The Listener

by Christopher Carrolli

  He nodded his head.

  “It has also come to our attention that you predicted the whole thing only seconds before it happened.” He noticed Foster’s eyes brighten in fascination as he stated the fact in the form of a question.

  Suddenly afraid, he cast his eyes down at the table. He felt cornered, clueless as to what his response should be. For the first time, he was confronted with something he never talked about and was free not to. He’d been so safe at home, where the ability would never come to light. Now it was exposed, and he felt the immense strain of an imagined witch trial. He looked up again at Foster, speechless.

  “You reported to your task sergeant that you ‘heard it.’ Is that true?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “There were witnesses, at least five of them so far.”

  The elder agent sat with his fingers pressed together in a steeple, while the young soldier pursed his lips together, safer in silent sanctuary. The agent watched and recognized this, then spoke for him.

  “Let me tell you what I think, Private. I think you possess a very rare psychic ability that you’ve most likely endured all of your life. This unique talent, as I see it, is known as ‘remote hearing,’ something that your background has taught you to repress. You’re afraid to talk about it because you fear retribution, or that you have done something wrong. Am I right?”

  The young soldier’s lips parted then closed.

  “Only moments ago you scanned this underground with your ability and failed to hear anything. Do you know why that was?”

  His heart pounded harder as the agent stupefied him, but still he did not respond.

  “I know all of this, Private, because I am a clairaudient myself.”

  Surprise and relief washed over him. He felt his breathing stabilize. It was the first time he had ever heard the term before. He had heard others like listener, channeler, but the scientific term told him that Agent Foster knew more than he did.

  “I could hear the soldiers speaking to you, and your thoughts as you tried to listen, as we call it. Our ability is a form of telepathy so I was also able to hear words that formed your thoughts. I remained quiet and cloaked my own thoughts to test the extent of your ability.”

  “Did I pass?” He spoke finally, unsure of what to say first.

  “Most assuredly, now let me explain to you why you’re here. What I am about to tell you, Private, is top-secret, classified information, of which I have been given clearance to divulge to you. When I finish, you will then be subject to the FBI and its involvement as it pertains to you. I will then brief you on what will be the next course of action, as far as your deployment is concerned. Do you understand?”

  He was slightly afraid again, but he nodded his head.

  Agent Foster then briefed him on the Bureau’s budding project that involved the study of remote viewing. He described human subjects equipped with the ability of seeing people, places, and objects in remote areas simultaneously, and how they were being studied and utilized in areas of national defense.

  “The powers that be, however, are beginning to shun the results of our efforts even though great progress is being made. In those efforts, we have discovered subjects that we have only recently encountered—clairaudient listeners, such as you, people who are enabled of the opposite psychic ability called remote hearing.”

  He wondered how collectively Agent Foster was using the word “we.” Though he didn’t fear him, something about the elder agent struck him as an outsider, a vigilante.

  “Our studies in this area of psychic ability are, in fact, continuing at this moment. How beneficial the employment of such abilities will be toward our nation’s defense in the long run, we are incapable of knowing. That’s why we engage subjects for research study.”

  He swallowed hard, knowing that the discussion was finally steering toward him.

  “Private, your immediate response, yesterday, saved the lives of most of your unit. You should consider yourself a hero; the ability you’ve feared all of your life has proven its potential for greatness. You should be very proud of that fact and of yourself. Now, I am pleased to tell you that your enlistment has been modified.”

  Feelings of both joy and guilt filled his heart, soul, and mind. He would be going home because of his ability, but that didn’t relieve the countless number of his peers.

  “Oh, but you won’t be going home, at least not yet anyway.”

  Foster had read his mind. He did say he was telepathic...didn’t he? Prior feelings turned to both angst and curiosity.

  “I have been appointed to take you back to Washington with me, where you will become a subject of our remote hearing study in exchange for your draft time here. It really isn’t such a bad deal, Private. You won’t have to serve in this war, worrying about your life every day and night, seeing your fellow soldiers being blown to bits and pieces, imagining yourself going home one day. With our offer, you will be going home one day.”

  He would recall the look of certainty and truth on Foster’s face for years to come. The guilt inside him stirred, but the thought of being studied, being able to understand at last, and then being able to go home, back to her, was greater.

  He gave a silent affirmation with a nod of his head.

  “Then it’s settled. We leave here, immediately.”

  That decision had sealed his fate forever.

  * * * *

  The plane ride was a long one, and now from the back window of an unmarked black sedan, the nation’s capital sprawled out before him in its official splendor. Historical monuments stood proudly, cherry blossoms lined the famous avenues, and protesters marched upon the capital with signs that read Make Love Not War, as well as the popular plea calling for Cease Fire.

  The official seat of the United States was a great relief and a predictable culture shock from the flat terrain of the land and the overflowing foliage of the South Vietnamese jungles. This new scenario loomed large before him, ushering him to the forefront of a pending and undeclared history.

