Chapter 10: Resurrection

Doctor Kenney, having verified that Major Gomez was recording the telemetry stream, provided conditions to O’Brien.

“Do it as you would conduct a session for your platoon.”

“Aye, sir ... Okay people, close your eyes and listen to my voice...”

O’Brien stopped talking in less than five minutes. Kenney was also curious about O’Brien’s metabolism, so he had Major Gomez wire him up for SPO2 and pulse, determining that these would be the least intrusive sensors. At 20 minutes, heart rates were dipping below 50. This made no sense to Dr Kenney. Every study he had read indicated full pulse and respiratory rates, and for some, long periods of elevated metabolism for experienced mediators.

Glancing at Pistochini’s indicated vitals, he noted nothing unexpected. Pistochini’s numbers made sense. O’Brien’s rates made no sense to Dr Kenney. Why would the brain be shutting down metabolism when it needs even more oxygen to achieve control of autonomous functions and when suppsedly increasing self-awareness would tax the brain with proportionally increased oxygen requirements? Past 20 minutes, O’Brien’s SPO2 had stopped decreasing and pulse had settled between 42 and 45.

Pistochini’s rates were slightly elevated but steady; that is, he was exhibiting the classic response of metabolic capacity to meditation. But how can a comatose subject selectively enter a meditative state? Around the 30 minute mark, Pistochini’s data indicated what could be interpreted as REM in a normal person.

O’Brien was laying on the ground with Pistochini and White.

“Get your shit together. You are not paying fuckin attention to all four flags. That wind on the first flag has the least effect. The wind on the fourth flag, even if light, may have more or equal effect. So just go back to the three setting. Pistol re-set windage on his scope. White fired until the M14 magazine was empty, when O’Brien handed him another mag. White again fired until the magazine was empty.

O’Brien got distracted looking at the horizon floating away, but not in three dimensions, O’Brien became bored with the rote range shooting. O’Brien decided on a change of venue.

“Dude, grab your rifle, let’s go shoot something else. O’Brien and Pistochini walked up the road to his mother’s ranch to where Mrs. O’Brien stood in her apron, at the kitchen door.

“Sean, you and Peter don’t spend all day out there shooting. Y’all need to come back in and help with supper.”

“No es problemo, mom. We’ll be back shortly. Let’s go, Pistol.”

O’Brien pointed to a cedar break about 100 meters off to their left when a huge wild hog came barreling out of the brush. Sean O’Brien put three rounds into the hog using an M16 on burst mode while Pistochini put one round through his head.

“When the fuck are those clowns gonna give me my M40, Pistol?”

“You have an M40. Don’t you remember the Gunner getting your new A6?”

“Yeah, I remember. Thanks, Pistol. So when are you coming back? Your team is waiting, dude. Come back.”

“Don’t fucking know. Show me.”

Wild geese, or ducks, or something were flying past and making too much noise for Pistol and O’Brien to talk. Pistol shrugged and O’Brien sat back to wait, then Pistol was gone.

“Well, fuck it. I’ll go too...”

As O’Brien’s respiration and pulse returned to normal, he became aware of people gathered around Pistonchini’s rack with alarms and beeps and lights flashing. O’Brien had never had a dream state during meditation, and the last two sessions were wearing on his sense of logic and practicality. Were these dreams a true connection with Pistochini? O’Brien did not want to consider an answer to this, or any other question, that required acknowledgment of a ‘supernatural’. Or was this physics? Was this repeatable and measurable? Was this connection a physical reality of the corporeal world?

Doc Sanders, and an army technician were now standing back from the hospital bed while Doctor Kenney listened and probed Pistochini’s chest. The medical alarms had gone silent and the flashing lights were dark.

O’Brien, fully recovered, stood next to the captain.

“Is he okay, sir?”

“His condition never was a significant issue. Rates were elevated, nothing harmful. We will have to re-adjust the warning limits for the telemetry and monitoring computers ... Sergeant Adrianakis, this is Staff Sergeant O’Brien.”

O’Brien and the Army physical therapy tech stared at each other without any verbal exchange for over five seconds. Then the Army Sergeant First Class blurted, “Walter Reed, 2004. How you doing, you stupid jarhead?”

“Fuckin good, doggy. How about yourself?”

