Psychic Warrior

Chapter Twelve

Dalton had refused the shot from Dr. Hammond this time. He had always been able to sleep when he needed to. He had slept on many an aircraft, fully rigged with 48 pounds of parachute, 140 pounds of rucksack attached to the rig dangling between his knees on the cargo bay floor, helmet pulled down over his eyes, weapon tied off to his right shoulder, while men threw up around him from the turbulence of a low-level-flight infiltration.

Sleep when you could was a lesson that had been beaten into him from too many missions when he hadn’t been able to. But sleep was coming slowly right now for different reasons. He lay back on the bunk and stared at the concrete ceiling.

Dalton closed his eyes. The image of the concrete ceiling remained. But this one was smooth, not like the other one. The one where Dalton had counted every single mark on it. Memorized them, then begun using his imagination, the only thing he had left, on it. He’d made a world out of that ceiling only four feet above his mat on the floor. He couldn’t stand in the cell, so he’d lie there, legs always bent, and stare at the ceiling.

There were the faintest outlines on the ceiling, brown marks from some time when water had been in the cell, perhaps when the nearby river had flooded, that made up the continents and oceans of Dalton’s imaginary world.

He put countries inside those continents. His favorite land had been Far Country, a land settled by the persecuted of Old Country. Dalton had invented the entire history of those people leaving the homeland, the travel across the huge Middle Ocean, to arrive in Far Country. A land where there was no war. No need for armies, because no one would follow them across the Middle Ocean.

It was not a land of plenty, but rather a hard land. Another reason no one would dare the terrible ocean to come there. There was nothing to conquer but empty space. Endless plains, running into the High Mountains. And beyond the High Mountains were even more wonderful and strange lands.

But in Dalton’s history the people of Far Country loved their land. And the peace made any hardship brought on by the land or weather more than bearable. Because there was nothing that nature could do that could be worse than what men did to other men.

Dalton could see the High Mountains, particularly Dunnigan’s Peak, the white summit shimmering to the west. He’d climbed the mountain numerous times, using a different approach each time. The view from the top reached back over the Plains to the Middle Ocean, the water—

“Sergeant Major!”

Dalton was alert in an instant, rolling to the side away from the voice, hand reaching behind his back pulling out his nine-millimeter pistol, before his eyes focused on Lieutenant Jackson’s face. The RVer looked exhausted.

Dalton took a deep breath. “What?”

Jackson looked to her left and right. “I have to talk to you.”

“Talk,” Dalton said, lowering the hammer on the gun and putting it back in its holster.

“I’m Army,” Jackson said. “Most of these people are CIA or NSA. But there’s a couple of us from the service here. We were part of the original Grill Flame operation.

And we were good, so they kept us when they switched over to Bright Gate.”

“What’s your point, ma’am?”

“You can’t trust Raisor.”

Dalton leaned back on his bunk. “You woke me to tell me that?”

“Did he tell you what happened to the first team?”

“The first team?” Dalton swung his feet over to the floor on the same side that Jackson was crouched. “Dr. Hammond said someone died when there was an equipment malfunction. She didn’t say anything about a team.”

“Dr. Hammond doesn’t know diddly,” Jackson said vehemently. “She’ll lie when Raisor tells her to, but a lot of the time she talks out her ass because she doesn’t understand a lot of what she’s working with. Hell, no one does. At least we admit it. She has to act like she knows more than she does because her ego won’t allow her to admit her ignorance. They’ve sold a whole pile of crap to the Oversight Committee and the Pentagon. You don’t think they’d be bringing you and your men in unless they were desperate, do you?”

“I figured that,” Dalton said.

Jackson nodded. “Raisor put together the first Psychic Warrior team using NSA and CIA operatives. They tried to keep us RVers in the dark, but since we were both using the same facilities here, it was kind of hard to do. Plus we’d run a lot of the early tests for Psychic Warrior, gathering the data Hammond needed to make the next step. But obviously Raisor wanted to keep it in house, so he brought his own people in to make up the first team.”

Dalton waited. He knew he’d been lied to; now he was beginning to get an idea of the extent. “What happened to the first team? Are they dead?”

“We don’t know,” Jackson said.

Dalton raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean by that?”

“Their bodies are still in their isolation tanks, in a room off the main experimental chamber. The machines are keeping them in stasis at the reduced-functioning status. So they’re alive, I suppose. As alive as any of us when we go into those damn tanks.”

“What happened to them?”

