Phantom Static
The old timers say that if you listen closely at night, you can hear voices in the static from the AM skip. There were a hundred theories for this; transmissions from trucks driving on the highway, frequency bleed from the spectrum, space aliens. I heard it all from these knob jockeys but, what they didn’t prepare me for, was the night it happened to me.
It was my turn on radio watch, which I didn’t mind. The day was filled with communications checks and protocol review. My guard shack was only fifteen minutes from the interstate where the stray transmission would come over the wire from a unaware CB radio handle. The shack itself had some amenities that felt like a palace, a coffee maker with actual mugs, a mini fridge, and a toaster. As my Sergeant explained, a microwave would interfere with the equipment.
Sergeant Meyers would patrol the perimeter every two hours on the dot, claimed it kept him from getting D.V.T.’s. He would leave me to my own devices, which I reviewed protocol and standing orders. In the attempt to curry favor and build trust, I tried to drink the bitter coffee black and it grew on me. As the day slipped to the evening, SGT Meyers patrols died down.
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At dusk, the radio traffic died off completely, leaving the two of us and a humming radio. I was starting to nod off when I heard the chirp of the radio security. For a moment, I thought I had heard someone breathing on the other side, but only for a moment. I looked over and Meyers had slipped off, no doubt this must be a prank. So, I ignored it.
A while later, I saw Meyers and his flashlight shining out by the gate, when another transmission came through. That’s when the old timers words flooded back to me. The sound over the squawker was fast, like someone rushing through a reading in a classroom. From what I could make out, was numbers and letters. I began furiously writing down what I could catch in the green log book, before the transmission cut. Then got up and leaned out the door called for SGT Meyers.
Meyers and I looked over what I caught, his face went pale. He said nothing and just picked up the phone and dialed an extension. As he talked to someone on the other end, another transmission came through, clearer this time. I wrote everything down before he reached over and switched off the radio stack.
From the amount of black sedans that pulled up, I am sure that Meyers must have called someone high up, the logs are gone and I’m sure I am about to be disappeared to some backroom somewhere. I should have heeded the warnings of those old timers, don’t listen to the voices on the static. Now the only thing I can think of now is, forty- two, thirteen, Prospero, twenty- three, eighty- four, Sycorax, Sixty, Five, Iago
