Dream War Read online

  Dream War

  Stephen Prosapio

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  Copyright © 2007 & 2010 by Stephen Prosapio

  Cover design by Patti Corcoran

  [email protected]

  ISBN 978-0-615-38776-5

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  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  Dedicated to Carmine Prosapio

  and dreams that come true.

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  “Because the CIA is secret, it is also insular;

  because it is elitist, it is also unaccountable.”

  — Newsweek, October 10, 1994

  *****

  - Introduction -

  Given the mysteries of the human mind, it was perhaps inevitable that the CIA would one day invade our dreams.

  Since the beginning of human history, dreams have been considered an element of the supernatural world. The Jewish Torah and the Christian Bible tell stories of them used as divine messages, warnings, and visions. Mohammed claimed to have received much of the Koran from dreams.

  As civilization progressed, great warriors and generals used dreams to inspire themselves and their men in battle. Legend holds that Spartacus, the leader of the most successful slave uprising against Rome, was told in a dream the exact time to initiate his revolt. Hundreds of years later, Emperor Constantine dreamt of the cross and the quote, “In this sign, you shall conquer.” When Constantine ordered crosses placed on the uniforms of his men the next morning before battle, his outnumbered forces prevailed altering the course of history. Christianity became the state religion of the Roman Empire.

  By the Middle Ages, dreams had fallen into the realm of the occult and were viewed as shameful and sinful. In 1431, even after countless victories in France, Joan of Arc was put to death for her visions. Religious leaders believed that, since the Church alone could interpret God’s Word, visions and revelations made directly to individuals must be demonic or sent directly from the Devil.

  It wasn’t until 1899 that Sigmund Freud became the first to suggest that dreams are linked to a person’s particular psychological issues and are a link to a person’s subconscious mind. His work, as well as that of Carl Jung led to Oneirology, the scientific study of dreams.

  In 1953, Dr. Nathaniel Kleitman discovered that during specific periods of sleep, humans experienced “rapid eye movements,” or REM. Later studies furthered the hypothesis that the REM stage of sleep either caused dreams, or vice versa.

  During the 1960s and early 1970s, the Harvard Laboratory of Neurophysiology conducted extensive studies which determined that REM sleep originates with the release of a chemical called acetylcholine. This brain-produced substance activates a region at the base of the brain called the pons. Latin for “bridge,” the pons transport signals to the brain’s frontal region called the thalamus, which in turn passes them along to the cerebral cortex for interpretation. These signals bombard the sleeping mind with images. Simply put, one part of the brain creates images, while the other attempts to decipher them.

  After his participation in Oneirology studies at Harvard, Dr. Bernard Hyde made a ground-breaking discovery. He documented that as individuals experience dream visualizations, heart rates change, breathing rates decline, and brainwaves are altered. He further postulated that dreams cause brains to emit endorphins and an electrochemical element that is unique to each individual’s brain. Essentially, he’d discovered what would later be referred to in layman’s terms as a “dream-print.” Hyde’s experiments continued through the 1970s while he taught at La Sapienza University in Rome.

  Once the CIA learned that Dr. Hyde had successfully designed a system for cataloging dream-prints, they called him back to the States and funded a shell organization—the Oneirology Institute of America. From that point, his work was their property and became highly classified. A leak, the last known one, surfaced in July, 1980. It reported the development of a bleeding-edge device—NOCTURN, a slightly altered acronym for Night-Oriented Connection To Uncover and Retrieve iNformation. According to the report, which was quickly squelched in the interests of national security, Hyde’s team had learned to “translate” brainwaves of their subjects. Additionally, NOCTURN integrated systems that utilized satellite imagery, combined with electronic sensors, to locate and read the brainwaves of various subjects. Moreover, it could then transmit images into the brainwaves of the target subject, actually affecting his dreams.

  It wasn’t long before they developed a method for linking the brainwaves of an operative to the sleeping brainwaves of a subject.

  The CIA was, as is sometimes said in the intelligence community, “flying through green lights.” Perhaps the next step, as well as the subsequent string of events, was inevitable. Disastrous, but nonetheless inevitable.

  - Chapter One -

  October 15, 1980 – Camp Pendleton, Oceanside, CA

  Santa Ana winds pummeled the C-130 Hercules cargo plane. Retrofitted with rocket engines for super STOL—short takeoff and landing, the aircraft touched down amidst a deafening explosion. Smoke billowed around it obstructing any view the men had of the outside world. As they rapidly slowed, Lieutenant Hector Lopez glanced at Corporal Joe Imbo. Lopez somehow sensed—he just knew—that Imbo’s exit from the aircraft was going to be late.

  Positioned at the door, Sgt. Silverman slid it open. Without hesitation, Lopez leapt through the portal of the aircraft dropping to ground hardened by a summer of Southern California sun and heat. Remnants of rocket fuel invaded his nose causing his eyes to water.

  The maneuver was part of a training mission designed to hone his team’s every movement. Rescue plans called for them to be the first Marines to exit Amjadieh Stadium and hit the streets of Tehran. According to Commander-in-Chief Jimmy Carter, the hostages in Iran had suffered through 345 days in captivity and he did not want them spending another holiday season as prisoners.

