Authors: Philip Chen
"You're right. Did you start the recording sequence?"
"Aye, sir."
"Get the DCO up here," said O'Shannon into the intercom.
Rubbing his eyes after the rude awakening, the Deputy Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Joshua Wong, entered the command module. "Yes, Captain."
"Mr. Wong, we have a verified signal."
Wong snapped fully awake. "I'll start the encoding process immediately."
"Good idea. Who gets to carry the message?"
"Machinist Mate George Waterson is scheduled for rotation on the next supply vehicle. He has clearance."
"Good. Alert Newport News."
"Aye, sir."
Wong took leave of O'Shannon and Lawrence, who continued to observe the rapidly shifting trace on the screens. There would be much to do in the coming days.
1993: Awakening
0730 Hours: Wednesday, June 9, 1993: Sutton Place, New York, New York
Mike Liu woke with a start. He had forgotten to set the alarm and had overslept by a half-hour. That is, if you could call it sleep. Mike had tossed about all night. It was that recurring dream -- that something had been left undone. He hadn't had that dream in a longtime and it was disturbing. What had wakened Mike was someone calling his name.
This wasn't like some of his dreams, the ones about the life he had once hoped to share with Corrine Ryan, a student at Mary Baldwin College in Staunton, Virginia. Mike had met Corrine through fraternity brothers at the University and the pair had dated throughout his fourth year. Corrine had suffered from a degenerative retinal disease at a young age and had quickly lost her vision. Maybe it was her blindness that allowed her to see the young Mike in a light so different from other people. Mike had never met any other girl who was as accepting as Corrine.
After college, Mike was commissioned as an Ensign in the Navy and sent to Stanford. Corrine went to graduate school at Columbia University to study linguistics. After graduate school, Corrine went into government service. Mike would write Corrine often, but her responses seemed less enthusiastic over time. Writing letters were difficult for Corrine, as she had to use a Braille typewriter.
In one letter, Corrine mentioned that her room mates thought he looked Mediterranean, not Chinese, in his photo.
Eventually, time and distance proved too great; the letters became fewer and farther in between. Then one day, Mike received a long letter from Corrine saying that things had changed and she could not write him anymore.
Mike never married after losing Corrine. He learned through friends that Corrine dated and married another researcher at the government linguistics laboratory where she worked. But the dream was not about Corrine; it was the other dream; about dark shadows and enormity the likes that the world had never seen.
Mike jumped out of bed and went into the bathroom. He had a busy day planned with the SystemGraphon deal stalled as it was; last night had dragged into the early morning hours. As Mike dressed for work, he glanced quickly at the clock. Damn, he thought. I should've set the alarm.
0530 Hours: Wednesday, June 9, 1993: Navajo Indian Reservation, New Mexico
The power that compels men does so inexplicably. The affected do not understand or even, for that matter, begin to comprehend the power. Such was the case of the lonely figure kneeling on the hard dirt of the barren, windswept mesa, his curved back contrasting dramatically with the sharp edged geometry of the rocky ledge.
"O Bearer of Light, Creator of Day. Give me a sign to chase the darkness away," he cried.
The early morning sky was a rich royal blue. Thin wisps of dark gray clouds traced with white spotted the dark blue sky. In the distance, the cold, desert sky had begun to lighten. There, the deep rich blue of night started to give way to the softer pastel blue of the day.
As the first golden light peeked over the horizon, a lone hawk floated over the plains searching for early morning thermals; hunting for his daily meal.
In the darkness of the valley below, the soft, haunting tones of a Native American flute floated languidly into the waking sky.
The old man knelt toward the beckoning dawn, resting on the heels of his naked feet. His arms rested easily on the rough cloth of his trousers. His wrinkled hands lay on his knees -- palms up as if in supplication. He had welcomed the morning at this place and in this manner numerous times over the ninety-plus seasons he had walked the Earth. It was not just a fascination with ceremony that called him to this place; it was his solemn duty as the medicine man, the Shaman, to understand the earth and its place in the cosmos. The constellations in the rich darkness would guide his people through the many dangers that faced them on earth.
