Psychic Warrior

Chapter Nine

“Why don’t you just tell the Russians about the threat?” Dalton asked.

He was in a conference room, just off the main experimental chamber, with Raisor and Hammond. The other members of the team who had not yet gone into the isolation tubes had carried Stith’s body to the dispensary. So far none of the other three still under had experienced any problems, and Hammond had told him that all had successfully integrated with Sybyl and that they were developing their virtual programs.

Raisor shook his head. “We can’t. It’s the classic problem of sharing intelligence— by doing so you disclose your capabilities. You know about Coventry, don’t you?”

Dalton had read extensively in the area of military history, and he knew exactly what Raisor was referring to. During World War II, the Allies had broken the German Enigma code with their Ultra machine. Doing so had given them access to all German transmissions and a wealth of information. However, to make sure that the Germans didn’t realize that they had broken the code, the Allies had to be very careful what they did with the intelligence. When the Ultra scientists had decrypted a communique indicating that the city of Coventry was going to be heavily bombed, they had passed that warning on to Churchill. Who had done nothing with it. The city wasn’t evacuated and hundreds lost their lives and the six-hundred-year-old cathedral in the center of town burned to the ground. But the secret of Ultra was maintained.

“We’re not at war with the Russians,” Dalton said.

“We’re always at war,” Raisor said. “That’s the only way to look at the world in the spectrum of intelligence operations.”

“Bullshit,” was Dalton’s take on that.

“We’re in a double bind,” Raisor continued as if nothing had been said. “We can’t pass the intelligence to the Russians. And we can’t act overtly. Both would disclose too much of our capabilities.”

“So let’s keep a secret and get nuked?” Dalton said.

“It won’t come to that,” Raisor said. “Even if the warheads are stolen, they’ll still be in Russia. We would prefer not to have the first event happen, but push comes to shove, it’s not worth disclosing our capabilities for unless it appears the warheads will be crossing borders.”

“Do you know who is going to try to steal the warheads?” Dalton asked.

“We’re not certain,” Raisor said. “We suspect it might be the Russian Mafia, but if that is the case, that most likely means that they are just middlemen and will be passing the warheads on.” Raisor leaned across the conference table. “Just imagine twenty nukes being on the open market, going to the highest bidder.”

“I am imagining it,” Dalton said, “and it seems that this would be worth disclosing your Bright Gate capability in order to stop.”

Raisor shook his head once more. “Which brings us to the other problem with passing the information to Russian intelligence. The Russian military is heavily compromised by the Mafia. For all we know, we might tip our hand to those who are going to do the attack.”

Dalton rubbed his forehead. “So we’re going to descend on this attack out of the virtual plane and stop it?”

“That’s the idea. It’s more secure than trying a conventional assault which could cause a war to break out. If there’s one thing the Russians will not tolerate, it’s American soldiers on their soil. We have to avoid that at all costs. That’s why the President— and the Pentagon— has chosen to use this option.”

Dalton rolled his eyes. “We’ve lost one man and we haven’t done jack yet. You think we’re going to be able to do something no one’s ever done before in seven days? You’re gambling everything on that?”

“It wasn’t my decision,” Raisor said. “I can assure you that this was discussed at the highest levels, and the decision was made to move up the timetable on Psychic Warrior to deal with this threat. I am just implementing that decision.”

“Why can’t the RVers here do it?”

“Several reasons,” Raisor said. “First, they’re not trained soldiers. They’re intelligence gatherers. Second, and more importantly, this Psychic Warrior technology, the cyberlink in conjunction with Sybyl, is new.”

“Have you ever sent somebody into the virtual plane and then have them come out in the real at a remote location and conduct a mission?” Dalton asked.

“Not conduct a mission,” Raisor said, “but as Dr. Hammond told you, we have successfully tested it.”

“Yeah, by playing with blocks. I’m sure that will scare the crap out of the Mafia guys trying to take down these nukes.”

“You’ll be able to do more than that,” Dr. Hammond said.

“I’m a little fuzzy on that,” Dalton said. “So far I don’t feel like I’ve accomplished much of anything other than having one of my men die.”

“You’ll be working on your virtual forms next,” Raisor said. “From what Dr. Hammond has told me, that will give you something to conduct your mission with.”