“No one knows. I don’t know exactly, but I have an idea. I told Hammond but she thinks it’s bull. I believe she thinks that because what I told her scared her.”

“What about Raisor?”

“I think Raisor believes me. He’s weird.”

“What’s your theory?”

“There are bodies in the isolation tanks, but there are no people in there, if you know what I mean. Heck, Sergeant Major, I went looking for them. I went out on the virtual plane to see if I could find them.” She paused, her eyes withdrawing.

“And?” Dalton prompted.

“And I think I found the team. What was left of them. Their psyches. Worn out as if they’d died of starvation. They were all dead there.”

“Wait a second.” Dalton held up his hand. “You’re talking about a thing that’s not real in a place that doesn’t exist.”

“Oh, you know it exists,” Jackson said. “Or you will once Sybyl passes you over. It’s as real as this room.”

“If this avatar is a construct, how can remains of the psyche exist? Wouldn’t it just disappear?”

“I don’t know,” Jackson said. “I’m just telling you what I found. I don’t pretend to understand this stuff like Hammond does.”

“But… how could their avatars have ‘starved,’ as you put it?”

“Loss of power from Sybyl. They got cut off.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, whenever Psychic Warrior was operating, we were locked down.”

Dalton considered what she had just told him. What mission had the first team been on? Or had they been lost in training and that explained Raisor’s reaction to what had happened to Stith?

“There’s something else I think you should know,” Jackson said.

“What?”

“There’s something, or someone, else over there,” Jackson said.

“Who?”

“Chyort,” the lieutenant whispered.

“What?”

“The devil. I translated it using Sybyl. Chyort is the Russian word for ‘devil’ The CIA picked up reports about such a thing several times but they dismissed it. I don’t.”

Dalton bit back his reaction. He could tell the lieutenant wasn’t making this up. That she believed what she was saying.

“Not the devil like most people think of him,” Jackson said, then she paused, as if hearing her own words. “Well, maybe I’m wrong there. Maybe it is the devil like most people think of him. But whatever you might think, I’m telling you there is someone else in the virtual world.”

“Any idea who?” Dalton asked.

“Most likely the Russians,” Jackson said. “We know they’ve been working with remote viewing longer than we have. And I heard rumors when I first got to Grill Flame from some of the old hands that the Russians had gone way beyond what we had been doing. That they had taken psychic warfare very seriously a long time ago and have been putting a lot of resources into it.

“Also, we get blocked when we try to see into certain places in Russia. It seems pretty logical to me that if the Russians know enough to block us psychically, then they know enough to RV. You can’t have an antidote without a poison.”

“So this devil is a Russian avatar?”

“I think so. I met him earlier today. When I went on the recon to check out the nuke warheads shipment. He was there. In the same room at the railhead. I couldn’t see him and I don’t think he saw me, but he was there. I felt him. And I know he felt me.”

“Does Raisor know this?”

“I told him. He didn’t seem that interested. The CIA reports are unsubstantiated according to him. And he chooses to disbelieve reports we give him that he doesn’t want to hear.”

“But this means the Russians probably know about the planned attack,” Dalton said.

“There’s a high probability of that,” Jackson said. “I’ve read numerous unclassified reports of the strong Russian interest in remote viewing and psychic phenomena. In fact— ” She paused, but Dalton indicated for her to continue. “In fact, there’s some evidence that the Russians were trying to tap into psychic weapons a long time ago. In 1958 there was a tremendous explosion of undetermined origins just north of Chelyabinsk in the central Soviet Union that devastated a large amount of countryside. The CIA formally reported it as a nuclear mishap, but there was quite a bit of speculation that it was caused when some sort of psychic weapon misfired.

“There’s a scientist, a Dr. Vasilev, at the Moscow Institute of Physiological Psychology, who has written several papers that, if you read between the lines, indicate strong Russian experimentation in psychic weapons. I think this

Chyort, this devil, may be the latest generation of such a weapon.”

The lieutenant shivered and Dalton put an arm on her shoulder. He could feel the shaking, something he had felt before from soldiers who had been pushed too far and couldn’t handle it anymore. Combat stress.

Jackson leaned her head into his arm, her voice no longer that of the woman, but the girl who had been scared. “I don’t know what this thing is. I met the devil today and now he knows me. And he’ll get me next time I go over there.”

“Listen to me,” Dalton said in a low voice. “Listen to me. I know you’re afraid and it’s okay to be afraid. Because you got something to be afraid of and you just had something real bad happen.

