LITMIR.BIZ

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light?” The general was expecting such questions and had his answers prepared.

      “They were spies, Captain,” he replied. “Israeli and British agents disguised as commoners who were being picked up by helo transport. We intercepted them before they could escape.” The young officer looked confused.

      “But sir, they’re just peasants. Men and women.”

      “Come with me,” the general ordered as he walked toward the heap of bodies. When they arrived at its edge, he reached down and pulled up the left arm of one of the corpses. “Look here.” He put his own flashlight on the dead man’s wrist. Just below the palm was a metallic object resembling a coin embedded just under the skin.

      “Look there. Another one, and another. They all have them.”

      “What is it?”

      “Information,” answered the general. “Computer chips filled with intelligence, our intelligence, Captain; surgically implanted. Look at their clothes. They’ve been living among us for years.”

      “But how do they put information into-”

      “That’s not for us to know, Captain.” The general was getting irritated at the questions now. “It’s a KGB issue and they’ve been hunting these people down for months.” The answer seemed to satisfy the young officer. He nodded his head as he looked around at the other bodies.

      “Makes sense. That would eliminate the need to carry documents or equipment to get by any check post.” He turned his face to the general with a new question. “But that helo, General. The power and that sound! That light! I’ve never—”

      “Enough questions for tonight, Captain.” The general turned away dismissively. “You will bring back a detail, burn the bodies, and-” He turned back to face the young man. “You will tell your men to mention nothing of this mission. Nothing. This is a matter of national security. If word does get out, Captain,” his voice lowered menacingly. “I’ll have you shot on sight.” The young man stood quickly at attention and saluted rigidly as the general walked off.

      Letting out a long breath of relief, he knelt down to the body at his feet and inspected the wrist again. There were markings barely visible on the chips that were raised on the skin. They seemed to shimmer, as well. He turned the arm in different angles but couldn’t make out what the markings were. He looked around to make sure no one was watching or moving in his direction, then unclipped his six-inch survival knife. He quickly made an incision in the wrist and removed the chip. He dropped the arm, returned the knife to its sheath and cleaned the surface of the chip with snow. He inspected it closely, bringing the flashlight a few centimeters from its surface. The markings did not resemble any formal letters or numbers, but some sort of precise engravings, a diagram or schematic studded with crystals the size of pinheads.

      “EVERYONE BACK DOWN THE HILL! BACK TO THE TRUCKS!” he heard the general yell in the distance. The captain quickly placed the chip inside his inner uniform breast pocket beneath his heavy winter coat. He stood up, looked around casually and merged along with the rest of his men back to the ridge and down to the trucks.

      Chapter 1

      All in the Family

      Have you ever met someone for the first time, and you don’t see them again, yet one day you have a dream in which you’re having sex with them?

      Or, you know someone you don’t like, or who doesn’t like you; then you have a dream about them in which they’re nice to you or laughing with you; then the next day you look at them in a positive light?

      Or, you dream about someone whom you’ve loved but has been dead for awhile; and in the dream, he or she is younger, healthy and talking and joking with you like they’ve never left?

      I’ve been having a somewhat different kind of dream, and it’s recurring. I’ve been having this dream for a month now. It’s very bizarre, vivid and detailed. It’s about one of my patients whom I’ve not yet met; and although I’ve never met him, it’s as if I’ve known him all my life. Another strange thing is, anyone who happens to be a patient of mine is in very dire straits clinically-damaged both physically and mentally beyond measure. Yet, the ‘patient’ in my dream is perfectly normal, lucid and incredibly intelligent.

      There is another part of the dream that just doesn’t make sense at all. This patient of mine is holding a coin, maybe a quarter. He holds it up to me and it’s not a coin at all, but some metallic disk that emanates thin beams of light. As I move closer to him, I see that there are markings on the disk. Not words, not letters, not numbers, not squiggly lines; but precise angled lines-intricate groves that sparkle. It looks like a glowing computer chip.

      Then my patient is saying something that makes no sense at all. He repeats a question over and over to me. I have no answer and I shake my head, but he keeps asking me:

      “Are you the commander?”

      “Who’s the commander?” I ask.

      “Are you the commander?”

      “I don’t know who he is.”

      “ARE YOU THE COMMANDER!?”

      Then I wake up. It’s the same every time.

      I had that dream again last night, and now that I’m on the road, I can’t seem to stop thinking about it. Well, I’ll think about all that later. I’ve gotta find this guy. I quickly glance at a few photos I have sitting on the passenger’s seat. None of them are close ups or very clear. They are shots taken from my car with my cell. They are all bad quality either because of the distance, or that the car was moving, whatever. The point is, I would have done a better job at tracking this guy but at the time, he wasn’t on my radar.

      His name is Doug Tuckman, or as the facilitators at the mental ward called him “Doogie.” I recently got his file from the Alameda public psychiatric hospital in Oakland which, because of budget cuts, de-institutionalized him over six years ago, and sent him to one of the equally underfunded homeless boarding houses in Richmond.

      According to the house’s superintendent, after less than a year, Doogie just packed up his stuff and walked out one night, never to be seen again. This was common. Some tenants were drifters, staying long enough to get their strength up with the food and rest before moving on. Others found new drug connections across town and ended up dead there. While others were accepted into better accommodations like finding jobs and paying their own rent, living with a roommate, or entering back into their family’s loving arms.

      There was no such luck for Doogie. He didn’t have the financial means theoretically to live with anyone. And when I went to visit his family three days ago at their mansion in Sausalito, I was expecting a more constructive conversation and a plan that afternoon from such an established family. I got neither.

      Hugely successful, well-connected, and self-entitled with millions in investments and real estate, the Tuckmans were your typical rich, White, one-percent family that the rich White one- percent Republican politicians will do anything to protect.

      I sat down with them to talk about Doogie. I purposely left his files in my briefcase so I could gauge their attitude and concern in its most sincere state. I simply asked questions. They simply smiled and deflected my questions. They dismissed their son and brother with the indifferent phrase I’ve come to expect from affluent families who disassociate themselves from their homeless, disabled or down-on-their-luck kin:

      “We did everything we could, but he decided to go his own way.”

      Did they do everything they could? I doubted that very much. With their money, Doogie could have had his own apartment near the mental health center where he could regularly have treatments, medications, counseling and a place to keep him grounded and safe. In fact, The Tuckman Foundation, or TFT, a property and computer security company founded by Doogie’s father Blaine Tuckman, could have done so much more, including paying for a series of experimental or break-through treatments.

      “We sent him to the

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