The Dream Jumper's Promise

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

            Jamey parked himself in Pops’ deck lounger with an ice cold beer and stared out at the lavender sunset. Soon the beach would be dark below. It was his favorite time of day to walk along the surf line. Good thinking time. For one thing, he needed to decide what he would do if he couldn’t dream jump anymore. Back in Kandahar they’d asked him to lay off any jumping on leave but that was a ridiculous suggestion.  He needed to know if he was done with it forever.

            The day he left for Ramstein in Germany his superior officer, Sergeant Milton, drove him to the plane. “Take a break, Private.” He put the jeep in park. “And I highly recommend you don’t dream jump.”

            Jamey nodded, not sure he’d do that, grabbed his duffel out of the back. He boarded the plane with the two burly body guards who would accompany him from Afghanistan to Ramstein Airbase in Germany, then on to America. Once on American soil, the guards would return to Sixth Force in Afghanistan.

            Known only as ‘Freud’ in Sixth Force, Jamey took every precaution imaginable to insure he wasn’t followed or recognized after he left Kandahar. His long, shaggy hair came off on the plane ride to Germany, along with his facial hair and the fake glasses. Luckily he’d never gotten a tattoo and had no easily identified marks on his body. Not that anyone else could see. Several flights and days to get home, under several names and passports, and he finally made it.

            The last jump for the army had almost done him in. He’d been revived and rushed to the base hospital when his heart stopped. He heard later that, not only had Jamey been seen by the dreamer, but the army had killed the dreamer because of it. Freud vehemently protested the extermination of the enemy soldier. “You’re nothing but murderers!” he’d shouted at his superior officers. “You didn’t need to do that. He was just a kid. You’re fucking, God-damned killers.”

            “Private, we understand you’re upset but our protocol in a situation like this...”

            “There is no protocol for something like this! I’m the only fucking dream jumper and if I’m willing to risk it...” Damn, he felt like a murderer. After that, he’d spent hours in the psychiatrist’s chair, trying to justify what happened, figuring out his part in the thing. Trouble was they’d covertly assassinated the dreamer before giving it enough thought and all contact with the prisoner was lost--unless you counted Jamey’s recurring dream that he sliced the young man’s head off with a sword. That doozy came every night for a month, then tapered off to every-so-often.

            Sixth Force gave Freud three months leave knowing he might be finished jumping forever. All attempts at jumping before he left Afghanistan had been met with failure, as though he’d never been able to slip into dreams again.

            “Get your skills back,” they’d said, like it was as easy as that. Jamey didn’t know if he was done forever but was glad for some time off, time away from the desert of Afghanistan, the constant worry of being shot or bombed, eating army food. He hadn’t been home in almost ten months and his arms were aching to hold his daughters.

            With the physical transformation complete, Jamey took commercial flights from Atlanta to Chicago to Dallas where he barely made a flight to Mexico City. Then headed north to Houston and then Seattle. He’d changed disguises and passports five times and when he was sure he wasn’t being followed, he called Pops to meet him at SeaTacAirport. He thought his father would never let go when he wrapped his arms around him. “I missed you, Jamey.” The tears in his father’s eyes had him feeling guilty for how he spent his life these days.