nothing happens. Nothing at all. Bucharest is like our old wild west. Anything goes.
A couple of hours later, adrenaline still coursing through my system, I take a sleeping pill. 9:00 am is coming quickly, and I need to sleep. So how do I describe the most unusual event that happens next?
Well, I have a dream.
Why is that unusual, you might ask? Because I rarely dream. My nights are peaceful and boring. But God compensates; I can join someone else’s dream if invited, and I can do that at a very high level of proficiency.
In this dream, I see the same beautiful girl in the bar, and she notices me. Wearing a brilliant smile and nothing else, she extends her right hand with long fingernails painted black, and I take it. She looks and feels good, and the dream ends right there. That’s it. For me, a remarkable event. I’m now wondering if she was inviting me into her dream. Another opportunity lost.
At 8:40 am, I hear a knock. I open the door to find three Romanian secret service agents who will escort me to the President’s ofifce. We take the elevator three flights down and walk out into pandemonium in the lobby. Police are everywhere, and the hotel entrance is cordoned off as a crime scene. I hand in my key and walk out of the hotel with my new best friends.
The School
Five Years Later
A two-story brick wall stretches fifty yards to my right and left. The wall is interrupted in the middle by a forbidding, rusted iron door wide enough to accept the occasional vehicle. This morning the door is shut. I look at the brick wall. I can make out one word in the stone above the door. I’m not fluent in Romanian, but I know the word “school.” This place can’t be a school; it’s a fortress.
A guard house looms about forty feet above. I look up into an ominous sky serving as background to the tower and shout, “Hey, anybody up there?”
My unexpected greeting creates a commotion resulting in heads popping out of the guard house and three rifles pointed haphazardly in my direction. I doubt these knuckleheads could hit me. One of the guards in the tower speaks broken English.
I rearrange his jumble of words and incorrect idioms to arrive at what I think he is saying: “This is a military installation, and you are in a restricted space. Place your hands in the air and state your name and purpose.” He sounds angry. Junior guys in Romania don’t like taking career risks.
I hold up a white envelope with my name engraved in gold letters. Hoping he understands more English than he can speak, I say, “My name is General Crew Thomas. I am an American invited by SRI General Director Helsing for a meeting tomorrow. My arrival date is today, and here I am.” They immediately pick up the phone, and the gate opens a few loud minutes later. I feel confident that in the decades-long history of the “school,” this is the first time an American has walked through this gate.
An apologetic General Helsing and a few of his staff greet me. One of them, a young woman, speaks nearly perfect English. “Good morning, General Thomas. Welcome to the school. Please tell us how you arrived here?” The female ofifcer is stunning. Dark brown hair, hazel eyes, perfect complexion, statuesque, great body. Head-turning in every way. This girl is unforgettable; she is the one. The girl I saw in the bar and my dream five years ago. She wears a uniform this time, and she is still a 10.
“May I know your name?” I try to sound casual, but my mind is a mess.
“General Thomas, I am Ofifcer Natalia Net of the SRI.”
Standing there with feet spread and arms hanging casually at his side, the general makes an excellent first impression. He’s confident, wiry, sports hazel eyes, and has big hands. I like big hands. There is nothing on his left ring finger. My gaze flits to his right hand, where I see a black onyx ring with a small diamond piercing the surface. My chest tightens. I’ve seen this man in a dream.
I glance at the onyx ring before settling in on his eyes. They have a touch of permanent and regal sadness.
He says, “Your position here, Ofifcer Net?” I’m nervous but try not to show it.
“I’m from Bucharest. My English is better than that of most government employees here, so they asked me to help.”
“I see. Thank you for helping. To answer your question, I walked.”
I know he’s lying, and I laugh, shake my head, and translate his words to blank stares. No one walks here.
The Astral Plane
Two Hours Earlier
A swirl of green and orange aurora borealis splash across the dark canvas of sky as I arrive 100 kilometers above the earth’s northern surface. Stars twinkle an invitation.
My name is Crew Thomas, and I’m addicted (in a nice way) to the Millennium-Falcon-like feeling I know is coming next: Hyper-acceleration through the astral plane and descent into the Hoia-Baciu Forest in Romania. Why there? It’s a long story, but I don’t mind.
In Romania, there is a girl. Not just any girl. A lucid dreamer who sees the future. She’s special. Natalia Net … Na. Ta. Lia. Net. It rings in my heart and soul like poetry, and I keep repeating it. Na. Ta. Lia. Net. I will find her and ask her to jump blindly and dangerously into my life. Most girls wouldn’t do that, of course. But she may. Rumor has it that Natalia Net is an assassin. If true, that’s a big plus.
My first stop today is the Hoia-Baciu, a centuries-old forest. Every Romanian knows that strange things happen there. But, most importantly, the gods blessed it with a gusher of energy that seeps through the ground, shared by all its creatures. I need a lot of energy, so I stop at the Hoia-Baciu whenever I travel to Europe.
You’re probably asking: Who is this guy? The answer is: I’m a ghost, a nobody. It was always that way. I grew up in a military family with a strict dad and a quiet mom. My dad was a control guy, so I didn’t have much spare time. To escape, I read science fiction and pretty much any science I could get my hands on. It paid off.
After my dad died young, I went off to college and figured out a couple of the missing links in quantum physics. That made me a freak. My dad would now marvel at my capabilities, at the hard work I put in. Maybe not. Perhaps he would simply give me his usual hitched nod, asking me what all this quantum garbage means. I imagine his reaction so that I can close this still-open chapter.
You probably haven’t a clue what quantum physics is. I explain it as an out-of-body experience; my consciousness separates from my body and travels through the astral plane. I can go almost anywhere. Sometimes my body and consciousness travel together. That’s a fancy way of describing the quantum sequence required to project my body for long distances. When I figured out a way to do that, people noticed. Not long after, I became a spy. That was a long time ago.
And today? The world is a mess. The Russians are winning the race to hypersonic missiles, and the Chinese are committed to winning the race to deep space. So, where does that leave us Americans?
In trouble.
With a downside scenario of global calamity, the CIA asked me to come out of retirement, astral project into the future, report on the relevant evil outcomes, and prevent them from happening. So much for retiring to a white sand beach. The problem is this: breaking the time barrier and traveling into the future can be accomplished only through a portal. Entering