“How does that work exactly?” Dalton asked.

“I don’t know exactly’,’ Raisor’s voice was taking on an edge. “All I know is that it does work.”

“We’re gambling lives on untested tactics.”

“Isn’t every war a trial of untested tactics?” Raisor said.

“Yes,” Dalton agreed, “and they’re usually big screwups. Millions of men dead and the generals in the First World War never really adjusted to the fact that machine guns made frontal assaults obsolete. They were still ordering cavalry charges in the early days of World War II.”

Raisor slapped the tabletop. “That’s why we want to use the technology we have here correctly! To move us into the modern age.”

“When they introduced the tank in the First World War, the generals still never really adjusted. It takes more than new technology,” Dalton added.

“We have adjusted with Psychic Warrior,” Raisor said. “For the first time, we are ahead of the technological-tactical interface.”

“It sounds like we’re too far ahead and it killed Stith.” Dalton stared at the CIA representative. “Do you believe the bull you speak?”

“It’s the way the world is,” Raisor said.

Hammond had been watching the heated exchange. She leaned forward between the two men. “It works, Sergeant Major Dalton. We know it works.”

“It didn’t work with Sergeant Stith!” Dalton yelled.

“Every new technology has its dangers,” Raisor said. “Do you know how many test pilots have died testing new aircraft? This is new and— ”

“Don’t give me bullshit,” Dalton snapped.

“Sergeant Major, this is going forward whether you are on board or not,” Raisor said.

“Do the Russians have remote viewers?” Dalton asked.

“We don’t know,” Hammond said.

“You don’t know?” Dalton didn’t buy that. “Come on. Seems like that’s the first thing your RVers would check on.”

Raisor answered. “We have checked. And we don’t know. We suspect they do.” Seeing Dalton’s look, he amplified his answer. “Dr. Hammond believes it’s possible to block psychic viewing with either technology or with other psychic viewers putting up a wall. So if the Russians do have psychic viewers, they’re blocking us from being able to see that capability. As we are blocking our own capability from them, if they have it.” Raisor waved his hand about. “This entire facility is shielded on the virtual plane from intrusion.”

Dalton remembered the black metal on the vault door and along the walls. “How do you do that?”

Raisor looked at Hammond, who answered.

“We have Sybyl generate a virtual field and run it through specially adapted lines. The parameters of the field are disharmonic to the human mind’s psychometric rhythms, so any RVers trying to get through would— ” She shrugged. “Well, we’ve never tested it on an actual person, but I would assume it would cause severe if not fatal damage to a person’s psyche. Even a person trying to walk through the field would be affected in the same manner. We have had our RVers approach the field and they report extreme discomfort when they come within a few meters of it.”

“That’s why we only have the one entrance to this base,” Raisor said.

“One physical entrance,” Hammond corrected him. “That’s the door you came in through, off the hangar. We also have the entrance our RVers use. That’s a narrow opening— which we call the Bright Gate— in the psychic wall that

Sybyl controls. She can let you out Bright Gate to the initial jump point on top of the mountain and she can also let RVers in when they return to the initial jump point.”

“What does this field do to other things?” Dalton asked. “Once it’s running, do we have communications?”

“We’re not the only place that uses this field,” Raisor said. “Every top secret secure site our country has is surrounded by a psychic field just in case the Russians do have an RV capability. Once we developed the wall, our scientists were able to develop a special cable that can shield a link from inside to outside and allow uninterrupted communications. That’s something we don’t think the Russians have managed to do yet, so we have an advantage there.”

“Let’s get back to the other side’s capabilities then,” Dalton said. “If the Russians do have RVers,” he asked, “wouldn’t they know about this plot in their neck of the woods?”

“If they have remote viewers and if the remote viewers happened to catch this plot, yes, then they would know. But we were lucky; our RVer who picked this up literally stumbled across it checking on some other information on a different tasking. The odds that a Russian RVer found the same thing are unknown.”

“What about— ” Dalton began, but the door swung open and a technician stuck her head in.

“Lieutenant Jackson is back.”

Raisor and Hammond headed for the door.

“Who is Lieutenant Jackson?” Dalton asked, following them.