  The shouts of the protesters reverberated through the glass, representing a movement of which he would not directly be involved. The sedan rolled through the boulevards, oblivious to the blooming chaos of its surroundings. Suddenly, the car made a sharp right-turn into a tunnel, and overhead, darkness fell upon the discreet vehicle, interrupted only by the fluorescent tubes strung along the tunnel’s upper walls that shone a sleeker black on the sedan as it entered.

  Then the car stopped abruptly.

  A few seconds had passed before one of the agents in front opened the passenger door for him; the other agent stood behind, near the wheel of the passenger’s side.

  “Right this way.” The agent who had opened the door instructed him, and he followed, flanked on both sides by the escorting emissaries. They walked to what looked like a security elevator within the tunnel, and the first agent keyed a lock with a clockwise motion, and then pressed a button on the wall panel. A whooshing sound from underground shot upward to his ears.

  It was déjà vu as the elevator doors opened wide for him like giant, metal jaws. The three of them stepped inside, and the deep, downward drop of the small entrapment caused the familiar clogging of his ears. The agents had stayed silent and so had he. He had learned not to ask them questions. They wouldn’t answer, even if they knew.

  The doors opened, revealing another underground facility, only this one was cleaner, brighter, constructed more like a high-tech, communications center, and by appearance, that’s exactly what it was.

  Computer systems he had never seen before were set up like small work stations, equipped with radar and visual screens, audio and recording apparatus, and a network of blinking red, blue, and green lights that beamed through the dimness like Christmas displays. The machines had voices of their own, bleeping, blurting noises beckoning brightly for attention, somehow alive, yet the stations stood unmanned.

  The purpose and the extent of this vast array of technology would rem
ain a mystery to him for now because here in this clandestine underground, the translation of top-secret meant unmentioned and unheard.

  His escorts eased away as Agent Foster and two others approached.

  “Welcome, Private. Our journey was a long one, but I see you’ve had the chance to unwind and refresh a bit.”

  Foster’s voice echoed softly through the underground. He was accompanied by a bald and muscle-bound brute whose unnatural biceps bulged in steroidal bliss; his crystal blue eyes seemed to pierce the young Private where he stood. The other was a woman of about fifty, her face a stony attractiveness, and gray streaked through her once dark hair that was pulled backward in a bun.

  “Allow me to introduce you,” Foster said, his hand motioning backward. “This is Caleb; he is our most renowned remote-viewer. His performance has been most exemplary, seeing things remotely all over the world with amazing accuracy, including, Private, the far-away war which you have just left behind.”

  The muscled giant nodded his head in introduction; the look on his face was softer, but still seemingly intent, watchful with a fire that burned behind blue eyes. With the same hand, Foster motioned again, this time to the woman, stone-faced with the slightest hint of a smile, her black turtleneck wrapped tightly to her torso like a uniform.

  “And this is Myra,” he said, as the staunch woman nodded. “She is a clairaudient listener, much like you. She is also a telepath with the keenest ability to gain insight into the minds of others, so watch your thoughts.”

  Foster laughed at this with a joking gesture meant to ease the young Private; his cohorts mimicked his hospitality.

  “You will be able to learn from the both of them, as they will you. They will be your mentors. I am convinced that once you have the chance to study and to test your ability to the fullest capacity, you will come to understand and even appreciate it. Relax, Private, here you will be safe from the rigors of war.”

  He slipped into relief, but still something sinister stirred inside of him. He wished he’d known back then what he knew today.

  * * * *

  As the vibe of suspicion failed to dwindle, he began asking questions about home before the testing ever began: did his family know he was here? How often could he call home? Did she know he was here? Abrupt and slightly manufactured answers had greeted him.

  “No, Private, as we told you, this operation is top-secret, classified. Your family, as well as your young lady, thinks you are still fighting in the jungles. You will be allowed to write them, as you usually do, but you will be instructed on how to maintain your cover to them, as though you are still halfway around the world. The postmarks will confirm that. Obviously, phone calls are not an option.”

  The expected twinge of disappointment disappeared as he began to understand. Besides, he didn’t want his family knowing that he was indulging the same ability they had so deeply shunned in his life. He agreed, and the testing began.

  The sessions were always behind closed, soundproof doors of small rooms, where he would be made to either stretch out on the couch like a Psych patient, or sit upright facing away from the door, listening for sounds from elsewhere’s unknown.

  At first, they had taped wires and pulse pad electrodes to his temples, reading brain waves, and testing his normal senses to gain a clearer picture of his brain function. Once that had been concluded, he began testing with Myra. He’d sat with her for hours, trying to pick the magic word she was thinking from her closed mind; five times out of ten, he had done so. Then, she would leave the room, walk a lengthy distance away to the opposite end of the vast underground, and read aloud an Almanac listing for a famous date in history.

  When she returned, she had expected his answer to her question: to what date had she referred? He watched her slight smile widen with pride when he answered her correctly.

  “April 15, 1865.”

  How ironically thrilled she’d been to hear of the Lincoln assassination.

