The Prophecies Trilogy (Omnibus Edition): A Dystopian Adventure

by Linda Hawley

  “Stop it, John. You’re acting like an Irish baby!” Bob scolded.

  “She’s not ready, Bob,” John stated with reluctant control.

  “I am too,” I said, defending myself.

  “You,” Bob said, pointing a finger at me, “be quiet for a minute, will you?”

  I feigned zipping my lips closed.

  “That’s one of you. Now you.” He pointed at John next. “Her sensory IQ is more than two hundred percent better than anyone we’ve ever had on our team, You’ve known that since we brought her here a year ago. You also know that her viewing success runs ninety-eight percent, John. Ninety-eight percent. The next most accurate viewer we’ve got, Grace, only achieves sixty-eight percent success. We haven’t seen anyone like her since Joseph matched five out of six targets consistently back in the 1970s. And don’t forget, Ann’s the only viewer that has that one special thing in common with Joseph—she clinically died when she was twelve and had a near-death experience.”

  Silence hung in the air as we stared at one another.

  “I think that we should use Ann while we have her. Don’t forget that she’s Air Force—we’ve only got two years or so left with her,” Bob reasoned.

  “We could compel her to stay for another two years past that, using the national security clause from the fine print when she enlisted,” John offered, matter of fact.

  Enlisted members of all the armed services agreed to be involuntarily extended for another two years past their four-year enlistment, should it be required for national security reasons. It was in the fine print of every enlistment document.

  “What?” I questioned, irritated that John would even consider getting my enlistment extended another two years against my will.

  “Ann, sit there and be quiet,” Bob commanded me.

  I tried to sit quietly.

  “And you—don’t bring up things that are nearly impossible to get approved. Do you know how high I’d have to go to get approval for an extension like that? The kind of visibility it would give our project is not something that I would ever want to happen,” Bob grumbled.

  “You could voluntarily reenlist, Ann,” John pleaded very nicely.

  I exploded. “Reenlist? Why don’t you just make me live now, so we won’t have to sit here and talk about me reenlisting when my four years are up?” I spat.

  Bob looked to me and then John, annoyance on his face.

  “John, you cannot compare her to Grace or anyone else here. I know it, so do you, and Ann certainly knows it. We’ve got a finite amount of time with her, and we cannot waste it training and training until we get it all perfect. As you know, there is no such thing as perfect in remote viewing.”

  Silence. Bob waited.

  “Are you going to say something or just grow moss?” he asked John.

  John faced me and calmly asked, “Do you think you’re ready?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Turning to Bob, John reluctantly asked, “How do you want this to go?”

  “First of all, can we all sit down? You two are giving me more gray hair,” Bob said, sarcasm dripping from words that hung in the air.

  We all sat facing one another as the heavy air began to vent out of the room.

  “Ann, you said you’re ready. Are you, truly?” Bob asked me directly.

  “I am. I’ve felt it for months.”

  “I don’t need to ask you why you feel that way, because I’ve been observing you.”

  I knew he’d been watching me on those monitors in his office. The viewing room was clearly wired for video, and those all fed directly into Bob’s office and were recorded 24/7. Bob always explained it away, saying, “Our project is experimental, so we have to document activities.”

  “So she’s ready. Let’s go from there. You know the protocol, John. You’ve been here long enough.”

  “You want me to put her in the queue for assignments now?” John asked, a bit agitated.

  “Yes. Let’s throw her into the fire and see if she can breathe. Don’t bother with the easy stuff. I want to see if her confidence is just an excess amount of pride or whether she’s got the chops for this.”

  It felt as though they were talking behind my back.

  “We’ve got the target in Asia ready to go. Do you want to put her on that?” John asked.

  “What level is it?” replied Bob.

  “Level four,” he somberly clarified.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but how many levels are there, and what do the levels mean?” I asked.

  “See? She doesn’t even know what the levels are,” John protested.

  “Stop it. You’re the one who trained her,” Bob said in disgust. “Ann, there are five levels, with level five signifying that an enemy threat is imminent. The target John wants to put you on is level four, meaning that the threat is expected but not imminent. Are you up for that?”

  “It’s as good a time as any, so yes,” I steadily confirmed.

  “Start her on the Asian target tomorrow. We need her calm,” Bob directed John, and then he stood to leave.

  John nodded silently in agreement. I felt excited as John turned and looked at me.

  “What?” I asked him, accusatory.

  “Relax tonight, Ann. See you tomorrow afternoon,” he said flatly and got up and left the viewing room, leaving me alone.

  I rose, striding out towards the door of the viewing room.

  I’m going live, I thought excitedly as I left the building.

  * * *

  The next afternoon, I was through the cipher lock like lightening. I couldn’t wait to get started on my first live assignment.

  In the viewing room, John handed me a piece of paper with map coordinates, minutes, and seconds typed on it. He knew nothing more about the target than I did—that way the session couldn’t be influenced by him. There was no other information on the paper. On my lap sat a clipboard with a plain piece of paper, and I had a pencil in my hand. I studied the information on the paper that John had given me until I felt that I remembered it, and then I closed my eyes.