“One of the RVers you saw in a tank when you got here. She’s been out on a mission.”

They entered the main room. The last two Special Forces men, Barnes and Monroe, had gone into the tanks, leaving Dalton the only one out. At the far end, a woman was shivering, a blanket over her shoulder, wiping embryonic fluid off her face with a towel.

“Lieutenant Jackson,” Raisor said as he came up to her. “Your report?”

Jackson didn’t respond right away. She spit, none too elegantly, and coughed, a dribble of dark liquid rolling down her chin before she wiped it off. She was a tall, slight woman, in her middle twenties, short blond hair plastered to her skull, her skin pale and covered with goosebumps.

“Is everything static?” Raisor asked.

Jackson coughed. “No, sir, it’s not. They’ve changed the schedule.” She looked at Dalton, then back to Raisor.

Dalton had seen that look before— she had information she wasn’t sure she should share in front of people she had never seen before.

“You take care of your men,” Raisor said to Dalton. He grabbed Jackson’s arm and helped her to her feet. “Come with me.”

“Hold on!” Dalton put his hand up. “I want to talk to my commander. I have to inform him about what happened to Sergeant Stith.”

Raisor stared at him for a few seconds, then nodded. “You can use the secure line down the hall there. But make sure you don’t say a word about the mission. Is that clear, Sergeant Major?”

“I hear you,” Dalton said.

“You can inform Colonel Metter about Sergeant Stith, but he has to hold official notification until we can implement a cover story.”

“I know the way the game is played.”

The red light went out. General Rurik relaxed slightly, knowing that Feteror was back inside his metal home and the window was shut.

“Report!” Rurik snapped into the microphone that linked him directly to Feteror’s auditory center. There was no way Feteror could escape the noise, and Rurik relished that power.

“I’ve done as you requested. There has been no change.” The tinny voice that came out of a speaker on the master console actually sounded tired.

“The Mafia?”

“They still plan to attack in seven days.”

Rurik smiled. “What do you know of a Colonel Seogky of the GRU?”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“We believe he had a meeting with the same Mafia group. His body was found in a park near Kiev along with that of a member of the Mafia.”

“I know nothing of this.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Good night.” Rurik threw a switch and the power to the cylinder went down to bare life-support levels. “Pleasant nightmares,” Rurik whispered into the mike as he shut it off.

Barsk stared out the window of the plane at the ocean twenty thousand feet below, where white dots indicating icebergs drifted in the Arctic Ocean.

“We drop at fifteen thousand.” Leksi’s voice was hoarse from too many cigarettes and too much vodka. The men gathered around him all had the same hard look; they were former Soviet Special Operations soldiers, searching for a better life outside of the military.

Leksi unfolded a map. “This island holds the target.”

One of the men laughed. “October Revolution Island. Perfect.”

Leksi pointed at the map. “The GRU has an observation post here, on this mountain, overlooking our target.”

“I thought you said this place has been abandoned for thirty-five years,” a mercenary noted.

“It has been.”

“And the GRU is still watching it?”

“Our target holds something very important,” Leksi said.

“What can be that important?”

Leksi looked up from the map and stared at the man. Then he continued the briefing. Barsk listened, but he wasn’t jumping with the team. He was to stay on board the aircraft with the pilot and wait until Leksi gave the all-clear signal. Then they would land on the old runway that had serviced the abandoned base.

“Let’s rig,” Leksi ordered at the conclusion. He looked at his watch. “We’re fifteen minutes out.”

The plane was a military AN-12 Cub, surplus that Oma had bought off some Air Force personnel eager to make money. Barsk considered it interesting that in the blink of an eye the former Soviet Union had embraced capitalism fiercely; the problem was that there were none of the established checks and balances that Western societies had developed.

In the front half of the cargo bay, a large backhoe was chained down along with other excavating equipment. A pallet full of explosives was tied down just in front of the backhoe. Knowing that he was riding in a plane with a load of C-4 and detonating devices didn’t do much for Barsk’s emotional health.

The plane banked and Barsk eyed the pallet warily.

Leksi thrust a mask at Barsk. “Put it on.”

Barsk slipped it over his head. He felt the cool oxygen flow.

