Psychic Warrior

by David Morehouse

  It was Sunday, April 7, 1991. I was sketching and taking in the sun by the bay. I set my notebook aside to watch white sails on the horizon, and let my mind drift to another place and time.

  “David!” the familiar voice of the angel called softly. “David!”

  I turned to see him standing in the sun to my left. I’d seen him so many times over the years that although his visits never seemed ordinary, I was comfortable with him, not frightened and overwhelmed as I had been at first. I guess nothing good ever dies, and I’m thankful for that. The evil in my life and in the ether changed faces often, but the angel was an old and welcome friend.

  “I’m here, just like I always am when you want me.”

  “I’ve come with a warning again.”

  “A warning? Why? Please don’t, I beg you, please don’t. I’ve done nothing wrong, I’ve worked hard to be what you want me to be. You want me to give something up; but I can’t give up any more, I haven’t got it to give.”

  “And so love is fleeting, dying, withdrawing from you.” He smiled. The beauty of this entity, I’d found, was his ability to look straight to the heart of my apprehensions. He invariably saw things the way they were supposed to be seen. “You tremble at my warnings, but I offer you a chance for a new life.”

  “No, you don’t! You offer me nothing but a chance to continue fighting. I’ve been fighting for over four years now. All I’ve done is exist in the borderland, somewhere between this world and others. What life is that?”

  “Your life has been part adventure and part miracle, has it not?”

  “Those are your words, not mine. This existence has been a struggle for power between good and evil, and I’ve been caught up in that. And what power have I had? All I’ve done—”

  The angel interrupted me. “All you have done is learn to be responsible for your life, and that is the only way to change the world in which you live. The acceptance of that responsibility will guide you through the next phase of your learning.” He gazed intently at me. “This phase will test you beyond your limits. You will have to fight for your life before it is over.”

  “I’m tired of fighting. I’ve been fighting for my life, and I’m tired.”

  “A man is not what he says, but what he fights for; you will be fighting for much more than yourself. You will be fighting for your children, and your children’s children. For generations to come. You are but one link in a millennia-long chain of warriors, but you are called, and much depends on you. Your fight rests on the gift you bear within yourself. The gift is the power—not you, the gift. The test of your strength will be in your ability to bring the gift to others. Remember, the gift is the power! Give the power to others when the time is right. You’ll know when it is right.”

  Without further protest I opened my eyes to see storm clouds gathering over the bay as if to match the angel’s prediction. I wept at the thought of what was to come. I had gathered strength, thinking I’d won a small victory; now I learned that what I thought was a victory was only a short interlude between great contests in the ether. I’d wanted only to be a soldier. Surely the majority was far more worthy and stronger than I. How was I to fight for my life, and the lives of others?

  Four days later, I rented a single-engine Cessna 172 and headed for the small airport just outside Stevens Point, Wisconsin. I needed to see Mel and tell him what I was experiencing. The flight took me eight hours and two refueling stops. Mel greeted me at the airport and together we drove to his beautiful house, where Edith stood in the driveway, brimming with smiles.

  We spent the rest of the day and a good chunk of the night catching up, laughing and drinking to new adventures and old memories. The next morning Mel and I woke early and hit the lake to fish and to talk about our future. At first, we said nothing; each of us waiting for the other to begin what we knew would be a long, hard conversation. Mel kept glancing at me, as if hoping that I would forget what I’d come for.

  “I have to talk to somebody about what I’m feeling, Mel,” I said, breaking the silence. “And except for Debbie you’re the only one I trust.”

  “So, out with it. Stop worrying about it and let’s talk.”

  “I’m not seeing things clearly anymore, and I don’t believe in what I’m doing anymore. I hate the intelligence business. My family’s life is a mess. When I close my eyes at night I don’t know if I’ll sleep or journey God only knows where. It’s getting worse, and on top of everything else, the angel came to me again and told me that I’m in for a real bad ride. I think he wants me to tell the world about the gift.”

  Mel shook his head, never taking his eyes off the water. “I was afraid it would come to this.”

  “Come to what?”

  “This—this division. That angel of yours isn’t wrong, you know. I was always afraid that someday one or all of us would come to that conclusion. It was only a matter of time before someone decided to talk about remote viewing outside DIA. I always knew it was wrong to hide it.”

  I was dumbfounded and numb. “Do you realize how good that makes me feel? I thought I was turning traitor.”

  Mel laughed. “The fact that there are two of us doesn’t make it any better. The government will still call it treason.”

  “But you agree that we need to bring this out?”

  “Like I said, I’ve always believed it. I just thought I was alone. I guess I’m just as relieved as you to know I have some support.”

  I smiled and took a deep breath. “Even so, I feel terrible about this. It’ll affect the lives of everyone close to us.”

  “Exactly.”

  I looked hard at Mel. “We love our country, and we love each other like brothers. And that’s never going to change. Even when it was just a collection asset, we both knew remote viewing ought to be released to the people. But now they’re turning it into a weapon. They’ve taken the gift and turned it into something vile, and I think that’s why the angel is involved. He saw it coming.”

