*Mission Operation with Bob Kerrey* -- 21 Jul 2000


   Monday, 19 June 2000,
   Drm:  I’m in the midst of the beginning of a small unit 
tactical mission, here flying a small personal military craft -- 
like what a motorcycle is to land travel, but this craft has 
offensive capabilities.  (I didn’t see the craft.  It was 
invisible, but thought of the craft’s invisibility didn’t enter 
into the dream consciousness.)  Bob Kerrey is the other one on 
this mission, performing a collateral action.  Although I don’t 
see him while I’m flying about over a brown-hued landscape -- some 
structures here and there -- in tactical maneuvers, I know he’s 
doing the same thing.  We each have individual objectives, but 
it’s a coordinated operation.  Kerrey is like one grade in rank 
above me.
   (scene change)
   We, Kerrey and I, have just arrived back at our unit’s 
headquarters, a small section of an underground secure facility, 
softly lighted where we are, and dark everywhere else.  Another 
officer is there -- seemingly one grade in rank above Kerrey.  My 
disposition is upbeat, all having just gone very well.  Excited in 
anticipation for going back out on another mission, I’m thinking 
we might start setting up plans, putting things in motion, here 
and now.  I comment to this effect, all happy; everything in life 
is going fine.
   But Kerrey and the senior officer have chatted a moment, and 
together they tell me that that won’t be the case, because of a 
seemingly medical sort of procedure upon me that needs to be done 
-- Kerrey empathetically conveying his concurrence with what I am 
understanding to have been the senior officer's determination.  I 
cannot protest outright, because the officer grade differential 
precludes familiarity accommodated between adjacent grades.
   Really dismayed, I turn around and take a few steps over to a 
sturdy rectangular dark-wood conference table near the center of 
the room, and I sit upon the end of it.  In respectful composure I 
just begin a reasoning effort.  The senior officer comes over to 
my right side, telling me matter-of-factly, but in a kind way, 
that for this I “have to be put to sleep.”  As soon as I make one 
more utterance to the effect we should reason about this -- during 
which his right hand had moved near to my right side, he says, 
“No.  You’re gonna go to sleep now.”  I realize then that he had, 
without my feeling it, injected me from a really small device 
which had been in his hand.
   I say nothing more, there being nothing more *to* say, for I 
know the drug will take effect in seconds.  Now, having scooted up 
onto the table and leaning back onto my left side, propping myself 
with my forearm, in the moment I’m synthesizing this state of 
affairs.  The drug begins engaging upon my mind.
   The drug effect is a sort of sleep induction upon my mind 
increasing at a linear rate -- all the while me conscious of the 
effect and still leaning back on the table.  In like twenty 
seconds my mind is so heavy into a sleepy fog, I can barely think.
   Now, with situational continuity, . . .
   (transition into real-life consciousness in a space of perhaps 
several seconds, the while my mind feeling the same) [end]
   The mind sleep effect reverses, dissipating at what seems like 
the same linear rate.  So in about the same time as it had taken 
for me to go into the sleep, the sleepy mind-fog clears away, and 
I am normal sleepy in bed having just awoken from the dream.


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