True View

iUniverse, Inc.

Chapter One

"Target appears to be cylinder shaped with protrusions on two sides. Target appears to be an aircraft. Target appears to be sitting on land but surrounded by water. Target is lying on a lake bed. Stray thought of `Superior' comes to mind. Stick to facts and write it down." I continue to think of the last project and am wondering if the UFO disclosure was ever made of the 1953 Lake Superior crash of the F-89.

I have to shake it off and concentrate on this audience.

"We do not perform magic, conjure up the supernatural, or delve into the occult. We use a manual created from science and years of research and repeated application. Remote viewing is a science; it's not mindreading. Questions, anyone?"

Good, no hands up.

"Thank you for listening, and enjoy your lunch. Thanks for inviting me today."

Walking past rows of tables, I get smiles and small waves. These people were once the world's greatest geniuses, but old age has taken a toll. They attend the meetings but are not really excited about them anymore. Being a member rocks my world. It's a good break from my day-to-day routine.

I was recommended to the Mensa group by Teacher, a well-known expert in the remote viewing world. I studied under him for four years while I was also teaching mathematics and computer science at Texas Tech. I grew tired of the academic world and wanted to see if I could make a living as a remote viewer.

I applied for employment with the government at the federal building here in Lubbock six years ago. I was granted an interview with an intelligence group but was rejected; my skill as a viewer was not understood, much less needed. However, a few days later I was contacted by another agency that ultimately trained me and put me to work.

The drive home is short. When I arrive at my house, my dogs—Bruno, an extra-large miniature schnauzer, and Rocco, who is just extra large—really need to go outside. Nothing more devoted than those two. Out the back door they go. I need to check my e-mail for my next assignment.

I fire up the computer and hear a voice: "Welcome." There it is on the screen: a list of current targets. Even though each is no more than a series of numbers, looking into them will lead to multiple descriptors. Common numbers will lead to unknown places and events.

I smile and think, What a way to make a living.

My computer sounds off with an incoming message. Beep, "Time to go to work." That is the phrase I have chosen to hear when they have a high-priority job for me. The subject line is blank, a signal that something is wrong. Normally there would be a series of numbers. I decide it is best not to open the e-mail. Hmm, wonder what that's about.

There goes the work phone. They rarely call. Communication is routinely done via e-mail. Maybe they are calling to tell me about the e-mail I just got. At least they could have waited for me to finish my lunch.

I see that familiar number. Not sure whether or not I want to answer. These guys make common feds look like amateurs.

If I don't answer, there will be a knock at the door.

"Hello?" No response. Wrong number, maybe? I'm concerned; I've been told to follow agency instructions if this happens. I prepare to leave immediately.

Apparently protocol has been compromised. I keep a go-bag ready for just such an occurrence. When it happens, all I need for basic survival is immediately in my hands.

I grab the bag from the closet and leave the house, walking casually. The dogs are still outside; they should have enough food and water until I get back. Better get the all-clear soon.

Nothing in the neighborhood appears unusual. It's the middle of the day; typically there's not much going on then. Everyone around here is either at school or work.

I walk two blocks to my local minimarket and go up to the deli to check out the menu.

At the end of the counter to my right I see two well-dressed men, definitely out of place. No ball caps, straw hats, or boots. I don't know them, but I'm pretty sure they know me.

"Ashlee?" one of them says. I don't respond.

"Ashlee?" They move quickly toward me, and one of them grabs my arm. "It's us, stop," he whispers, leaning into me.

I turn.

They're both over six feet tall, one wearing a gray suit and the other a faded black one. They are clean-cut and look serious.

The one in gray looks like he's pushing sixty. His hair is almost the same color as his suit. Chiseled face with a little slump in the shoulders.

The other looks younger, more alert, probably early forties. He has thick black hair, tan-colored skin, dark brown eyes. Funny—we have the same hair and skin color, but I have my dad's blue eyes.

"What?" I ask, playing it cool.

"You did well," the younger agent says, stepping close.

"Let's go," he says, pointing outside to a Suburban. I walk casually in the direction indicated, wishing they had a less obvious vehicle. Not like anyone will notice a big black Suburban with blacked-out windows.

We pull off in the opposite direction of the federal building downtown on Texas Avenue, where I assumed we'd go.

According to the older one, my phone and computer had been hacked.

"How is that possible?" I ask. "Aren't we the best of the best?"

They are silent. To say I'm a little worried would be an understatement.

We're approaching the end of the city limits. All I see are dry, dusty fields. It hasn't rained in West Texas in months. All the crops are dead or dying.

"What are we doing out here?"

"Stay quiet; you'll be briefed shortly," the younger one tells me. I stay quiet.

After a few minutes riding in silence, they introduce themselves. "My name is Agent Chris Jenkins," says the older of the two. "This is my partner, Agent Raul Cortez. We were sent to escort you to a secure location."

"Which office are you from? Abilene?" I ask.

"Amarillo. We'll drive you around until we get further instructions," Jenkins, the driver says.

"Why? I'm just a pencil pusher."

"An operation has begun, and you are to participate. Your skill is needed."

"For what? I work from home, not in the field."

"Your security clearance has just exceeded your pay grade," Jenkins says, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

I didn't know there was one higher. I was assigned a security clearance after completing training with the NSA, CIA, and FBI. Those took nearly a year, and then I had further training with a task group to learn the ins and outs of federal operations.

Having a PhD in mathematics and computer science from the University of Texas was only a part of what landed me this job. Having completed all of the advanced levels of remote viewing training was the kicker.

We are somewhere southeast of town, traveling across an abandoned farm—one of many in this dry part of the state. Flat, but with acres of dried-up cotton fields. Dust stirring in every direction. My watch shows it to be close to 3:00 p.m.

There are no buildings anywhere on the horizon. Just good old Texas prairie—flat, dirty, and full of cactus, cotton, and wide-open skies.

Cortez produces a small black keypad from the glove box. He keeps his back to me, and I hear him punching in a code. I count six numbers with random...