  I started the Transcendental Meditation technique that the team had taught me over the past year. It allowed my mind to settle inward, past my own thoughts, to enter into pure awareness. My brain was alert but functioning with more subtle comprehension. I started my deep breathing exercises.

  After twenty minutes in meditation, John delicately tapped my hand, which was our practiced indication that he would start asking me questions.

  “What do you see?” he softly asked.

  I opened my eyes and, staring at the clipboard, wrote the date and current time at the top, along with the word BEGIN, and then I began to sketch the images that were gently being revealed in the back of my mind.

  As my drawing started to slow, John directed, “Describe your sensory impressions.”

  I continued sketching and began adding words to describe sounds, smells, and emotions.

  Seeing that I was drawing a building of some kind, he gently prodded, “Draw the inside of the structure.”

  When I was finished, I wrote END, along with the current time.

  John narrated, “It’s a building with grounds laid out in detail.”

  “I think the building is underground. Maybe a basement?” I added.

  “Eight individuals—”

  “It could be that there are more in the background. That’s how many there were in the main room with the big table,” I interrupted.

  John added notes to his own notebook from the information I just revealed.

  “What’s the fear?” he asked me, glancing at my words.

  “The leader was the only one who felt no fear. But everyone else I could sense had fear. They’ve got firepower, John. I couldn’t see what, but the fear the men carried was linked to whatever weapon they’re intending to use.”

  “What are these words?” he asked, pointing to my paper.

  “Code words.”

  “For what?”

  “I
don’t know.”

  He made some additional notes in his book.

  “You did well, Ann. It’s enough to target them via satellite. We can also have the phones tapped for these code words,” he said proudly. “I was wrong, Ann. You are ready. Why don’t you go home, and we’ll see what we can confirm by the time you come back in on Monday?” he offered.

  “All right. Night, John.”

  “Goodnight, lass,” he said affectionately with a smile.

  As I left through the observation room, I noticed Grace sitting alone.

  “They’ve got you live, I see,” Grace said to me, seeming slightly jealous.

  “Yeah, it felt like it was time,” I gently replied.

  “It’s early, but anyone can see that you’re special.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked, concerned.

  “I’m fine. I’ve got a terrible headache, that’s all.”

  “You had one the last time I saw you. Are you taking something for it?”

  “Yep, just popped the pills. I just need to take a break for them to work before I head back in.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “So was it what you expected?” she asked.

  “Yeah, pretty much. It’s not that different from training, really.”

  “Unless you get it all wrong,” she replied.

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Don’t mind me, Ann. It’s this headache.”

  “Well, feel better, Grace,” I softly offered, then turned to leave.

  “Bye, Ann.”

  The next day, Bob told me what happened with the target that I viewed. Six individuals were apprehended, along with a cache of weapons in the basement of the old building. It was a successful remote viewing for the CIA, and I was able to help prevent a terrorist action. That felt good.

  Chapter 19

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The Year 2015

  After my prep meeting with conference organizers was over, I planned to meet some of my old friends for dinner at the Red Sea restaurant in Adams Morgan. It was our old hangout, and it brought back fine memories of our group.

  Running with Lulu to exhaust her never worked, but I tried. I left her in the hotel room while I went to dinner, asking the Level Nine concierge to check in on her once every hour till I returned.

  Deciding to walk, since it would only take fifteen minutes, I left about a half hour early, just in case I was enticed to stop somewhere along the way. As I neared the restaurant, I could see it tucked in its familiar spot, framed in red. Since I had window browsed along the way, I arrived at the same time Jackie did. We had grown up together, and she had been my best friend for much of my life.

  “Jackie, it’s so good to see you,” I said as I bent to hug her.

  At five foot three, Jackie held herself taller than her height, never letting a thing get past her. She was smart and beautiful, with dark hair, fair skin, alert brown eyes, and a large, plump bosom on a petite frame that attracted men near and far.

  “You look good, girl. The West looks good on you,” she cheerfully observed.

  I laughed.

  “I’ve missed you,” I responded.

  She hugged me again.

  “Let’s get a table, huh?” she asked, moving toward the door. She was always the no-nonsense type.

  Bathed in red from the outside in, the Red Sea restaurant was the epitome of exotic. The Ethiopian women who worked the tables each had their distinctive unique bone structure, perfect chocolate skin, and bright, lovely smiles. Along the walls were hung huge travel-bureau-style graphic posters of Ethiopia, which brought even more color to the large, open room that smelled like exotic spices. Ethiopian music piped throughout the restaurant in the background, but not so much so that it distracted from conversation.

  Oh, I’ve missed it here, I thought nostalgically.

  Jackie asked for a table for five near the front windows.

  There wasn’t one Ethiopian among all the restaurant patrons. Instead, the place was filled with Washington, D.C.’s food connoisseurs. It was a perfectly cheery place to come with friends.

  “Let’s just sit. The other three will be here soon anyway,” Jackie suggested.

  “That sounds good.”

  The waitress led us up the stairs to the front of the restaurant, overlooking the street.

  “Will this be okay?” she asked us with her hand extended to the large round table.

  “It’s perfect. Thank you,” I replied with a smile.