“When I was a POW in Vietnam, they brought in a pilot late one afternoon. They carried him down the corridor past my cell, and I could see that he was in bad shape. He still had his flight suit on but it was all torn up and he was bleeding. He must have come down near a village. In a way, he was lucky to be alive, because once the villagers got hold of one of those who brought death out of the sky— as they called pilots— they usually hacked him to pieces before he could even get out of his parachute harness. But the NVA must have gotten to him in time. They liked pilots because they could get some good intelligence off them and they had publicity value.”

Dalton heard Jackson sniffle. He kept speaking.

“They put him in the cell next to me. I heard him crying that night. Hell, I remember crying my first night after I came to.”

Jackson looked up at the sergeant major in surprise.

Dalton smiled. “Anyone who wasn’t scared or didn’t feel afraid in such a situation would have to be nuts. I’ve met a few guys who weren’t afraid in combat, who actually enjoyed it— they were sociopaths. And those guys scared the piss out of me.

“Anyway, I reached through the bars and called to him. I got him to put his hand out and I held it. All night long. Because the thing we’re afraid of more than anything else is being alone.”

Jackson pulled back slightly and Dalton took his arm off her shoulders. “This devil doesn’t scare you as much as the thought of facing him alone. But that isn’t going to happen. Next time you meet this Chyort, this devil, you won’t be alone. We’ll be there with you.”

Jackson stood up.

“Okay?” Dalton asked.

Jackson nodded, her eyes red.

“Get some rest,” Dalton said. “I’d take one of Hammond’s shots if I was you.”

Dalton watched her walk away. Jackson reminded him in a way of Marie. He tried to pinpoint what the semblance was, then realized there was nothing in particular except that Jackson had needed him.

He sat in the dark of the bunk room, his mind not on the upcoming mission, but on the past. The first time he had been under fire. The day that had torn him away from Marie for five long years.

“He must keep this bandage on for three days.”

Specialist Fourth Class Jimmy Dalton listened as the interpreter relayed his instructions to the mother. Dalton spoke Vietnamese, not fluently, but well enough so that he could have given the information himself, but he had learned that it went over better coming from the interpreter. It was scary enough for these people to come with their medical problems to the large foreigners and allow themselves to be exposed to treatments they could not understand. The concept of one of the foreigners speaking their language was something that took a while for most to assimilate

and accept, and Dalton’s priority was his patient’s health, not immediate cultural acceptance. He knew the latter would require time and patience, and he was going to be here for a year, so he was prepared to take it slow.

Dalton was dressed in plain green jungle fatigues, a Special Forces patch sewn onto the left shoulder, the gold dagger and three lightning bolts standing out against the teal blue background on the arrowhead-shaped patch. On his head, his green beret felt stiff and new, unlike the battered and faded ones the other members of the team wore.

Dalton looked up from the young boy as the northeastern sky flickered. Seconds later the manmade thunder that went with the light rolled over the camp. The sound of mortars and artillery pounding Khe Sanh had been a nightly serenade for the past seventeen days. Located less than four miles to the southwest of the bombarded Marine Corps base, the Special Forces camp at Lang Vei was an inviting target to the NVA forces as the Tet Offensive exploded in earnest throughout South Vietnam. Every man assigned to Lang Vei knew it, but so far, they had been left alone other than an occasional mortar attack.

“You should all leave,” the woman told the interpreter in Vietnamese.

Ba To, the interpreter, glanced at Dalton, knowing he had heard. “Why is that?”

The woman swept her hand at the dark jungle that surrounded the camp. “Many, many soldiers from the north. And their large metal beasts. They will kill all of you.”

“Tell her she’s welcome,” Dalton told Ba To. He rubbed a rag across his forehead, then proceeded to repack his M-3 medical bag. Metal beasts. They’d captured an NVA officer a week ago who’d told intelligence that tanks were being brought up to the Laotian border, only a kilometer and a half down Route 9, which ran along the southern perimeter of the camp. The report had been greeted with skepticism by the brass and concern by the rank and file. Dalton’s team sergeant, Mike Terrence, had sent an urgent

request for LAWs, light antitank weapons, to their B-Team headquarters. They’d received a hundred of the plastic tubes just two days ago. The LAWs, in addition to the 106-millimeter recoilless rifle in the camp’s center weapon pit, was the extent of their antiarmor capability.