The mercenaries were hooked into small tanks on their chests, bulky parachutes on their backs. Weapons were tied off on their left shoulder. Leksi had a headset on, listening to the pilot. He pushed his mask aside to yell.

“Depressurizing!”

With a shudder, the back of the plane began opening. The bottom half lowered, making a platform, while the top slid up into the large space under the tail.

The twenty men followed Leksi as he walked onto the platform. Barsk shivered from the freezing air swirling in. He edged closer to the heat duct over his head. Leksi moved a large bundle to the edge of the ramp.

A green light flashed. Leksi pushed the bundle, and the men tumbled off the ramp, following it.

Fifteen thousand feet below, First Lieutenant Gregor Potsk was concerned about wood. With winter coming, heat was the first priority, and resupply had gotten so strained that they were lucky to get enough food, never mind kerosene for the heater built into the concrete-and-log bunker set high on the side of the mountain. Two years ago they’d converted to wood, but the problem was, they had already cut down all trees within two miles. More wood meant going further.

Potsk shrugged his greatcoat on and picked up an AK-74 and a large band saw. He waited. Two of his detail of eight men stood.

“Let us go,” Potsk said, opening the heavy door. He knew he could order his men to do this, but the situation here was strained at best. He believed in leading by example.

They’d been here for eight months already, having been flown in as soon as the weather had cleared the previous spring. They had four months left on their tour of duty, and morale was plummeting with the pending onset of winter. Especially since there seemed to be no purpose to this task-ing— watching an abandoned airstrip and the blocked entrance to a long out-of-use underground bunker. Ice crackled underfoot as Potsk traversed the hillside, heading for a valley where the closest trees were.

“Sir!” one of the men said, tapping him on the arm and then pointing upwards.

Out of the low-hanging gray clouds a parachutist appeared, then another. Soon there were twenty chutes in sight as the first one touched down about two hundred meters away, tumbling down the hillside until the man got his feet under him and cut away the chute.

“Sir?” The soldiers with Potsk were waiting on his orders.

Potsk looked from the closest jumper to the bunker, now over a quarter mile away. He knew they would never beat the paratroopers there. And he had no idea who these men were. Perhaps Spetsnatz running some sort of training exercise. But then he should have been notified. Of course, he immediately thought, things were so disorganized in the military that whoever was jumping might not have known the island was occupied. In fact, Potsk thought as he started walking toward the jumpers, these men shouldn’t know about this place at all, because it was highly classified.

“Hello!” Potsk called out.

The man stared at him. He was wearing a black jumpsuit with no markings or insignia.

“This is a classified area. There is to be no trespassing. Who is your commander?” Potsk demanded.

“I am.” The voice came from the right, and Potsk spun around.

Potsk stepped back. The man towered above him, and Potsk noted that there was a scar running down the side of his face. “I said— ”

The man brought up a submachine gun and fired a burst, blowing back one of the soldiers with Potsk. He swung the smoking muzzle toward Potsk. “Drop your weapons.”

Potsk swallowed, dropping his AK-74, the other soldier doing the same. Behind the large man, some of the paratroopers were setting up a tripod and opening a case.

“Who are you?”

“Are all the rest of your men in the bunker?” Leksi demanded.

Potsk glanced toward the bunker, then back at Leksi.

“Tell me the truth.” Leksi shifted the aim of his gun and fired. The round caught the other soldier in the leg, spinning him down to the ground. The man moaned in pain, looking up at Potsk.

“They are all in the bunker,” Potsk said. He knew the shots would have alerted his men.

“Don’t lie to me.” Leksi fired again, this time right between the soldier’s eyes. Potsk was stunned at the sight of the brains splattered onto the icy ground. The muzzle of Leksi’s submachine gun turned in his direction. “Are they all in the bunker?”

“Yes.”

Leksi signaled. The paratroopers had placed a missile on top of the tripod. With a flash the missile was off. One man watched through a sight, leading the wire-guided missile. It smashed into the front of the bunker, the armor-piercing nose punching through, the charge going off inside, making puree of the inhabitants.

“You pig!” Potsk yelled.

Leksi fired, almost negligently with one hand, the bullet taking off the top of Potsk’s head.

Leksi grabbed his commo man. “Bring the plane in. We don’t have much time.”