Project Aura

13

Valika watched the few lights on Saba disappear from sight as the plane gained altitude. She was armed with only a laptop computer, a fact that made her quite uncomfortable, especially since she had met the man she was heading toward once before and it had not turned out well. Of course, in that meeting she had been representing herself, not Cesar and the Ring.

Cesar, at least, was confident that his backing would garner her a peaceful reception. Valika wasn’t as confident. She gripped the armrest as the plane banked hard, heading for Martinique, a neutral place. The flight would be short, the only good thing about this mission as far as she was concerned.

A thousand miles to the west, Aura II was circling a spot in the ocean two miles off the coast of Grand Cayman, all lights blacked out. An Aura transmitter was bolted to the deck of the ship, cables looping from it to a computer in the ship’s bridge. None of the crew were near the computer. It was linked by SATCOM directly back to Saba. Instead of bunks, the main cabin was full of lithium batteries to supply power to Aura.

At the appointed time, the captain of Aura II turned his bow toward the main harbor of Boddentown. He slid into the small bay and edged as close as possible to the town without running the yacht aground.

The SATPhone was answered on the second ring. “Yes?”

“I need some help,” Dalton said.

“Are you still at Bright Gate?” Mentor asked.

“Yes.”

“Something is happening,” Mentor said. “We’ve lost two others besides General Eichen.”

“ ‘Lost’?” Dalton repeated.

“Killed.”

“By the Priory?”

“Most likely.”

“Then I really need your help.” Dalton quickly told Mentor about his plan to establish an alternate Bright Gate. “I’ve got transportation lined up,” Dalton said. “I can get the stuff out of here, but I don’t have a place to take it to.”

“What are your requirements for a location?” Mentor asked.

“Someplace secure. Hidden. And access to power.”

There was no static in the SATPhone, just a dead silence for several seconds, which made him wonder if Mentor was still on the other end.

“I think I might have a place that fills those requirements,” Mentor finally replied.

Deep inside the extinct volcano in the center of Saba, Cesar rolled an unlit cigar between his hands. Souris was hooked to Aura I, the main transmitter located in the control center. Cesar knew there was no need for her to be in the virtual world, as there was nothing on the island that needed watching, but she spent all her spare time like that. Cesar’s fortune was built on addiction, so he knew the signs. Whatever she was in the virtual world, wherever she went on the other side, Cesar had no clue. But there was no doubt Souris definitely preferred the virtual world to the real to the point where she had little control over the decision about which to be in.

Using Raisor to do what had originally been slotted for Souris to accomplish was a bonus. He had not been very comfortable sending Souris on Aura II to help get the shipment ashore in Florida. If Raisor truly wished to be an ally, he would do as ordered, but if he was a spy, that would come out very shortly and then Cesar would have Souris do it as originally planned. He was having his doubts about the American scientist, though, and having someone waiting in the wings to replace her if she began to break down from her addiction was something he had long considered, but had only been able to be serious about with the appearance of Raisor.

He glanced at the digital clock. Each second that clicked by meant another stage in the plan was closer to fulfillment.

At Fort Carson, two Special Operations MH-60K Blackhawk helicopters, assigned to the elite Task Force 160, the Nightstalkers, and on temporary duty with 10th Special Forces Group, lifted off. The pilot in charge was Chief Warrant Officer Roby, a twenty-two-year veteran, with sixteen of those in the Nightstalkers. He was a veteran of numerous operations, including behind-the-lines flights during Desert Storm. It was on one of those flights that his craft had been shot down.

With his copilot injured, Roby elected to stay with the chopper even though they could see the lights from Iraqi vehicles closing on their location. The crew chief elected to try to escape and take his survival radio into the desert, where he would have more of a chance.

Roby had called in his position, then grabbed the MP-5 submachine gun they carried on board for personal defense. When the first Iraqi troops approached, he let them come within fifty meters, then fired a burst, killing three. The rest went to ground.

Then the air support came. Every Allied craft in the vicinity with ordnance to expend came by, surrounding his location with a wall of explosive and cannon fire. But as night fell, Roby could tell that the Iraqis were creeping closer and would soon be so near his position the air support wouldn’t help.

That’s when the rescue chopper came in. Another Nightstalker craft with four Special Forces men on board. The bird came in fast and blacked out. It touched down and the SF guys had his copilot on board in less than fifteen seconds, Roby jumping on board right behind.

Then he told them about the crew chief. The man in charge of the rescue team, Sergeant Major Jimmy Dalton, ordered the crew to search for him. They found him five miles away, wandering in the desert. So Roby returned with all his crew. And thus he owed Dalton and now he was paying back in response to the phone call he had received from the sergeant major that afternoon.