Dalton looked across the berm and the rows of barbed wire at the jungle, less than two hundred meters away. The N VA using tanks was unheard of. At worst, the intelligence rep had insisted, if there were tanks, the N VA would use them for covering fire from the treeline. That made no sense to Dalton, but then again he was only a nineteen-year-old medic, straight out of the Special Forces Qualification Course at Fort Bragg. He’d been in-country only three weeks and the most dangerous thing he’d done was make the resupply run to Khe Sanh the first week he was at Lang Vei and hunker down in a Marine bunker while mortar and artillery rounds came in.

From the sound of the firefight to the northeast, there was no doubt that the Marines were catching hell. Since the offensive had begun, the only way in and out of Khe Sanh was by air. The same was true of the Special Forces camp. Highway 9 was cut to the east of Lang Vei, essentially isolating the A-Camp other than for helicopter resupply for the past two weeks.

The mother and son walked off toward the huts holding the Laotian refugees who had flooded into the camp in the past week, running before the N VA forces who were using their country as a free zone to organize their assault. Dalton wished Ba To a good evening, and they headed in opposite directions to turn in for the night.

Besides the American A-team, Detachment A-101, there was a mobile strike force company of the local Civilian Irregular Defense Group, CIDG, inside the walls of the dog-bone-shaped camp along with the battered remains of the Laotian battalion that had briefly fought the N VA before running to Lang Vei. Twelve Americans and three hundred indigenous troops, at the remotest edge of South Vietnam, close to the borders of both Laos to the west and North Vietnam just to the north.

This was what Dalton had been trained for: to work with the indigenous people of a country to teach them how to take care of and protect themselves. As a medic, Dalton had spent most of the past several weeks not walking combat patrols, but plying his medical skills among the never-ending line of patients. He’d already performed more minor surgery than most interns back in the United States. There was nowhere else for these people to go for treatment.

Dalton walked along the inside of camp, passing the dark forms of soldiers manning their posts. His goal was the command bunker that also held the small dispensary where he and the senior medical sergeant kept their supplies and bunked down.

Halfway there, right in the center of the camp, Dalton halted. His back felt like there was an army of small ants climbing up it, and he reached back to brush them off, when he realized that the feeling was inside his head, not actually on his skin.

The flat thump of a mortar round leaving a tube interrupted this strange feeling. Dalton had been in-country long enough to know that by the time one heard the sound of the mortar firing from outside the camp, the projectile was already over its apogee and on the way down. He ran for the nearest sandbagged position, the 106-millimeter recoilless rifle pit. Dalton jumped over the top of the four-foot-high sandbag wall as the first mortar round hit just outside the perimeter.

“Mind your p’s and q’s and watch where you put your feet, laddie,” a voice with a thick Boston accent greeted Dalton as he sat up, dusting dirt off his shirt.

Staff Sergeant Herman Dunnigan was the team’s junior weapons man, and the 106 was his pride and joy. He’d stolen it from the Marines two months ago, and Captain Farrel, the detachment commander, had already been called on the carpet twice for the return of the weapon. With the reports of N VA armor, the entire team knew that Farrel was is no rush to return the rifle to

the Leathernecks, who were much better prepared at their firebase for any sort of armor attack.

Dalton slid across the base of the pit until he was next to Dunnigan, who handed him an already lit cigarette, pulling its replacement out of his fatigue shirt pocket. Two more rounds went off in rapid succession, somewhere in the south side of the camp. Dalton flinched at each explosion.

“They got the range, ” Dunnigan commented. “They most certainly do, the little bastards. Of course, they’re probably getting adjusted by someone in the CIDG, so why the hell shouldn’t they have the range?”

It was accepted that the NVA had spies in both the CIDG and in the Laotian battalion. It was a bitch having to guard against attack from the outside and betrayal on the inside of the wire, but it was the nature of the Special Forces’ job. Dalton knew that some of the soldiers he was patching up could be shooting him in the back that very evening.

Dalton didn’t answer as he took a deep drag on the smoke. His hand was trembling. He was scratching his neck before he realized that, again, the itchy feeling was coming from inside.

“Something’s coming ” Dalton said as he carefully snuffed the cigarette out and put the remains in his pocket. He swiveled around on his knees and peered over the barrier toward the jungle.

“You don’t need to see ’em,” Dunnigan said. “We ’ll be hearing them first.” He gripped Dalton’s shoulder. “Listen.”

Dalton held his breath, just as he’d been taught when getting ready to fire his rifle. There was a very low roar, an engine running. Dalton’s first thought was that it was the camp’s generator, but then he realized it was of a deeper pitch and coming from outside the perimeter.