  “Your ability to turn the complex into simple analysis has always amazed me,” Mel said. “Don’t you realize what kind of behind-the-scenes manipulation has been going on around you? Call the source whatever you want—God, the Federation, an angel, the Virgin Mary—it doesn’t matter. This plan was put into motion a long time ago. Think about it. You got shot in the head, and you’ve been fighting a private war ever since. Your entire life has changed; you’ve sacrificed everything you know to keep the gift, to keep your eyes. And that’s just your sliver of the pie. I’ve had the gift since I was twelve, and all along I’ve known that its true worth rested in some higher calling. I just never had the guts to jump out there alone and make it happen.” He shook his head. “Now the chemistry is right. Didn’t you ever wonder why one machine gun just happened to swing in the wrong direction and hit just you? I mean, it could have killed or wounded a dozen men. Figure out the odds.”

  We didn’t talk about our decision any more that morning. Going public with the gift frightened us, so Mel wisely changed the subject to fishing and local Indian lore.

  Later, after dinner, he pulled me aside.

  “There’s something eating away at you, and you persist in holding on to it. I worry about you. I want you to know that up front. I’m elated that we agree the gift needs to be presented to the world, but I’m genuinely concerned about this personal war you’re waging. Why don’t you just let it go?”

  “Because I can’t! I used to believe in the government and the military as sacred institutions that I could believe in above and beyond all else. But everywhere I’ve turned, they’ve let me down. The remote-viewing unit is disintegrating. I’m afraid that the work being done there now will tarnish everything that we accomplished. Nothing seems to be going in the right direction, and there’s nothing we can do about it. In fact, rumor has it that DIA leadership no longer sees the program as worthwhile and will cut back on funding. It’s giving the whole gift a bad name.

  “I’m not angry at any one person, Mel. I�
��m just worried about the future of remote viewing, and I’m worried about you and me. I’m worried about what lengths they might go to stop us, even if it means destroying viewing altogether.”

  Mel said nothing but just listened, his eyes fixed on me.

  “You know this better than I do. You taught me that of all paranormal disciplines, remote viewing is the only one that is proven. It’s been given government funding, exhaustive research, and years of application. It’s not a guess, it’s not a circus act, it is a pure and simple gift to us from God. If it comes from God, then who’s trying to control it for negative purposes? Remote viewing knows nothing but truth, and that won’t change if it’s used for the wrong purposes. Over time, it has evolved from something relatively crude into a precision technique, and, if we don’t rescue it, I’m afraid it will either be taken away from us, or else something that has no business with it will become its master. Am I making any sense?”

  “Of course you are, and I agree completely.”

  “Then why aren’t we, the great, trained remote viewers, doing what we know we should be doing with this gift? Why aren’t we helping mankind? We’re approaching the millennium. That means many different things to many people, but it will be a significant event for all of us. There’s a shift in human consciousness taking place out there, changing the way we see each other, changing the way we see the world.”

  “I still agree.”

  “Mel, I hurt inside. You know, over a hundred and seventy million people, innocent people, have perished in wars in this century alone. And the government I’m serving right now is sponsoring the continuation of that philosophy. They have a technology capable of altering human history, and they selfishly hide it away at Fort Meade. They’re planning on using it to hurt, not help. So here I am, living a nightmare! I see what I shouldn’t have to see, I know what most folks never know, and I’ve got something out there in the ether telling me I can make a difference, and folks back here telling me I can’t, I have a screw loose.”

  Mel nodded.

  “Mel, we both know that the future of remote viewing rests with the good it can do for everyone. We’ve been charged with the responsibility to use this gift to further, say, science—health, medicine, technology. I remember looking at human cells as if I were right there, microscopic. Remember that? You sent me.”

  “I remember. That was the time we looked at what killed those people in Afghanistan.”

  “And if we can do that, why can’t we save lives, by telling doctors what’s happening at the cellular level with cancer patients, or people with muscular dystrophy? We could take a roomful of viewers, and put them on a medical target, and find the answer. We should be doing that! But instead we’re looking at military targets, cocaine ships, missile silos, double agents. Please tell me, how does that save the lives of the next generation of children?”

  “I don’t know. It probably doesn’t, but I know it’s not worthless, as you say. All of us have to follow what we feel is our calling.” He sighed. “DIA believes it’s doing the right thing by keeping remote viewing locked up. I don’t think anyone’s forgotten what we all set out to do for humankind. I don’t think things are derailed—everything has to happen this way, or the plan gets turned on its head. Everyone has the right and freedom to choose their collective and individual destiny, to choose everything from simple rules, to laws, to governments, to religions, to their involvement in the direction of humankind. It’s wrong for you to judge harshly the direction our government, and certain people in our government, have decided to go. All you can do is follow the counsel of whatever guides you, and put your piece of the puzzle into place. Then you walk away.”

  Mel’s eyes shone.

  “Mankind is not lost, nor is it doing the wrong thing. Follow your heart and let everyone else follow his. I will most certainly follow mine. Working for the National Institutes of Health, trying to find a cure for AIDS—that’s for you and those who choose to follow you. It’s a valiant cause. But so are other viewers’ causes. So is mine.”

  I was humbled. “And what is your cause?” I asked.