The Task Force MH-60K Blackhawk was a vast improvement over the standard UH-60 model the rest of the army used. It had an air-to-air refueling probe that poked from underneath the front of the cockpit, two M134 7.62-millimeter miniguns, one mounted on each side, and an external hoist. Most important, though, were the advanced avionics to help Roby fly the ship. He had interactive multifunction displays, forward-looking infrared, a terrain-avoidance/terrain-following radar, and a digital map generator that followed the flight of the helicopter, constantly updating the pilot with the helicopter’s exact location.

Making sure his equipment was working properly, Roby turned the nose of the chopper toward the high peaks.

Finding Grand Cayman via the virtual plane hadn’t been too difficult for Raisor. Cesar had ordered the ship’s captain to turn on the Aura transmitter intermittently and Raisor had located it on the virtual plane. Then it was a series of short jumps to the island itself. The yacht was less than two hundred yards from shore, and his target was only two blocks away from the ocean. Now he waited.

A stretch limousine was waiting for Valika as she got off Cesar’s jet at Martinique. Two men, guards, stood on the side, one opening the door. As she started to get in, he reached for the laptop case. She gave it to him and got inside. There was no one else in the spacious interior. The men got in the front.

It was a short drive to the four-star hotel where the meeting was to be held, and Valika did not use the time to partake of the car’s bar. One of the guards opened the door, handing the searched case back to her.

“Room 114,” he informed her.

Valika slung the carrying case for the laptop over her shoulder and entered the hotel. Room 114 had a small plaque on the door informing her that it was the President’s Suite, which she found ironic given she was meeting a former high-ranking Communist.

The door swung open immediately at her first knock. Two more goons flanked the door on the inside. One pointed at an entrance to another room. Conversation had never been Kraskov’s strong point, Valika reflected as she walked through, and that must have seeped down to his security element.

The man who was sitting on the couch had once been described to Valika as a troll, but she thought that was a disservice to the mythical creature. He was short, fat, hairy, and ugly. And he had bad teeth, which Valika found unforgivable in a man with access to money. That at least could be corrected.

“My dear Valika, you are beautiful as ever.” His greeting was effusive, but he made no attempt to get his rotund form off the couch.

Valika went to the chair on the other side of the coffee table. “And you, Kraskov, look the same as I remember.”

“Ah, such wit. I missed that. If I remember rightly, the last time we saw each other, you were shooting at me.”

“Unfortunately I missed.” Valika unzipped the bag and took out the laptop.

“But if you hadn’t, we wouldn’t be able to conduct our business this evening,” Kraskov said.

“There would be someone else in your chair.”

“But it is me here, Valika.”

The tone caused her to look up from turning the computer on. Kraskov had a gun pointed at her-a nine-millimeter Browning High Power, she noted, before she shifted her gaze back to his eyes.

“We are here to do business,” she said. “You know who I work for.”

“I know who you whore for.” The gun didn’t waver. “I am supposed to be afraid of some pimp drug dealer from a third-rate country?”

“Eight hundred million will be yours, as you asked.”

The gun moved slightly, Kraskov’s thick eyebrows bunching. “You joke. I gave you that number simply to not have to bother with you. I was amazed when you asked to meet.”

“Then what is the ship really worth?”

“Eight hundred million, of course.”

Valika smiled wryly. “I assume you have an account where you want the money transferred to.”

“You’re serious?” Kraskov put the gun away. “Of course there is an account. Swiss, naturally.”

Dalton walked past the tubes holding Kirtley’s team. “Keep them in until I give you the all clear,” he told Hammond.

“Orientation training will take about four hours anyway,” she said and turned back to her control console.

Jackson and Barnes were waiting for him just inside the vault door. As he approached, Jackson punched in the code and the door rolled open. She then hit the command to open the hangar door. The opening in the side of the mountain appeared as the metal grate slid out.

Dalton checked his watch. Five minutes.

“Let’s get the computer up here.”

The cell phone rang. Cesar flipped it open. “Yes?”

“We’re ready,” Valika informed him.

He shut the phone. “ Souris.” Cesar waited but there was no response from the woman in the deep chair. “ Souris!” he yelled.

Reluctantly he got up and went over to her. He hit the ESC key on her keyboard.

Her eyes flashed open. “You bastard!”

Cesar reached forward and grabbed her chin. “Remember who pays for all of this.”

“You’re ignorant,” Souris hissed.

Cesar pointed at the computer. “Activate Aura II and tell Raisor it’s time for him to earn our assistance.”

Raisor “saw” the field race over the harbor toward him. It struck like the wind hitting a glider’s wings. He felt the power, his virtual avatar gaining form and strength.

The data was also there in the wave, formed by the Aura computer. He accessed it. It wasn’t as good as Bright Gate, but enough for the task at hand.

He glided into the Bank of Grand Cayman, passing through the thick outer walls. He found what he was searching for with ease-the glow of a screensaver on the computer screen drawing him in.

