“So do I or I wouldn’t recommend you. You will report to Idaho Falls, Idaho. Here are your travel arrangements and agenda. Memorize the agenda and then dispose of it. You are to wear civilian clothes and your belongings will be shipped to you. The tickets are for civilian transport. You are to let your hair grow. You don’t leave for three weeks so hopefully you won’t look quite so military. We don’t want you to stand out any more than necessary. At least that’s the theory. Seals carry themselves in such a way that it’s hard to disguise, but do your best.”
“May I ask the name of the unit I will be assigned to?”
“You will be with a group only identified as STRIKE-1. The group is made up of special men, ones like you, from different military forces and backgrounds. They are a part of the SOG program. That’s all I am at liberty to tell you right now. When you get to Idaho Falls, you are to go to the hotel identified in your travel orders, check in and wait to be contacted.”
“Yes Sir, I understand Sir. Thank you for this opportunity, Sir.”
“No. Thank you and congratulations, and good luck. Do us proud.”
Miller left very surprised and curious about what this secret Strike-1 was all about. Harder than the Seals training? It must be some organization he concluded, to top what he had just been through.
Now he stood at the top of Heartbreak Hill, wondering what was in store for him when he left next week. He had immediately started on a rigorous PT program. The last thing he wanted to do was show up out of shape.
He spent time on the firing range, using the vast array of weapons available to the Seals. His hair was at an awkward stage. Not long enough to look like a civilian and not short enough to look like a Seal. He swam at least two miles every day and worked out with weights routinely.
Strike-1. What in the heck did they do? Anti-terrorist? First strike operations? A little of both? He knew what SOG was, Special Operations Group, but STRIKE-1 he was clueless about. Whatever it was, he was going to make sure he was ready both mentally and physically. He jogged down the hill and did a few cool down exercises before going back to the barracks and taking a long hot shower.
“Damn it. I do not understand what the hell is making this thing work. I understand the principle but ‘how’ does it do it exactly?” Dr. Stone said, tossing his clipboard on the table. It bounced once and clattered to the floor. He looked at it disgustedly.
“We’ll get it,” his assistant replied.
“When? I don’t have forever. I’ve been working on this thing for almost three years already and I’m just as baffled as when I started. If that little green hairless blob was well, maybe I could get some answers. They say he is dying. Over two hundred years old and he picks this particular time to croak,” the doctor said, picking up the clipboard.
“I don’t think he likes it much better than you do.”
“Did I ask? Do I care? I just want to know how this damn thing produces the anti-gravitational field. What is the process that allows the core material to produce the field? Look at the damn thing. It’s just a stupid sphere. What goes on to make the process happen? Until I know that, I can never duplicate this thing. They want answers and I don't have them,” he said.
“If you can’t figure it out, no one can. You are the top expert on propulsion in the world. You’ll get it,” the assistant insisted.
“I appreciate your support but right now I would much rather have a few answers. We have missed something. I know damn good and well the sphere container is holding the key. Something interacts when the core is put in place. What? Channeling the energy released is simple, but I need to understand the process if we are ever going to duplicate the damn thing. What am I missing?”
“Short of cutting the sphere open, I think you have done everything. You can’t do that; it might destroy the model,”
“I’m all too aware of that. Besides what could cut this damn material anyway? Damn it, why did that cretin “J” have to get so sick right now?”
“You need to take a break. Just walk away from it for a few hours. You know some of your best ideas have come after you quit pushing yourself so hard.”
“You’re right. It’s just that I hate to give up. How can something that appears so simple stump me so completely?”
The assistant knew there was nothing that he could say at this point that would help so he remained silent. The doctor walked around the sphere like that would produce some magical answer but none came.
Finally he stuffed his hands in his lab coat pockets and stormed out of the lab. His assistant was right. Looking at the damn thing wasn’t doing him one bit of good.
General Devin had been watching the doctor's rant over the security cameras that were concealed in the duct work. Maybe he didn’t have the right man for the job. After three years he had accomplished very little.