  More and more he felt like a Guinea pig, but the need to understand, and the hope of going home urged him onward. Going home, that was what drove him. He did exactly as they wanted, whenever they wanted. He worked faster with the testing as the incentives danced in his anxious heart, and the images invaded his mind. He kept picturing her beautiful face and long blond hair, hearing her laugh, and remembering how she had grabbed on to him when his number was called out.

  He envisioned a new life with her and all of this behind him.

  But he would immediately snap out of those thoughts to focus on the tasks at hand. The sooner he finished, the sooner he would be on his way home—or so he thought.

  He’d spent most of his days and nights in the underground compound, and when his work was over, guards would return him to an above ground barracks where he was housed. He was not permitted to leave the barracks for any means as he’d been stressed upon how important it was in maintaining his cover. So young and naively he’d believed, dreaming and reading within his small encampment when the long day’s tasks had been completed.

  The changes he’d witnessed outside of his one lonely window were the only indicators of how the months had turned to seasons. The leaves had changed to brilliant red, yellow, and orange hues, swaying and falling to the strong autumn breeze, and night fell early now, as the last few hours of daylight were gone by the time he was escorted back to his barracks from the underground.

  He was now encouraged to utilize his listening ability at his own will. He was taught how to relax, search his mind, focus, and then reach out. They’d given him certain locations and he would focus, honing in on some word that was given him, reaching out for the slightest word, sentence, or audible voice that he could retrieve.

  Apparently, he didn’t disappoint, though repeating what he’d picked up like radar still did not enable him to understand what he was hearing or “listening” to. He retrieved phrases like “power supply,” “special aircraft,” “inside investigation,” then became more specific, naming planned dates and times snatched unseen from secret conversations. None of this held any interest for him. He thought of only her, his family, and his friends left behind in a bloody war he’d escaped.

  Agent Foster and Myra often glanced at each other in what seemed like instant recognition when he would recite all that he’d heard, but there was something else he’d noticed, something peculiar. They would stare at each other for several moments, as though some secretive form of communication co-existed between them. It was not long before he realized that they were speaking telepathically, avoiding the possibility that he might overhear them with either his true ear, or his ability that they had so adamantly enabled.

  What were they hiding? The thought crept into his mind with a growing frequency, and he remembered what Foster had said about his cloaking his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he was also able to perform this task; after all, wasn’t his ability the reason why he was here?

  He taught himself a few tricks, allowing his mind to go blank, focusing his attention on some object: a light switch, the elevator, the machines, or the large, square screen that had remained black, inactive, since the day he entered this concealed facility. He erected a defensive guard around him, cloaking his thoughts as they had cloaked theirs.

  If they could hide, he could hide also.

  Something was changing; something was going down. He refused to be a Guinea pig any longer. It was the next day when he sat in a one-on-one meeting with Myra. As she looked at him, that hidden smile of hers became more and more apparent, displaying a certain pride for an emerging prized pupil.

  “Private, you have done extremely well with your testing here. We have been able to fully document the extent of your ability, as well as the progress you have made in strengthening it. I trust that you are going to become a much needed factor in the course of our objectives, congratulations.” Her smile seemed awkward.

  A much needed factor? Slight anxiety tweaked inside him, causing an inner rush of
urgency. What did she mean? When would he be leaving? Quickly he quashed these emotions and thoughts, fighting hard and as he did so, letting his mind go blank, focusing on her smile, even mimicking the suspicious grin. She continued her praise of him, unaware.

  This time, no deafness came upon him before he’d heard. Her inner thoughts became unwilling insertions into his mind...

  Now, how do we stray his thoughts from returning home? He can’t find out...

  The unexpected interruption sent a jolt through him, but she failed to notice his fast-frightened movement that nearly bolted him from the chair. He stopped and remained calm. He stared back at her, wondering if she knew that he’d read her mind.

  “So, Agent Foster and I will be holding a conference pertaining to your work with us. I have been asked to give a progress report on my testing with you. I am sure everyone will be as pleased as I am with the results.”

  She rose from the chair, concluding the meeting. His lips parted to speak, but now the deafness overcame him. Her back had been turned when the voice of a posthumous, higher-ranking officer stole his ear...

  “Remain silent, Private! Don’t ask about home!”

  The deafness left him quickly, and his broken heart beat loudly. Myra left the room, oblivious to her error.

  * * * *

  It was in this room that he’d remained silent as ordered by his ghostly superior, though the inner inkling to flee had intensified with a final certainty. That familiar, automatic knowledge instructed him to sit and await his next move, while the surety of danger now manifested in a sweat that washed over his face and body, and the feeling of time ticking away had caused a readied mental watch for an unknown, crucial moment.

  The door of this room, like most, contained a rectangular window, and through it, he shifted his eyes as far left as possible. It was from that direction that he caught a limited view of Foster, Caleb, and Myra marching up the hallway and turning into the room just before this one. They’re in the room next door, he thought, realizing with that recurring sense of urgency that the meeting was about him.