“Another day, another broken body to fix. It’s a living. How’s life in that fucked up shooting gallery?”

“That’s about it, Addy, fucked up.”

Dr. Kenney observed and listened to the army medic and the Marine.

“I see that the introduction was wasted...”

“Aye, sir. She was my physical therapist years ago at Reed. Addy is probably still pissed because she could never make me cry during her torture sessions.”

“There will be another time, Opie. Your type are always my reliable return customers. But try not to, in any case. Good to see you ... Is this one of your troops?”

“Yep. The Captain will explain it. He’s a damn good man. One of the best, Addy.”

“I’ll take care of him. You know I will.”

Captain Kenney herded O’Brien out of the ICU and pointed him down the hall.

“We will meet in 30 minutes in the conference room with the Major and Sanders. Get something to eat, it will take several hours to go over the telemetry data and debrief.”

“Aye, sir.”

O’Brien headed to the nearest elevator, on the way to the hospital cafeteria.

Acorn had an array of fruit, toast, pancakes, milk, coffee, a pastry, oatmeal, and other breakfast accouterments packing all available space on his tray. O’Brien, at the end of the chow line, had been watching the CIA officer stack his tray with interest and thought that he was a man on a respectable mission. Working his way through the hospital chow line, O’Brien was determined to get his eggs/bacon/biscuit/gravy combo. The apple and banana were O’Brien’s only signs of bodily respect.

The coffee machine was being serviced, so a contract worker was setting up some large insulated flasks of coffee. As O’Brien stood in line for a chance at the coffee flasks, a hospital cafeteria contract worker stopped when he recognized O’Brien. placing his hands together, as if in prayer, and bowed to the Marine.

Having a tray, O’Brien could not return the genuflect of respect. His discomfort was further extended when the worker shouted in Malay to his fellow food workers. Three more men, at least two were Malaysian, rushed out to greet and bow to O’Brien. O’Brien gave a strained smiled and lightly bowed to the four men.

O’Brien, resigning himself to the unwanted attention and the dearth of coffee, headed away to the seating area and noted Acorn’s slight wave. O’Brien was tracked by others as he sat with Acorn. O’Brien muttered to himself.

“Well that was fuckin embarrassing. All I wanted was some fuckin coffee.”

Acorn, was more amused than he probably should be.

“Ah, Master O’Brien ... And it looks like the Master’s coffee issue has been mitigated, oh Great One.”

“Fuck you, Mr. Acorn. May a thousand wild geese shit on your new car on your wedding day.”

The first worker approached their table with a coffee cup.

“So many apologies, Suci. Your coffee.”

“Thank you so much. Please know that I am a regular man. The people you call ‘The Five’ are all regular people. But thank you, sir.”

The man left, satisfied of proper alms for the Father of the Holy Ones, but a bit disturbed that the holy one had spoken to him with gratitude.

“Damn, staff sergeant, do you not understand that they think you are a holy man?”

“Yeah, Captain Olsen explained it. Fuckin weird. They think I am the spiritual father to The Five holy ones. I have read Buddhism, Islam, Hindu, Judaism, Christian and other beliefs. But to call Pistol’s team and myself Holy Men? Too fuckin weird. Do they not know my platoon has killed many people. That’s not so fuckin ‘holy’. So, Mr. Acorn, does that make this a holy cup of coffee? Ya think they blessed it or something?”

“Be quiet and eat your cholesterol. Damn, staff sergeant. How do you eat that stuff and never put on an ounce of fat?”

“Just the typical evil thoughts of a holy man, sir. Just evil thoughts...”

“Sanders said Pistochini’s telemetry during meditation was interesting. What happened?”

“Nothing of concern per Doctor Kenney. He said that the alarms sounded because the range limits for the telemetry data was too narrow. We’re meeting in about 20 minutes in the conference room to do a debrief.”

Acorn, reduced his speech to a low and even voice.

“O’Brien, keep an open mind. The Physical Sciences do not contraindicate one mind communicating with another in a method not using audio or visual signals. Keep an open mind for Sergeant Pistochini, he, of all people, deserve it. He certainly stayed open and receptive with me, even after I did some rather silly stuff. He deserves our every effort. Vera and Charles are counting on you. Please do not reject anything that could help your sergeant.”