It might be night on Grand Cayman, but the bank’s main computer never slept, as accounts were constantly being accessed from the entire world via secure Internet.

Raisor slid into the computer, a feat he had done before as a Psychic Warrior. He found the first of the names he’d been given and accessed the account, already having bypassed the need for a password, as he was part of the computer itself.

One hundred and thirty million was in the account.

Raisor sent the account on its way, using the information he had been given. Then he searched for the next name.

The numbers appeared on Valika’s screen. “The first deposit has been made. One hundred and thirty million. The rest will be there shortly.”

That was enough to get Kraskov off the couch. He came around and looked over her shoulder, standing much too close, his fetid breath on her neck.

“Let me check.” He waddled to a briefcase and took out a satellite Internet phone and began punching in numbers.

“The first transfer has been made,” Souris reported in a distracted, distant voice.

Cesar cut the tip off his cigar.

Raisor had been given six names. He reached eight hundred million by the third account. For the excess he switched the destination account, sending the money to Cesar’s own Swiss account. Until there was one hundred million left in the last account. That he sent to a different destination.

In all, he had cleared out 1.2 billion dollars. He had no idea who he had just stolen from, but he assumed they were people who would not go running to the authorities; not that there were any authorities to run to in Grand Cayman, which was why the accounts were there in the first place.

“I am impressed,” Kraskov said, closing the phone.

“Where is the ship?” Valika said.

“Not far. Off of the European Space Port at Kouro, monitoring launches.”

“Excellent.”

He handed her a sheet of paper. “The ship’s call sign. The command code word. The captain will do whatever you ask once you give him that code word.”

“Good.”

“What will you do with the crew?” Kraskov asked as he went back to the couch and sank down into the cushions.

“They’re like you, aren’t they? Several suitcases full of cash and they’ll work for us, won’t they?”

Kraskov nodded. “True.”

“Everything in Russia is for sale, isn’t it?”

“Just about.” He smiled, revealing misshapen and discolored teeth. “We are embracing capitalism wholeheartedly.”

“I left just in time. What about the other items?” Valika asked.

“I don’t understand why you asked-” Kraskov began but Valika cut him off.

“Don’t do any thinking. Where are they?”

Kraskov grunted something to one of the guards. The man left the room and was back in a minute with a large metal briefcase in each hand. He put them on the table. Valika flipped the lids open.

“This was difficult to come by,” Kraskov said. “My GRU contact raised his eyebrows at the request.”

“And you lowered them with cash.” Valika closed the lids, having confirmed the contents.

“I’ve reserved a room for you,” Kraskov said. “Right next door as a matter of fact. I could order from room service. They have some excellent wines, or I can order vodka if you still drink the swill.”

“I’m leaving.” Valika stood. She slung the laptop case over her shoulder and picked up the two cases.

“You don’t know what you’ll be missing,” Kraskov said as she headed for the door.

“I don’t even want to consider thinking about that,” Valika threw over her shoulder as she left.

The first Blackhawk landed, blowing snow into Dalton ’s face. The side door slid open and the crew chief jumped out. Dalton waved at him to help. With Barnes’s and Jackson’s assistance they manhandled Sybyl III’s mainframe to the helicopter and inside. It filled most of the cargo bay.

That helicopter lifted and the second one came in. As Jackson, Barnes, and the new crew chief loaded the other gear needed for Sybyl III to work, Dalton got in the cargo bay and leaned between the seats. He shook Roby’s hand.

“Thanks for making it, Chief

“Long time no see, Sergeant Major. We needed some blade time for training anyway. Where do you want me to take this stuff?”

Dalton handed him a map. He tapped a location. “Right there.”

Roby squinted, making out the markings. Then he looked up, eyes widening. “Oh, man.”

“There will be someone there waiting to off-load this gear.”

“All right.”

Raisor’s essence was drained of power as Aura II was turned off. He was once more a formless being on the psychic plane. He headed toward the United States.

Cesar picked up the phone and dialed the direct number for his villa in Colombia where the Special Forces team was being held. His instructions to his man in charge there were brief and to the point. It was time to get things moving and the Americans weren’t playing along as he would like.

Once the picture came out, he put it back in the top slot and dialed a new number.

McFairn stared at the photo that had just been faxed to her office. She almost jumped as her secure phone rang.

“McFairn.”

“General Carlson here. I just got a faxed picture from Colombia.”

“I also just received it,” McFairn told the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

“My office. Now. Bring everything you have on these sons-a-bitches.”

Dalton watched the lights of the second Blackhawk disappear into the night sky and listened as the sound of the blades faded until there was silence. He stood on the landing grate, looking out over the starlit mountains.

“Marie?” he whispered.

A cool breeze blew by and he thought of the poem.

He reached out, above his head, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, spreading his fingers wide, the breeze touching his skin. “I feel you.”