  Another burst of Santa Ana—Lopez’s people called it Devil’s Wind—threw Imbo off balance in the doorway and delayed him by a fraction of a second. An inch taller than Lopez at five feet, eleven inches, it didn’t help that Imbo was frail and underweight. Most of his crew had been surprised that his frame had supported him through boot camp.

  “Abort. Abort. Goddamn it, Corporal Imbo,” Lieutenant Colonel Moats yelled through the headset. “How many times are we gonna hafta practice this mission to get your goddamned exit on time?”

  “This one’s on me, sir,” Lopez lied into his microphone. “I jumped out too quickly.”

  Silhouetted in the predawn sky, Moats strode toward him.

  “Lieutenant Lopez, I saw eight servicemen die in the Iranian desert when Operation Eagle Claw went horseshit,” he shouted without a tinge of civility in his Missouri accent. “Do you wanna be one of them because an incompetent subordinate isn’t there to provide you cover?”

  �
�No, sir.”

  “Then run it again!”

  They practiced the landing and exit maneuvers perfectly the next time.

  And the next.

  And half a dozen more times before 0630.

  The previous attempt to rescue the hostages had been an embarrassment for the entire United States military. Their mission, Operation Credible Sport, had no margin for error.

  “Lieutenant Lopez, meet me at midfield.” Moats’ voice crackled over the headset.

  Imbo and Silverman stared wide-eyed, and then looked away. Lopez jogged along the line of three C-130’s toward where Moats was barking orders to other soldiers. As he passed the second of the turboprop aircrafts, two of his men, Henderson and Prie, appeared in the doorway and saluted him. He nodded in their direction.

  “Turn off your mike,” Moats said, doing the same. He was six feet, two inches, and a few years older than Lopez—maybe thirty, but with a baby face. Lopez suspected that Moats still occasionally got carded buying alcohol—if he ever bought alcohol. The Colonel’s boyish looks did not represent his personality or his demeanor with his men.

  “Yes, sir,” Lopez said.

  “I’m gonna personally take these men through this a few more times, Lieutenant. I need you to shower up quick-like and report to building 51919, conference room C.”

  Confused, Lopez squinted.

  “Well, nothing’s official,” Moats said, “but the rumor is that you may be getting a new assignment. There’s someone waiting for you who came all the way from Langley.”

  *****

  Wearing his green service uniform, Lopez strode toward 51919 and donned a pair of mirrored sunglasses that made him look even more like a military version of Erik Estrada.

  Chicas think these look cool.

  A rather pointless thought since he already had a girlfriend, one who had been waiting weeks for him to get a day off.

  Lopez imagined someone from CIA headquarters to be something of a Darth Vader. Instead, waiting for him in the drab conference room was a nerdy-looking Archie Bunker. He wore wrinkled khakis and a short-sleeved, plaid shirt—an outfit that appeared to have been thrown together quickly, as if mundane tasks such as getting dressed annoyed him. His hairline’s inevitable retreat wasn’t masked by a failed comb over; it had merely been cut short. He neither nodded a greeting nor offered a handshake.

  “Lieutenant Lopez, I’m sorry for the last-minute nature of this meeting,” the overweight man said, his voice devoid of emotion. “I am Doctor Bernard Hyde. I’d hoped to meet you a week ago, but I have been traveling rather extensively.” He motioned to a chair.

  Lopez sat down, but just to be a smartass, left his sunglasses on. “What do you mean by ‘last minute,’ sir?”

  “What has Colonel Moats told you thus far?”

  “Basically…nothing, sir.”

  Dr. Hyde grunted. “Military Communication.” He spit the words out as though they had over ripened in his mouth.

  “Well, Lieutenant, the reason for my visit with you here today is important. I need to share a great deal of information with you before we begin your training tomorrow—”

  “Excuse me, Dr. Jekyll.” Adopting Cheech Marin’s exaggerated accent amplified Lopez’s sarcasm. “Bay-sick-lee, in case you hadn’t heard, I’m on R and R tomorrow and am already assigned to Operation Cred—”

  Lopez stopped mid-word, not sure how much information this stranger was privy to.

  “Yes, yes, I know about Operation Credible Sport, also known as Project Honey Badger. Wherever do they get these names?”

  “We were told that the CIA has a whole team of monkeys working on them…sir.”

  Hyde appeared only mildly annoyed and, aside from his clothing, unruffled.

  “Well, Hector, you’re soon to be a former Marine. You’re coming to work for me.”

  Lopez took off his sunglasses. “What are you talking about?”

  Hyde picked up the top page of a thick file on the conference table.

  “‘Based on his spotless performance reports and,’ I am quoting here Lieutenant, ‘an amazing ability to learn and communicate not only in Spanish, French and Italian, but also Russian, Arabic, Farsi, and Chinese, we believe Lieutenant Hector Lopez would make an exceptional foreign agent.’”

  “Gee, and here I had my heart set on being a bullfighter.”