  “I know it’s here, in this land, with the Native American people. But exactly what my quest is, and how it will manifest itself, I’m not certain. The Creator will tell me in His own time.”

  Mel’s words comforted me. “So we’re all just seeds. We’re planted here with this gift to see what only God can see. And each of us has a mission of his own, to find a calling, to teach and to pursue it for the greater good, no matter what that good might be.”

  “Exactly. That’s exactly what we’re here for. And that’s exactly what’s in store for remote viewing—many roads, and many places, but all for the good of mankind, and by the grace of the Creator, as long as good people with pure hearts choose to exercise their free agency and fight for what they believe is right. Don’t condemn your nation or the world or individuals; that’s what the evil inside yourself wants, and that’s why you see your face in it. It wants you to be angry, to judge and cast doubt. Let it go! The energy inside you, evil will turn against you; it reflects it back. To win this war, you have to be the reflector. And to do that you must empty your heart of anger and self-doubt. Trust in goodness and purity; you can see evil as well as good much more clearly than those without the gift. It’s a tool. Use it! Okay?”

  The next morning, I lifted the nose of my Cessna and climbed into the Wisconsin sky on a southeasterly heading, bound for home. I felt as though a millstone had been lifted from my neck. I didn’t have to fear what DIA or the CIA or anyone else might do next with remote viewing, nor did I have to worry that the intended work of remote viewing wasn’t being carried out. The responsibility rested with me, not anyone else. I had to do what I had been set apart to do; I would have to follow my path, alone. The battle I’d been fighting for years would rage on until I learned what Mel already knew.

  In August 1991, I drove to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, and signed in to my next assignment—the U.S. Army’s Command and General Staff College. The first few weeks were hectic with guest speakers, Gulf War heroes, and an endless stream of rules and regulations. I had to buy uniforms, which I hadn’t worn in five years. It was amazing how much had changed in five years.

  The college had a designated place for virtually everything at every time. Each officer had a spot for mail and messages, a box for books, a seat in class, a seat in the library, a card to carry to get into the library, a seat in the main lecture hall, a class leader, a section leader, and about five leaders in-between; designated breaks, designated lunch, roll call, attendance, quizzes, tests, study hall, electives.

  I was assigned to Section 22A, and what an eclectic group it was. We were from every walk of life and every branch of the army. We had one of the finest naval officers I’d ever met, Lieutenant Commander Jim Waters; an army surgeon and former Ranger battalion member, Major Michael “Doc” Schaub; and even a Greek lieutenant colonel, Nicholas Gialiris II. They were wonderful, bright and energetic; I envied them all. We shared a great deal during the year we were together; I wish I’d confided in them more; instead, I kept to myself as much as possible. I continued living as reclusive an existence as I could; only Mike Omura and Jim Waters coaxed me out once in a while.

  I lived in a rented room. My landlady was a kind and gentle woman named Carolyn Finney. She took care of me as if I were one of her own sons; if not for her, I would not have survived another year alone. She cooked for me often; otherwise I would not have eaten regularly. She’d bang on the door of the room and convince me to venture out to drink a beer or two with family and friends. She was wonderful.

  It was another year of personal transformation. I’d had a faint hope that maybe all I’d gone through was just a dream and that I was now going to wake up and go on with my life, grow back into the army. But it wasn’t, of course. I could not escape the calling, the gift, or the nightmares. I had changed too much; no matter how much I needed to be a soldier again, the magic was gone fr
om me. I listened to army leaders speak to my classmates, young men and women who were the future generals and great battle commanders of the nation; but the leaders often spoke to them in deceptive and condescending terms. They had little tolerance for their subordinates’ passionate questions, and they often minimized the officers’ worries about their families, their careers, and the future of our armed forces. In changing times, people were frightened. They wanted and deserved honest answers to questions that would affect the rest of their lives. What they got was rhetoric and political pabulum.

  At one briefing, a four-star general’s responses to poignant questions could be summed up in one repeated answer: “I have a dialogue ongoing about that; you don’t need to worry about it. Keep your dauber out of the dirt and don’t get snot on your chin strap.” Brilliant.

  With each passing week I became more convinced that the corruption, secrecy, and political agendas of the undercover intelligence community were not unique. We were heading for a catastrophe, stripping the military of leaders and filling it with politicians and managers. I waxed bitter, losing my focus only months into the school year. I tried to share my feelings with my section mates, but through no fault of their own they didn’t understand. How could they? They were all career military officers, and I—Well, I was something else entirely.

  After I completed Staff College, I reported to the headquarters of the second battalion of the 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 82nd Airborne Division. Brigadier General Jack P. Nix, an old friend from the Ranger battalion, had recruited me while I was at CGSOC. It was a typical example of who you know and not what you know. I was lucky Nix knew me; otherwise I’d have ended up right back in intelligence. Colonel Dan K. McNeil was the 3rd Brigade commander, and Lieutenant Colonel Timothy Scully was one of three battalion commanders under him. I was to be Lieutenant Colonel Scully’s second in command, his battalion executive officer. Both men were an inspiration to me, the last of a breed, I came to believe. I learned a great deal from both of them; and I will be forever grateful.