O’Brien paused in respect for the junior CIA officer. It came to O’Brien that the man had found his dignity and ethical being.

“You are not wrong, sir. I’ve always had a hard time with religious dogma and its meaningless ritualism. And you are right, anything, and I mean fuckin anything, for Pistochini.”

It had required over two hours to do a review of the first 15 minutes of telemetry data. O’Brien considered some of Captain Kenney’s and Major Gomez’s questions to be ludicrous, others he considered self-evident. After the last five or more responses from O’Brien were a non-cmmital ‘I don’t know’, Major Gomez suggested a break. O’Brien voiced his support of the idea and got up before Dr Kenney could say anything. Doc Sanders followed O’Brien out into the passageway.

“Cafeteria?”

“Fuckin-A-skippy, doc. Unto the Hospital chow hall, I do place thine soul.”

Doc Sanders, with purposeful intent, did not reply to O’Brien’s sarcastic allusion to religion.

“ ... And I was able to ‘see’ part of your ‘dream’. I heard more than your delayed M40 issue. I heard a lot more. But the most telling and important thing that I heard was, at the very end of the session, Pistol asking you to show the way back.”

O’Brien jerked his hand away from his coffee cup and pushed the banana away.

“You really fuckin heard that?

“Opie? Did you repeat that to anyone?”

“ ... No, doc. I didn’t, but...”

“This was inside our heads, or rather our nervous system. I do not think there is any spiritual meaning here. I do not care either way. This is Applied Physics. Pistol, you, and me. We were sending and receiving electromagnetic signals. Pistol is still there, trapped in a damaged nervous system. I do not know if there is a chance that his brain can heal enough to return to conscious reality. You’ll need to talk to Dr Kenney. But We need to be honest with the major and the captain. They will want to bring back Pistol as much as all of the platoon. Just ignore anyone’s religous comments. Let’s focus on what we know to be real: that we can share thoughts with Pistol during some delimited mental conditions while under meditative states.”

“Ya know, doc. For a fuckin squid, you’ve been more than a shit hot team member. You have insight and ideas that we should never ignore. You are part of the platoon. Did you know that Pistol asked Captain Olsen to put you in for a bronze?”

“As you would say, fuck the medal, I want Sergeant Pistochini.”

“You can’t have him. He’s my Number One. You can be my whiny Counselor Troi.”

Doc Sanders demonstrated the middle finger extension using his left hand as a reply to O’Brien’s Star Trek metaphor.

“Let’s get back to the conference room, counselor, and see if we can rescue Number One from a parallel, out-of-phase universe.”

Sanders ignored the continuation of O’Brien’s Star Trek metaphors and analogies and led the way back.

“I believe you, Petty Officer Sanders, but we will need another session so my notes will indicate an isolated and controlled interview of each subject. In the meantime, we will proceed with the assumption that we are dealing with a repeatable, measurable, physical phenomena.”

Doctor Kenney folded his hand in front of his waist and sat next to O’Brien.

“This is a premature prognosis, where there are two possible outcomes, both less than optimal. Sergeant Pistochini’s condition cannot improve and we leave him trapped in a damaged body with no normal communication modes possible. Or, Sergeant Pistochini’s condition improves enough to regain consciousness, but while aware, he remains trapped in a body with a damaged nervous system where he can see, hear, and maybe talk, but nothing else. The latter is unlikely, but is probable. The former is more likely.”

“How and when do I try to convey this to Pistochini?”

“After we complete one or two more sessions. It may help if we are able to determine if Sergeant Pistochini can deduce his physical state. You have told me that that it is obvious these are not dreams, and that you were also able to immediately understand that these ‘dreams’ are not a physical reality. Sanders has had similar comments. If Pistoshini’s neocortex, thus his cognition and analytical processing, has been damaged, he may not be able to understand that these imagined sessions are not physical reality.”

“What about the physics of this shit, sir? Can we rig something to improve communications. Sort of like how our comm techs set up repeaters and hubs for our radio network?”

Doctor Kenney was unsure of his understanding on the physics of a brain’s electromagnetic properties, but he provided his minimal knowledge on the subject.

“I’ve also talked to Major Gomez’s brother, an engineer.”

