of ours, and gotten away with it. We were all popping suggestions in the locker room of what his new nickname will be.”
“Haven’t given it any thought, I’m sure you guys will come up with something guaranteed to piss off the whole gang, be my guest, I’ll sign the get-well card.” Said Moosey as she smirked.
“The Lieuy is all over me about Henry, I’ve been carrying that piece for years, I don’t feel dressed without it.”
“Well, it certainly is part of your surprising image on the street, they’re all scared shitless of you, and now they know they were right.” Remarked Jimmy, following it with a swig of cold beer.
“It pays to be seen as a little crazy that screws up their ability to predict what you might do. Now they know it won’t be pretty.” Said Jimmy, with the last few words almost drowned out by laughter at a nearby table.
After a few hours of talking with Jimmy and getting shoulder pats from several other Officers as they passed by to leave, now recognizing her entrance into that group of Police that had successfully fired their weapons, Jimmy looked straight into her eyes and said,
”Moosey, I’ve seen that look in your eyes in other Officers. It’s not good, in fact you need to get the Hell away from here for at least a week, I hear you’re on relief anyway, Get out of town. Go somewhere quiet and tun
e down. Takes time. You’ll be OK.”
Moosey looked at Jimmy for about a minute, then dropped her eyes and said,
“Y’know Jimmy, you might be right, I got all this animal stuff inside, it’s like after a fresh hunting kill and I don’t know how to release it. Got any suggestions?”
“Yeah, maybe,” said Jimmy, “Head for the Springs, it’s just a couple of hours up the road, and everybody there is almost dead anyway, the weather is great and nobody’s twitchy.”
Chapter Two
Book One
“Berky, what’s goin’ on?” said Tommy Malman as he walked into Berky’s home attic SETI setup in Huntington Park, Ca. The rig was a compilation of mismatched gear cycled out of service at his University as new gear came into availability. Universities represent the ideal place for exotic electronic gear to get tried out and used. The manufacturers provide the gear, usually free of charge, to research departments hoping for the notoriety of being able to say their stuff is being used by a prestigious University for research. Berky had the rejects and ‘under performers’ that the companies really didn’t want back because they would lose the tax benefits from a donation that included development costs. They did want and get feedback which helped direct the next version or model, and that excellent critique was free. “I think my rig is screwed up.” Said Berky, “I’m getting these weird, quirky impulses with a regularity that must be coming from something here or in occupied Earthspace, but I can’t figure it out.”
Berky got up, and let Tommy sit down. Berkeley “Berky” Dillon was a post graduate student in astrophysics, and was like all those who look to the stars wondered if anything was out there. His mother who graduated from UC Berkeley with all its activists, but largely ineffective, demonstrations, treasured her fond memories of emotional displays, flush with anger and hormones. She couldn’t resist naming him “Berkeley.”
Berky had been active in the SETI program, Search for Extraterrestrial Life, for more than five years, much to the devastation of a normal college social life. He spent long nights listening and watching for a speck of notable data.
Setting aside the chaos of the Universe, the mathematical probabilities of finding something seemed both low and high at the same time. Low, because of the vastness that must be studied. High, because of the billions of star systems in the universe. The prime ingredient for such efforts was optimism, and Berky had lots of that. despite the complete lack of success so far. Of course, there have been benefits with discoveries of traditional astronomical items from the observations of the radio bands that steered astronomers to new locations radiating unique radio signatures.
The common band area for SETI hunters was called “the watering hole” where radio bands could slip through the dense envelopment of Earth more easily. SETI searchers knew the “watering hole,” was an especially quiet band of the electromagnetic spectrum between 1.42 and 1.67 gigahertz, corresponding to wavelengths of 21 and 18 centimeters respectively.
But Berky, had been frustrated with lack of interesting results and had decided to look at bands that had difficulty slipping through since the newly acquired receiver he got last year could reach into those bands. Now, he had an anomaly.
“Have you checked your search algorithm?” Asked Tommy.
“Berky replied, “Yes, that was the first thing I did, looks clean, and has run now for several weeks without popping an error.”
Tommy kept looking through the rig without finding any settings or hookups that could contribute to Berky’s claim.
“OK, Berky, show me the playback.” Tommy asked.
Berky ran his hands over the keyboard and brought up the “Waterfall” display on the scope he had seen several hours before.
“There it is Tommy,” exclaimed Berky, “See that blip in the waterfall?”
“Right there!” As Berky paused the playback. They both looked at the spot in the center of the field of frequencies brighter than all the rest of the noise. Tommy looked at the display and then asked . . .
“Does it repeat? Is there an interval?” Tommy asked.
“Yeah, it repeats, exact Earth rotation, sidereal” said Berky.
They both knew the sidereal day is 23 hours, 56 minutes, and four seconds. That is the time it takes Earth to make one full rotation. It is the speed at which a telescope tracks the stars, since the stars are effectively at infinity and do not appear to move in the sky. That is a few minutes shorter than the 24-hour rotation around the sun.
