A Dream of Nines
Although a military dream, the aspect of nines being repeated struck me more.
The perspective was interesting. I was up above the scene, looking down on everything, following ‘me’ around. I was in the military again, young again, a young NCO again, at a new command post again, and I was nervous. I knew an exercise was kicking off. I worried about being up to it. Being led around the console areas by a young, nervous officer, I was being shown dozens of things simultaneously. Several other controllers were already on duty, tracking aircraft, on the phones with the squadrons and theater headquarters, or on the radio with aircraft or ground operations. A lot was going on and I was a little dizzy with it.
Per standard procedure, the command post was a secure area. A cypher lock was on the door. I’d been given the combination and was walking around repeating it to myself as I took in everything. The numbers were six three one eight. I kept saying them to myself under my breath, “Six three one eight, six three one eight.” Meanwhile, others had come in, taking up positions up in the battle staff and over on the reports console.
Then, as I was listening to the officer, following him, repeating the numbers, I thought, six plus three equals nine. One plus eight equals nine. I looked at the clocks. The local time was almost six AM but it was almost nine PM GMT. The officer said, “It’s going to start at nine Zee.”
That’s nine Zulu, aka, nine GMT. I acknowledged that but thought, “Six plus three equals nine and one plus eight equals nine, and nine plus nine equal eighteen. If you break that down, one plus eight equals nine.”
Looking around, I realized, there were nine people in the sprawling command post now, including me. Then the officer said, “It’s nine Zee, time to begin.” Emergency Action lines began ringing. As controllers turned on the red lights, secured the console zone, and put the EAL on speaker, the officer looked at me and said, “Let’s get started.”
I replied, “Okay.”
Dream end.
The Joseph Cotten Dream
Yes, it was another military dream, this one featuring a chief master sergeant (E9) named Cotten who looked just like the late actor, Joseph Cotten.
It started with recovery from military action where several of my people had been killed. I was angry about it because I felt that a planning fuckup was to blame. We were in retreat and recovery mode, filling up a large hangar at night. As people sat in folding mental chairs, some young officer came in shouting about it being fine, not to worry, everything went well. His announcement infuriated me. I snapped, “It’s not fucking fine, sir, it’s not fine when some of my people are dead.”
He responded by circling around me, pointing a finger and demanding to know what I said as everyone else stopped to watch and listen. I repeated it all. Still walking and pointing a finger at me, he warned, “You better check your attitude, the general won’t like that.”
I replied, “I don’t give a shit what the general likes, sir.”
Chief Cotten came over to calm me and the rest down. Yeah, soothing words and a smarmy attitude were employed, which I wasn’t in the mood to swallow. He suggested we have a cuppa coffee and a chat, verifying my name, then trying to flatter me into being more reasonable, telling me, “I’ve heard of you, you have a big rep. Everyone is expecting a lot from you.” I walked away from him, pissing him off, but I was beyond caring.
In a dream shift, I was sitting at a table when several young officers came in, offering me burgers. The burgers were leftovers from somewhere, but they thought I probably hadn’t eaten and would like them. I was pleased and grateful they thought of me and ate the big ol’ burgers with a grin, enjoying every bite.
Another dream shift found us preparing for an exercise. I was late in arriving but queued up in the long, single-file line. Chief Cotten joined me, asking me how I was doing, giving me a cuppa coffee to drink while I waited my turn. Like everyone else, I was in my woodland camoes, but I realize everyone else seemed to have mobility bags and helmets. I had neither. Getting rid of the coffee and leaving the line, I went around asking questions about what was going on and why I wasn’t given a mob bag. No one could answer but another senior NCO suggested that I just take what I needed.
Still cranky, I found a mob bag but when I opened it, there was a thin pink bedspread inside, like the one that used to be on my mother’s guest bed. What the fuck, I thought, which was where the dream ended.
Michael Seidel, writer 