Like the hawk floating effortlessly in the sky, the old man sought sustenance from the life-giving rays. The urgency of this particular morning gave even more purpose to his entreaties. It was the certainty of this date -- a certainty known only to Johnny Thapaha.
Johnny Thapaha's white hair fell gently to his shoulders and was kept off his wrinkled face by a red bandanna tied around the crown of his head. Around his neck was a turquoise bead necklace that ended in a silver and turquoise breastplate in the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings.
His shirt was made from the flaxen cloth favored by older members of his tribe and was loosely gathered at his waist by a leather belt, with an intricate buckle of hammered silver. On the third finger of each hand was a silver ring in the shape of an eagle about to strike.
The chill of the early morning did not deter him from the duty which he had done every morning for many years.
The carefully opened sacred bundle, the symbol of his faith and his position, lay on his lap. His ceremonial pipe rested next to his right knee. Before him, traced in the hard soil of the mesa, was a circle displaying the four points of the compass, the four cardinal directions.
Johnny Thapaha faced the rising sun, encroaching warmth he could only feel but could not see because cataracts had taken away his sight a long time ago. He yearned to know and to understand what had been and what would surely be. Johnny Thapaha's blindness served to intensify his mental capabilities on the painful images. Lasting images that had been given to him by the traveler so many years ago.
Even at his advanced age and on this lonely windswept mesa, his head was held high and straight. His eyes remained fixed to some distant point only they could see.
Suddenly, Johnny Thapaha's face tightened. His aged chin lifted toward the rising sun. His sightless eyes focused. His arms rose outstretched as if in welcome. Over the horizon came the long awaited sign. A single shaft of golden light. It was disturbing.
"Cha-le-gai!" bellowed the old man into the solitary ray of rising sun. The sound of his voice reverberated through the hard-surfaced mesas and the canyon below.
The old man's face sagged in exhaustion. His arms dropped limply to his legs.
A tear formed in the corner of the old man's right eye, coursed over his weathered-bronzed cheek, hung on the hard edge of his jaw, and finally fell onto the breast of his shirt. The aged head dropped forward, avoiding the rising sun -- the giver of life, the messenger of things to come.
The quiet voice of a child came from the shadows just below the crest of the mesa. "Grampa, it's cold and it's getting late."
"Yes, Little Dove, it is getting late. We must prepare to leave."
Only his grandfather called ten-year-old Jimmy MacLaren by his Navajo name. Jimmy's Navajo heritage was evident in his brown skin, his straight black hair, and his deep-set, dark eyes that seemed to glow in the morning light. Shivering in his nylon parka, jeans, and running shoes, Jimmy could have been any kid in any neighborhood in America, but he was here on this bleak mesa participating in a ceremony that was as old as his people.
The old man rose slowly. He stretched out his left hand to search for the secret place while clutching the sacred bundle and ceremonial pipe to his breast.
His efforts to locate the secret place were at best struggled and guided only by instinct. Jimmy studiously avoided looking at his grandfather. Even at this young age, Jimmy knew that only the medicine man can know the sacred place. With some effort, the practiced hand found the familiar rock and Johnny Thapaha started to return the sacred bundle to its resting-place.
He hesitated and, in a furtive move, placed the sacred bundle inside the loose folds of his shirt.
"Little Dove, please take my hand."
Slipping the gnarled, callused hand of his grandfather into his own smooth hand, Jimmy started down the worn path to the ground below and the warmth of his grandfather's hogan. Johnny Thapaha followed with a labored gait, his back bent by the weight of too many seasons.
The hawk caught the first rising thermals caused by the warming air and soared higher and higher. This would surely be a good hunting day.
1993: The Coffee Shop
0730 Hours: Thursday, June 10, 1993: In a Small Coffee Shop along Cambridge Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts.
The two men sat in the booth in the back of the small coffee shop in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Each had a mug of steaming coffee in front of him; purchased at the counter.