Dunnigan was on the hand-cranked phone, calling the mortar pit. “I need illumination. West side. Over the treeline.”

“Tanks?” Dalton asked as he hung up the phone.

“Damn straight, laddie. Didn’t you feel ’em moving up earlier?”

Dalton looked at the other man. It hadn’t occurred to him to wonder why Dunnigan was in the pit this late in the evening. “Feel them?”

“You live long enough, you’ll know.” Dunnigan’s head was cocked listening for the sound of the 4.2-inch mortar on the north side of the camp to fire. “Sometimes I wonder, though, if it isn’t you know, and you’ll live long enough.”

Dalton was still puzzling over that when they heard the heavy thump of the camp’s four-deuce mortar. Seconds later a flare burst high overhead, illuminating the western side of the camp.

“High explosive, load!” Dunnigan was looking down the barrel of the 106-millimeter, aiming it.

Dalton grabbed a round out of its cardboard container and slid it in the back of the rifle, shutting the trap on it. Only then did he look where the other man was aiming.

Four PT-76 tanks were rumbling out of the treeline and heading straight for the wire. They weren’t top-of-the-line battle tanks, but rather armored reconnaissance vehicles built by the Soviet Union, with a 76-millimeter gun mounted on top in a small turret. Still, coming straight at him, the tanks more than impressed Dalton.

The recoilless rifle spit flame. A burst of fire on the front slope of one of the tanks was followed immediately by a secondary explosion, popping the turret off.

“H.E., load!”

Dalton fell into the rhythm, loading as fast as Dunnigan fired. They flamed a second tank as four more came out of the trees. By the time Dunnigan had fired for the fifth time, the lead tank was in the wire, less than fifty feet away. It paused, the 76-millimeter gun in the turret turning in their direction.

Dalton felt like time was suspended as he slid a fresh round into the rear of the rifle and locked it down. Dunnigan had his

eye pressed up against the aiming scope. Both guns fired at the same time.

A shock wave hit Dalton in the chest, knocking him back. The sandbags in the front of the pit had taken the impact of the N VA round, and all that remained was a large divot in their protective barrier. The PT-76 that had fired was in flames.

A hand slapped Dalton on the back, bringing his attention back into the pit.

“H.E. Load!” Dunnigan was mouthing the words but Dalton couldn’t hear anything other than a loud ringing in his ears.

He slid a round in but everything suddenly went dark other than the burning tanks as the flare expired. Dalton could see tracer rounds flying by overhead and he knew that one of the tanks was firing its coaxial machine gun at them.

Dalton shook his head trying to clear the ringing. Dunnigan was on the phone, screaming for more illumination.

Dalton saw figures running, silhouetted by the last tank they’d hit. He suddenly realized they were sappers in the wire. He threw his M-16 to his shoulder and fired, finger pulling back on the trigger smoothly, aiming quickly, not able to tell if he was hitting anyone, there were so many. His finger pulled and there was no recoil. Dalton’s training took over as he pushed the button on the side of the magazine well, letting the empty one fall out. He pulled a fresh one out of his pouch and slammed it home.

Another flare burst overhead. Dunnigan had his shoulder into the recoilless rifle. Dalton stopped firing long enough to scan the area. There were three tanks bearing down on their pit. He could see the blinking flashes on the side of the turrets— their co-ax machine guns. And all three were pointed straight at him and Dunnigan. In front of them, Dalton saw sandbags being torn apart by the machine-gun bullets.

Dunnigan fired. The shell skidded off the deck of the lead tank. Then there was a bright flash of light and Dalton felt his breath get sucked out of his lungs as he was lifted into the air and then slammed into the ground on his back. He struggled for air, his brain momentarily not functioning, and then his lungs worked again.

Dalton opened his eyes and saw a bright shining candle. A flare, high overhead, slowly drifting down under its parachute. Dalton sat up, surprisingly unhurt, it appeared. He looked about the pit. The recoilless rifle was smashed, the barrel bent. Dunnigan was sitting against the rear of the pit, his chest covered in red from a jet of blood pulsing out of his neck. Dalton scooted over to him, ripping the bandage out of the case on his web gear.

He pressed down on the severed artery, and the white gauze was immediately soaked through with the deep red of blood coming straight from the heart and lungs. “Hang in there!” Dalton yelled, unable to hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears. “You ’re gonna be all right!”