Dr Kenney did a sweeping arc with his hand towards the myriad medical instruments stacked around Pistochini.

“He designs and makes these instruments and sensors and transducers and processing circuits. He believes that the brain, hence the measuring systems he designs, is largely non-receptive to long-wave E-field emissions. He has guessed that the portion of the brain stem above the pons and into the mid-brain could have the right physical and electromagnetic construction for near-field H-field receptivity and emissions. But that an H-field loop antenna would have to be wound around the body to have measurement sensitivity sufficient to determine a cause and effect pair.”

“So we are saying that other than sitting next to Pistochini, we have no practical way to improve communications. One more question, sir. My breathing and heart rates during meditation. Are they normal?”

“The major and myself have been discussing that, and we do not think that the extreme metabolic decrease is abnormal for an experienced subject. I have forwarded that question to a colleague that teaches at Berkeley having experience with TM. So as you know, Major Gomez has a PhD in human physiology and as such, she has done research on controlling metabolism as a surgical aid. She does not think that your rates are abnormal given your level of experience and discipline and health.”

Contemplating the dearth of technical solutions to improving ‘communications’ with Pistochini, O’Brien resigned himself to more of this weird stuff.

“Okay. When do we do the next step, sir? And can Sanders continue to, I guess, listen in on us. He’s my objective third party.”

“Certainly. That was what Major Gomez had suggested. We will interview Sanders independently, and isolated from your interviews. We will be ready with a modified telemetry system in five to eight hours, staff sergeant.”

O’Brien looked to Sanders.

“Doc, looks like we got some time to kill. Wanna run few clicks and find the gym?”

“Damn right. Been on my butt for too many days.”

“Fuckin-A skippy, doc, Let’s get the green beanies in on this.”

Germany has patches of forest scattered over much of the country, mostly to assure and further the German illusion that they still had an environment to preserve; and some Germans actually believed they had preserved most of their forests.

O’Brien wanted to run through an ancient primeval forest. He had traversed forestry areas on military bases such as Bridgeport, Lejeune, Drum, and McCoy. But they were all ‘curated’ for military use. The patches of German forests had enough difference to, also, allow O’Brien an illusion of a preserved and pristine forrest.

O’Brien was a bit embarrassed to be wearing army PT gear, but beggars cannot be choosy. Doc Sanders quipped at the Marine’s discomfort.

“You’ll get over it. Think of it as going incognito.”

The four running men made an interesting, ever-changing, moving gaggle. Depending on whom was up front setting pace, the PT group clustered together to talk, or they stretched out to a silent single-column formation to manage the different high-speed stride lengths.

About three clicks down the road, around a 90-degree bend, the runners sighted two black SUVs off the road, almost half-way into a sparse tree line, and facing towards the road. The vehicles were arranged in a diagonal towards the opposite direction of the runners. O’Brien and MSgt Hawking both reacted to the observation at the same time and ran off the side of the road and into the scrub-oak under-brush. The other two followed without comment.

After watching the two vehicles for several minutes, MSgt Hawkin signaled for himself and O’Brien to go further south into the tree line and, presumably, approach the SUVs from their rear. O’Brien did not care, he figured it was good tactical practice for different environments. O’Brien was immensely thankful that he was wearing heavy green sweat pants and a long-sleeve sweat shirt, albeit with Army logos.

As they walked through the trees, closing in at an angle, Radio squelch and chatter could be heard, mostly in German. The vehicle most distant from the road had at least two people in or around the SUV. One was outside smoking and the other was in the passenger seat talking on a phone. The vehicle most close to the road had at least three, where two were outside the vehicle looking down the road, while the third person was in the passenger seat talking on a hand-held radio.

When Hawkin halted his approach, O’Brien signaled his intent to get more close. O’Brien crouched and using a mix of a duck walk and crawling on all fours, to close with the two vehicles, looking for a view of the people and get license plates. He noted the EU plates had too many digits so were as fucked up as California’s. But he committed all license plate characters to memory and watched the people for another two or three minutes until a radio call had them back in their vehicles and moving out onto the road heading east.

“Ya think they were waiting for us, top?”

“No way to know. But if we were still on the road, we would have run well past them about ten minutes ago. Let’s stay off the road and get back to Sanders and Norton.” As they were walking back through the trees and brush, Sgt Hawkin conducted an ad hoc debrief.