“Then it must be a satellite Berky, maybe the Chinese, you know they don’t tell us shit about what they are doing.” Said Tommy.
“Well, maybe, but it is one crazy signal, when I break it down looking for the carrier, it isn’t just one carrier. My test rig can’t break it down completely but it seems to have more than one thousand carriers compressed.”
They both sat there looking at the screen, perplexed. What kind of transmitter would be broadcasting more than one thousand carriers compressed to look like a single wave? They went back to real time scanning, and it had stopped.
“Stopped?” Said Berky, while Tommy said nothing. This was the life of SETI searchers, finding an interesting transmission, identifying it, or then, wondering what it was when it stopped as some did. Was it sending, or more unlikely, scanning?
It was another perfect Tuesday in Palm Springs. The weather was ideal for hiking the desert trails, and not a cloud in the sky as is usual for Palm Springs, California. The adjacent mountain range topping near 10,000 feet, blocked the coastal weather from making it over into the Palm Springs basin. Most people called it a valley, but Geologists being more precise, identified it as a basin. The resorts and golfers couldn’t care less. Very low elevations for the cities there continue to make it warm, and the blocking mountains continue to deny it rain and clouds making it a desert community, it was dry and sunny.
After cleaning up from breakfast, Sean checked his fanny pack to see if he had all the minimal survival items someone hiking in the desert should have with them, like sun screen, a foil blanket, snacks, small mirror, whistle, etc. The wise desert hiker always assumed one day he might have to spend the night in the desert after a fall or injury. The desert at night can get cold and having a foil blanket and matches for a small fire was essential. Both were quite small and took little space or weight. After assuring himself he was all kitted out, he took one bottle of water from the refrigerator, and one bottle from the freezer.
The first would be used on the way out, and the second mostly melted but cold, for the trip back. The fanny pack had two side pockets for the bottles. He went into the closet and got his hiking hat, a Henschel, with wide brim and a chin lanyard. On occasion, the wind came up in the desert, and losing one’s hat on a hot sun-drenched day was not only asking for a dangerous burn on his head, now sparse of hair on top, but possible sunstroke. The lanyard secured the hat onto the wearer by slipping it under the chin if the wind demanded it. The hat, of course, produced unwelcome images of Indiana Jones, but it was the right hat for the job, canvas-based, sturdy, and sun proof. Ideal.
Sean checked on his kitty who was sleeping on the bed, she was totally uninterested in going hiking anywhere. He smiled, picked up his gear and left for the back door to the garage. Once in his car, he drove first to the local Mall and got a Subway sandwich to stick in his pack. Leaving there, the drive to the Indian Canyons was only ten minutes.
These canyons were the historical home of the Agua Caliente Band of Indians and evidence traced them back with centuries of canyon occupation since Palm Canyon, the main canyon, always had some water in it all year around. The stones alongside the water had many metates, bowl-like depressions in the stone from centuries of Indians grinding grain and beans in them. There are several trails there, some short, some quite long, some with moderately rising elevation and others with sharply rising elevations. There was a selection for everyone.
Today, Sean was going to hike the Fern Grotto trail, about a five-mile loop with a lunch
stop midway to eat his sandwich in a shaded grotto that in the past had a water seep. This actually had allowed ferns to grow in the desert. Not much of that there now since the water seep had declined, likely caused by small California earth shakers which adjusted the subterranean cracks and slips blocking upward water pressures. But there were abundant palms there for lots of shade, and a large rock outcropping for sitting down and having lunch. Quiet and cool.
Sean parked his car at the Trading Post, greeted the counter person as he usually did, and made sure they knew where he was going today since he was typically alone. Of course, those who didn’t make it back to their car by closing time were flagged by an unattended car in the parking lot. If they didn’t tell anyone where they were going, that made things a lot more difficult for the Palm Springs Search and Rescue group. There are hundreds of square miles out there where someone can get lost, and many do. So far, all had been recovered. Even Sean had found a few confused hikers lost in his many trips into the desert and helped direct them safely back to the Trading Post.
Now, he walked down the main descending trail into Palm Canyon going for a connection on the Victor trail which led to the Fern Grotto trail. Just a few tourists this day wandering in the canyon trying to figure out which way to go. Sean ignored those wanderers, some of which had dress shoes on, or open-toed sandals, definitely not smart for hiking, but then, they were just looking at the palms and the stream. He walked on by them in a brisk stride, and went to the stream crossing which was now challenged by spring water melts from the mountains. Hopping from stone to stone. Sean crossed and stalked up the trail as the tourists wondered, “where is he going?”
After making the turn on the Palm Canyon trail to hike up the Victor trail for a hundred feet or so, the junction of another trail coursed its way up the hillside. That was the Fern Grotto Trail and Sean stopped at the junction to catch his breath a bit, and then began the climb up the hill passing lots of healthy cholla cactuses as the dirt crunched under his boots and the desert opened up after leaving the palm trees, the stream, and the desert lavender bushes behind.
