Psychic Warrior by David Morehouse Page A

infantry was. I’d give a month’s pay just to see some dirty-faced troops for a week or so. I wouldn’t call this the army, Dad; it’s more like a highly paid, expensive boys’ club. Some of the guys in this organization are drawing extra-duty payments of over eight hundred dollars a month.”
    â€œFor what? Being spooks?”
    â€œIt’s a bit more criminal than that. The other day I was sitting in a meeting when the unit training officer informed the various commanders that there were still some people drawing demolition pay who hadn’t yet completed their quarterly qualifications. If they didn’t, they’d lose their pay for a month. The good part is this: the qualification involves detonating a simulated blasting device. Can you believe that? These guys are drawing demo pay for blowing up what amounts to an M-80 firecracker. It pisses me off to see it. I remember young Rangers who jumped in five gallons of fu-gas with a claymore mine taped to it to incinerate the objective. And hell, they did it every other week. I couldn’t have gotten them demolitions pay for that if I’d tried. And these guys get it for lighting firecrackers. It’s bullshit, Dad, pure bullshit.”
    â€œI don’t understand how they get away with it. Isn’t somebody watching for that type of abuse?”
    â€œI assume they are, but it’s a big army, and we tend to concentrate on what we can see, not what’s hidden from view under a cloak of secrecy. I saw a watch in a safe the other day that cost the taxpayers more than I made in three years. It was a prop that somebody in the unit used on a mission, as part of an alias. That would have bought me a lot of training ammunition when I was in the Rangers.”

    Dad touched my shoulder. “I know, son. It’s a pain in the ass when you see stuff like that. But I’m sure it has a purpose, somewhere. They’re probably working with the Agency when they pull some of this stuff—aren’t they?”
    â€œI don’t know. I doubt it. There seems to be a running battle between this unit and the CIA. If you were to ask me to vote, I’d vote to let the CIA do it. They know what they’re doing when it comes to this stuff; we don’t. Yeah, we’ve got some good people in the unit, but for the most part it’s a bunch of guys trying to play James Bond, and they aren’t any good at it. As a matter of fact they stink at it, and it’s embarrassing to the army to own these guys. The damned secretary of the army doesn’t like ‘em or trust ’em. But I told you that story already.” I glanced at my watch. “Look, it’s getting late, and tomorrow’s a workday. Let’s hit the sack. Good night, Dad. I love you, and thanks for being here.”
    He smiled and drained the last of his wine from the glass. “I love you, too. See you in the morning.”
    I checked on the children and finally lay down beside Debbie. She moved closer to me in her sleep as I lay on top of the covers, my hands behind my neck. I watched the fan on the ceiling spin as I lost myself in thought and quietly drifted into sleep.
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    My eyes opened to the darkness of the room. Above me the fan stopped cold in its tracks. I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to see the rest of the room with my peripheral vision. I couldn’t feel Debbie next to me on the bed. I was alone. I tried to call her name, but nothing came from my mouth, as if some powerful thing refused to let air or sound escape from me. Again I tried to speak, but my throat only grew tighter.
    I tried to raise myself, but the pressure of a dozen unseen hands pressed me back into the bed. I tried to scream, but couldn’t make a sound. All that came from me was a gagging hiss of air. My arms wouldn’t leave the position they were in, and I felt as though I were sinking into the bed,
deeper, deeper. I could