“Did you note anything about them? I assume you got their plates.”

“Roger the plate ID. The cigarettes smelled strange. I don’t think the cigs were German or North American. Where I could see, they all carried their weapons in shoulder holsters. Two had mustaches, otherwise no facial hair. One was light brown hair, one was blonde, the others were dark haired. One may have had a scar on his nose and through the upper lip. I am uncertain if they were speaking German among themselves, but the guy in the far SUV, that was talkin on the radio was speaking German.”

“What about equipment?”

“The far SUV had two large pelican-type cases in the back, about 50cm by 1 meter by 1 meter. Neither of the hand-held radios appeared to be net-ready, and neither seem to be from a western manufacture. And I did not hear the channel beeps you normally hear, so were probably not encrypted and not networked.”

Any other equipment?”

“Oh yeah. A big whip antenna on the bumper. What the fuck? HF or VHF? Couldn’t see a big radio in either SUV. Makes no sense.

“That is interesting. What about the phones they were using?”

“Both were small ‘flip’ phones, but did not look like the Motorolas that I’ve seen.”

“The vehicles, they were both Chevys?”

“Yep. Both were Suburbans with after-market bumpers. Both were model year 2002. Not certain, but I think the luggage racks were also after-market equipment.”

Anything else about the two vehicles?”

“Yep. The lug nuts were extended too far, and it did not look right for an eight-lugged wheel.”

They turned toward Sanders and Norton’s last position.

“Anything else that stood out?”

“They were all dressed like the Blues Brothers. An even more exaggerated style than some of the FBI agents I’ve seen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Extremely thin ties. Poor-fitting dark suits. Non-western style hats. Pocket placement seemed off. Mr. Acorn would be a good choice for our initial debrief for the people.”

“Was thinking same thing. His German police contacts and his foreign intel associates are some of the best.”

Doc Sanders rose to wait for Hawkin and O’Brien. They went to the side of the road and stopped where the dirt joined the fine gravel of the road shoulder. Master Sergeant Hawkin pulled out a small throwing knife and started to draw a diagram. “We are well to the west of 62. I think this road is still L469, at least there was sign that said such a few hundred meters to the east. We need to find a road heading north. If I remember correctly, there is a small, unmaintained road that we can intercept to take us back east that turns into a dirt trail over the hill that the 62 tunnel goes through. Most of the route is forestry, so would be easy to escape and evade if they are still looking for us, if that is what they were doing.”

Sgt Norton, a bit uncertain, asked, “Where does the trail take us, top?”

“Dumps us into a residential area that is just south of Landstuhl RMC. Comments, O’Brien?”

“Nope. Lets move. What you think, top? Stay in-line, spaced about three to five meters?”

“Yes, that’s good. I’ll take point until we find the road, then O’Brien takes us back the last two or three clicks to the residential area.”

The four men moved down the road at a fast trot, turned north for another click of running. O’Brien took the lead when Hawkin pointed east down a single-lane road. O’Brien liked this type of cross-country running. He slowly increased speed when the road turned into a dirt trail and started uphill until Hawkin gave a short whistle to retrieve his errant Marine.

“Damn, I know you stupid jarheads love this shit, but slow down a little?”

“No problemo, top. Sorry about that. I do like cross-country, and this forest stuff is really cool shit.”

MSgt Hawkin had other ideas.

“Doc Sanders, take point until we get into the residential area.”

Sanders and O’Brien exchanged smirks when the doc trotted past O’Brien to take the lead. The first thing that Norton and Hawkin noticed after a short distance was that the pace was not significantly slower. Hawkin resigned himself to the treachery of the Navy/Marine team with the knowledge that it was less than two clicks to the residential area.

Acorn placed a computer in front of O’Brien with multiple images queued up from various intel and law enforcement databases. After about 100 images, O’Brien had identified four of the five SUV occupants.

“All are eastern Europeans with well-known links to various Russian Mafia organizations. But of the most interest are the two vehicles. Both are registered to the Berlin office of an American investment firm recently acquired by The First International Bank Of New York.”

“One of the same two banks with accounts your people traced to nationalists groups in North America and Neo-Nazis in Europe?”