There was a steady flow of customers looking for morning coffee and pastries. The dingy shop was busy.
An unlikely couple. The older of the two had a professorial air. Busy tamping tobacco into his burlwood pipe, he would stop every so often to sip steaming hot, black coffee from his porcelain mug.
The younger man had a large round face upon which sat a curiously small pair of round, rimless glasses. He looked very uncomfortable; his small beady eyes constantly surveyed the patrons and other goings-on of the busy shop. His coffee was heavily laden with cream and sugar. He bolted down his Cherry Danish.
Occasionally, the younger man would look up at this companion as if he were looking for a sign of recognition, familiarity. None came.
"When did you come up?"
"L-Late last night."
"When are you going back?"
"Immediately." The younger man fidgeted nervously.
"Why did you call - you know that you aren't supposed to ever call me," said the older man impatiently.
"Yes, I know, but…"
"We shouldn't be meeting in person. Why the rush?"
"Y-you need to see these," stammered the younger man as he took out a manila envelope and surreptitiously handed it to his booth mate. "Something big is happening."
The older man took the envelope and put it into his soft leather attaché, without as much as a glance.
The younger man ventured, "How are things?"
He received no response. The older person did not meet his gaze and busied himself with his burlwood pipe.
With that, the younger man got out of the booth and with a sweep of his eyes, shuffled out of the coffee house, and disappeared into the bustling crowd of people heading to work. With luck he could catch the 11:20 AM flight at Logan for his trip south.
The older man quietly watched his companion depart, and, after waiting a few more minutes, causally gathered his belongings, walked up to the cash register and paid the bill. Exiting the coffee shop, the older man calmly glanced up and down Cambridge Street and walked to his parked car.
1993: Mildred
1000 Hours: Thursday, June 10, 1993: Gate 26 Red Concourse, Minneapolis St. Paul International Airport
"May I help you?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm on Flight 504 to New York's La Guardia Airport. Can I get an aisle seat?" said the tall blond boy dressed in Levi jeans, a white sweat shirt with the St. Olaf College crest in royal blue on the front, and Puma running shoes. "Do we get lunch on this flight?"
"You bet. How about Seat 16C? We'll be boarding in about ten minutes."
Behind Eric Johanson, a line of people was waiting patiently for their turn to get seats on Flight 504. About three people back from Eric stood a thin woman dressed in a navy blue business suit with a white silk blouse and red bow tie.
The black-haired woman was attractive, looked as if she were in her early thirties, and seemed bored by the routine of boarding the Northwest Airlines flight. She had the most beautiful blue eyes, something that Eric had noted earlier while waiting for the gate agents to open up shop. He also remembered the scent of lavender when she walked past. It was the same scent that his favorite aunt used.
Boy, he thought, if the older women in New York look that good, I wonder how girls my age will look?
A loud metallic voice rumbled through the din at the gate. "Attention, Northwest Flight 504 to New York's La Guardia Airport will be ready for general boarding in a few minutes. We would like to …. As usual, we invite our first-class passengers and our Gold and Preferred Card Worldperks members to board at their leisure."
"Flight 504 is now available for general boarding."
Handing his boarding pass to the gate agent, Eric started down the metal passageway to the Boeing 727-200 jetliner and was met at the doorway by a pert blond flight attendant who looked at his boarding card and waved him toward the rear of the aircraft with a smile.
Waiting for the crowd before him to find their seats, Eric soaked in the ambiance of the first class cabin. The familiar noise and smell of coffee percolating in the galley were intoxicating to the haggard passengers lining up to take their seats. The mostly middle-aged, white male passengers sitting in the spacious first-class seats were already absorbed in their reading material and pre-flight beverages.
Eric looked forward to being an analyst at Franklin Smedley Associates. He was sure they flew everywhere first-class.
Finally, the logjam freed up as the passengers before him found their seats and Eric was able to reach seat 16C. As he approached his seat, he noted that the attractive black haired woman with the startlingly beautiful blue eyes was seated in 12D; she was already busy reading a magazine and didn't look up as other passengers passed by.