  “‘Furthermore,” Hyde continued over him, “his attitude endears him to new recruits. Training and mentoring come naturally to him. Enlisted men trust and look to him for leadership. He has excellent potential, provided he can learn to deal with bureaucratic issues.’ Does this signature look familiar?”

  Hyde held the memo up for inspection. Lopez recognized the signature of Lieutenant Colonel Moats. Why hadn’t Moats prepared him for this meeting?

  “Now for the hard part, Lieutenant. Have you had any experiences considered to be paranormal?”

  Lopez’s heart beat faster. He had no idea how much they knew, so he tried to conceal his emotions. Both his mother and his grandmother believed in the supernatural and often consulted psychics. Rumor had that his great grandfather had immigrated to Mexico from Haiti under mysterious circumstances and had been involved with Voodoo.

  Lopez pointed to the folder. “Obviously, you know. You tell me.”

  “The organization I founded, the Oneirology Institute of America, the OIA—”

  “OIA? “ Lopez snorted. “Cute name.”

  “Lieutenant, I need you to be serious. We have recently concluded important scientific research and are currently implementing our discoveries into a paramilitary operation. It may sound like something from a science fiction film, but I assure you it’s not.”

  Hyde’s speech captured Lopez’s attention and apparently, his question about the paranormal had nothing to do with the Lopez family tree.

  “Okay, go for it.”

  “I don’t need to detail for you the shifting landscape of world affairs. From this hostage situation in Iran to last year’s thirty-seven percent rise in hijackings, it’s clear we need to develop new ways to maintain stability.” Hyde paused and took a deep breath. “For the past several years we’ve been investigating scientific techniques to secretly extract information from the minds of our enemies.”

  Lopez had been drumming his fingers on the table. He stopped.

  “Lieutenant, we at the OIA intend to accomplish this by linking our agents’ brainwaves to those of our enemies and entering into their dreams.”

  Lopez opened his mouth to say something funny and then stopped, uncertain whether to be intrigued or appalled.

  “I want you to be the first to utilize our technology.”

  “You want me to become a dream spy?” Lopez asked.

  “Precisely.”

  Rumors about the CIA delving into paranormal technologies circulated both the military and popular culture frequently. One suggested that the government was using astral projection to keep tabs on the Russians, but in most circles these rumors were explained away as urban legends.

  “Okay, assuming this is actually possible, why me?” Lopez asked. “I mean why not a psychologist, or a dream specialist, or something like that?”

  Hyde closed his file. “We did indeed consider psychologists, teachers, dream experts, athletes—everything this side of astronauts—for this kind of work, however, the true nature of this job is espionage.”

  “What about Credible Sport? What about my team?”

  “If we can get you up to speed soon enough, you may be able to help them with that operation. If not, the other members of your team will be joining you at OIA in due time.”

  Lopez couldn’t think of anything to say. He wondered how much Moats had known of these plans.

  Hyde continued. “You’ve been groomed for this since you joined the Marine Corps.”

  “I have?”

  Hyde smiled sardonically. “Why did you think they were spending all that time and money teaching you foreign languages—especially so man
y of the languages of our enemies?”

  “You mean you’re not sending me and some hot blondes away on some foreign exchange program?”

  Hyde shook his head slowly from side to side, as though wondering what kind of spy he’d recruited. “Special Agent Lopez, you can trade in your uniform for civilian clothes. Your training begins tomorrow at 0600.”

  *****

  Fifteen days after his initial meeting with Hyde, Lopez killed the engine of his Kawasaki Z1000 at OIA headquarters. Located just down the street from the McClellan-Palomar Airport in Carlsbad, Ca lifornia, it sat slightly elevated and set back from the street. The façade was covered with reddish, marble tiles and tinted windows. On each side of the wide, two-story building, flat walls book-ended a semicircular line around the front of the building. Willow trees, somewhat rare in southern California, had been planted to follow the building’s curve, which further secluded it from the street.

  Lopez walked past a large, white, marble fountain; a light layer of mist cooled his face. He passed through the revolving door and signed in at the security desk next to a set of elevators. It was to be a special day—his first dream link.

  For the past two weeks, he’d been poked and prodded more times than a piñata at a birthday party. In addition to the tests, he’d worked with experts in Arab culture, military intelligence specialists, and dream-analyst psychologists.

  He entered the elevator that would take him to the OIA labs. The interior was metal; the walls looked as though they’d been alternatively polished and scratched with some bizarre cleaning device. He couldn’t be inside without imagining it was somehow like being on the inside of a bullet.

  The elevator doors opened to a hallway wall adorned with black and white photographs. The two pictures immediately opposite the elevator seemed to Lopez to be Dr. Hyde’s version of an inside joke. They were Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung—the men who’d started the scientific study of dreaming.

  “Welcome back, Hector.”

  Startled, Lopez flinched. It was Hyde.

  “Amazing. You always know when I arrive, Dr. Hyde,” Lopez said. “You still don’t trust me to be here alone yet, do you?”

  Hyde ignored the question and motioned for Lopez to follow him down the hallway in the direction of his office.