“Precisely one and the same, staff sergeant.”

Major Gomez, having finished the instrumentation and telemetry setup for the coming session, pushed away from her monitors and data acquisition machines to watch and listen to O’Brien and Acorn. While she had been vetted and cleared, none of the medical people had been formally debriefed per the internal battles being waged with various fringe groups. Her brother had frequently warned her that nationalists groups would eventually organize to penetrate federal agencies and occupy positions of power and influence. After O’Brien’s comment, they both fell silent, so she decided it was time to see what all of this security drama was about.

“Staff Sergeant O’Brien, are you and Mr. Acorn saying that extremists are taking over the federal government?”

O’Brien and Acorn were focused and had failed to realize, in any conscious manner, the major’s presence. O’Brien, not wanting to violate op-sec or national security, did not respond because he could not think of anyway to ‘safely’ answer her question. Acorn’s people had already done a partial background on Major Gomez, so he was less concerned about ‘bringing her into the fold.’

“No, Major. The opposite would be true. We are taking over or eliminating their cells. We believe that most of these embedded groups that are within CONUS have been identified and neutralized or isolated before they could become operationally effective. The remaining groups and many of their people that are operating independently are the leaders and organizers, or are ‘third-party’ groups operating in the EU and Southwest Asia. Some of the fascist leaders are politically powerful and are industry leaders. These people are the most dangerous and the most difficult to neutralize or isolate.”

Major Gomez was ill at ease by the CIA agent’s reply. Her question was direct.

“So whom is winning?”

“If you would have asked me that three or four days ago, I would have only been able to provide an indeterminate response. But with the recent material evidence and intel gathered in Germany, Italy, Afghanistan, and Iraq, we have filled in major gaps in the identification of goals and organizational structures and members of these groups. So I do believe that we are winning.”

That same question had been a recurring thought for O’Brien. But Pistochini was now his principal concern.

“Ma’am, what time is the next session re-scheduled?”

“Doctor Kenney said before 1530, And Petty Officer Sanders asked for you to meet him at the dining facility at 1230.”

“Aye, ma’am. thanks. And I think that you should know that Sergeant Pistochini’s wounds were a direct result of these internal battles. Pistochini and myself both feel that the future and security of The Republic are being decided now ... Mr Acorn, want to join me and Sanders for chow?”

“No, but thanks. I have some reports to submit and I need to talk to our Frankfurt people.”

With that, O’Brien went to shower and changed into utilities for chow.

Major Gomez sat across from Acorn.

“What can you tell me about Sergeant Pistochini and Staff Sergeant O’Brien? Or is that also a state secret?”

“Actually, some of it is classified. O’Brien is considered one of the most brilliant tactical shooters alive. He has been awarded several bronze stars, two silver stars, and the Navy Cross. The citation for the cross is heavily redacted - as much for political reasons as for opsec. Obviously, he is one of the most decorated soldiers or Marines. I have found him to be a well-controlled and logical and reasonable man, He is known to be very controlled under fire. I have not personally known him for that long. O’Brien is revered, almost deified, by members of his platoon. Sergeant Pistochini is very much his protege. Pistochini is well-reasoned, an excellent small-unit leader that is respected and loved by his subordinates, and has been awarded three bronze stars, a silver star, and some and other stuff. I have been with Pistol’s team on two missions. He has never shown indecision in combat, always puts his troops first when the mission allows, and has the uncanny ability to find and hit his target while under fire. He has killed the enemy after he was severely wounded. His troops seem to thrive on his strength of character.”

“Interesting. What can you tell me about the relationship between O’Brien and Pistochini?”

“Obviously very close. They have been through more than one deployment together. Most of what I know is what Pistochini has told me about Staff Sergeant O’Brien. They are both very intelligent. They routinely do algebra and trig in their heads to calculate ballistic trajectories. O’Brien has apparently acquired and mastered differential calculus and basic physics on his own and has taught much of it to his platoon. O’Brien uses Pistol as a sounding board for his tactical and logistical ideas. They are both Star Trek fans, but they like to scoff at the idea that humans are capable of any such utopic society. Now that I have spent some time with O’Brien, I find that his sensibilities and logic to have been either mirrored by Pistol, or that Pistochini and O’Brien are simply two very similar people.”