  “My name is Alem. Just raise your hand when you are ready to order,” she politely suggested.

  Jackie and I sat next to one another, leaving space for three others opposite us.

  “Why don’t we order for everyone? We’ve done this enough times. We’ll just order the sampler like always, plus a few extras,” Jackie decided.

  A smile erupted from my lips at the familiarity of it all.

  Eating at the Red Sea was a communal experience. The food was served on a huge platter that resembled an extra-extra-large metal pizza plate. It was covered with a flat-dough bread called injera. Individual entrées were poured on top of the injera by the waitress as she named each dish. Patrons eat by taking their individual napkin-looking injera, tearing off a piece to grab meats, vegetables, and sauces, and then plopping the whole thing into their mouth for a taste extravaganza. It was here at the Red Sea that I first learned what steak tartare was. My friends thought it was a good idea for me to learn that it was raw spicy meat—by watching me eat a handful of it. I gagged and nearly hurled it all up while Armond, Jackie, and our other friends laughed. Once, when Armond and I were eating in Paris at La Fermette Marbeuf restaurant on the Champs-Elysees, I tried to trick Armond into ordering it, but he steered clear of my shenanigan. After the Red Sea incident, I loathed anything with the name tartare. Ethiopian food was dressed up with exotic spices, and as long as it was cooked, it was extraordinarily delicious.

  “Along with the sampler, should we add the chicken doro wat?” Jackie asked.

  Jackie called herself a vegetarian, but she ate chicken all the time. However, she never touched beef. It made no sense—but it was uniquely Jackie.

  “Sure, sounds good. Let’s also add the lamb lega tibs in the awaze sauce. I’m salivating remembering that,” I added, looking at the menu.

  “Everyone will love it. They’ll already bring us a bunch of veggie dishes, so I think we’ve got it covered,” concluded Jackie.

  She raised her hand slightly so that Alem could see us to take our order.

  After Alem left, we started to catch up, keeping an eye out for our three friends.

  “So tell me how you’ve been,” Jackie prodded.

  “I’ve been good—very good. I feel like I’ve found a pretty good groove at AlterHydro. I like the work there. Plus, I get to bring Lulu to work.”

  “You do? I wish I could bring my dog to work with me,” she said, pouting.

  I laughed. Jackie was an artist and worked from her townhouse studio; she was allergic to dogs. Instead, she had what I called a cat farm.

  “How many cats are you up to now?” I inquired, eyebrow raised.

  “Well—four. Wait, wait, I know what you’re about to say—” she preempted after seeing my mouth drop open.

  “That’s a lot of litter-doodle scooping,” I interjected.

  “No, no, you should see it, Ann. I got a little kitty door, straight out the back door. And I built a sand box for them—but I fill it with scoopable kitty litter.”

  “You’re kidding. So you go outside and scoop the poop?”

  “Yep,” she proudly exclaimed.

  “What do you do when it rains?”

  “It’s covered, like a little playhouse.”

  I laughed heartily. “Only you, Jackie, only you. Oh man it was gross when I roomed with you in your townhouse. I can’t believe you left that nasty litter box in my bathroom. It was so gross when I went to take a shower with kitty litter stuck to the bottoms of my feet,” I
remembered, gagging a bit at the memory.

  Jackie laughed hard and long at the memory. “Hey, you weren’t paying rent. It was the price you had to pay, Ann.”

  “Maybe I should have paid you.”

  We both laughed together at that.

  Just then, the three guys appeared at our table.

  “There you are,” Jackie said to them.

  I hugged Scott and James, while Jackie hugged Bart.

  “It’s good to see you guys,” I sincerely exclaimed.

  Bart sat down on the other side of Jackie. Scott sat next to me as James sat on the other side of him.

  “We already ordered, so it’ll be here soon,” Jackie informed them.

  Four of the five of us had known one another for many years, having met while in our late twenties while swing dancing to live big bands at Glen Echo Park outside the Capital Beltway in Maryland. Once a month on Saturdays in the spring, summer, and fall, a nineteen-piece swing orchestra would assemble and blast out 1940s big band swing, while we would dance and sweat and then sweat some more in the big restored ballroom. We bonded then—and it stuck.

  With Jackie an artist, Scott a software developer, and James a reporter for the Washington Post, the four of us were a good mix of liveliness. Bart joined our group later, when he started dating Jackie. He was an attorney, arrogant, and a control freak, but Jackie had been in love with him for years. That was enough for me to reluctantly accept his presence in our group.

  We each talked about how work was going for us. Bart acted impressed that someone asked me to speak at a conference. He was all about the outward appearance of things. I overlooked that. Things seemed to be going par for the course for everyone, but something didn’t feel quite right about our group’s vibe. I couldn’t put a finger on it, though.

  Our food came about then. My stomach grumbled when I smelled the spicy platter. We feasted, with some cross banter here and there. Mostly, we were all in our own world of food and spice and delight.

  Scott started talking about a program he was writing, but no one listened but me, since I was the only one who understood what he was talking about.

  “Why is it that no one ever wants to hear about what I’m working on?” he asked, slightly stilted when he realized no one was listening.