Dunnigan’s eyes went wide and Dalton knew there was someone behind him, but he also knew that if he stopped the pressure Dunnigan was dead.

Dalton felt the bayonet puncture his lower back, like a sliver of freezing cold entering his body. He arched forward, reacting even as his mind forced his hands to keep the pressure on Dunnigan’s wound. Dalton turned his head to the left, just in time to see the stock of an AK-47 heading straight for his face.

There was a flash of bright light, then there was only darkness.

Dalton looked down. His hands were clenching the edge of the bed, his knuckles white. He forced his fingers to let go. Slowly he let go of the memories of Vietnam. He cleared his mind and passed into an uneasy slumber.

Feteror’s demon avatar slowly materialized as he stalked down the empty corridor. The dull glow of the dim night lighting in the building rippled through his form, the sound of his claws on the tile floor a low clicking noise echoing into silence. He paused at a door. He reached down. It was locked.

His form disappeared as he reentered the virtual plane and flowed through the thick steel, coming out the other side and reforming on the real plane. The room was lit with the glow of a dozen screensaver programs. Feteror walked to the center console. He reached out a long claw and carefully tapped on the keyboard, accessing the program he wanted.

It had taken him two months to get the code word he needed to enter the GRU classified database. Two months of hovering unseen on the virtual plane in the background at various GRU sites, waiting for someone to log on in front of him.

The screen cleared and the main menu came up. Feteror’s right arm dematerialized as he reached forward, sliding it through the screen and directly into the computer. He could sense the inner workings and tapped directly into the mainframe. Suddenly his entire form disappeared and he flowed into the computer. He raced through the inner workings, a shadow passing on the border between the real world and virtual until he found what he was looking for. He absorbed the information, imprinting a copy into his own psyche. The data was encrypted, but that wasn’t a problem— he could always get Zivon to help break the code.

There was one more thing. When the maintenance workers had accidentally allowed him access to the security cameras inside SD8-FFEU, Feteror had taken full advantage of the opportunity. He had accessed the small camera inside of General Rurik’s quarters— no one was exempt from security’s eye in the GRU— and scanned it. He had zoomed in on the photo next to the army bed: a woman with two children. The woman whose ring Rurik wore.

Feteror scanned through GRU personnel files until he found the information he needed.

Satisfied, Feteror headed back out of the computer and headed for SD8-FFEU.

“Sergeant Major, I can’t do it.”

Dalton rubbed his eyes. First Jackson waking him, now this. Sergeant Trilly was standing in front of him, head down. Dalton finished zipping up his black isolation tank suit. He had five minutes before his next session. He could see a couple of the other bunks were now occupied by men who had finished their second training session.

“Can’t do what, Trilly?” Dalton knew the answer, but he was also aware he had to play this out.

“I can’t go in there again,” Trilly said, his voice quavering. “I can’t breathe that shit they put in your lungs. I can’t get shut off like a light switch and frozen. I just can’t do it.”

Dalton looked the sergeant over. He was shivering, a blanket about his shoulders. His hair still wet, his skin covered in goosebumps. He remembered how Trilly had missed most of the Trojan Warrior training after getting his collarbone broken during the aikido training.

“You don’t have any choice,” Dalton said. “You’re the team sergeant. Your team goes on a mission in thirty-six hours. Can’t is not an option.”

Trilly made a choked sound. “I can’t go in there again, Sergeant Major. I can’t. I know I can’t. You can order me and make me put that stuff on, but I can’t do it.”

Dalton felt the soreness in his throat where the tube had twice gone down. His body was covered with small welts, from what he had no idea. He had just noticed them when getting dressed.

Dalton stepped close to the other man and kept his voice very low and level. “Get some sleep, Master Sergeant Trilly. You’ll feel better.”

Trilly looked up. Dalton could see the shadows in the others man’s eyes. “I’m not going to feel better. It’s not going to make any difference.”

“Trilly, you’re Special Forces. We may not like where we get sent or what we get ordered to do, but by God, we go there and we get the job done.”

“Like Stith?”

Dalton resisted the urge to grab Trilly’s shoulders and shake him. “Yes, like Stith. Who the hell do you think all those names on the Special Operations monument outside of SOCOM headquarters are? Nobodies? They were men just like you and me. They got killed doing the job they volunteered for. That you volunteered for. You want the easy life, you should have stayed in Air Defense. You put that green beret on, you choose a different path from most. Now it’s our turn in the breach.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Don’t say that.” Dalton kept his voice firm. “You think negative, you won’t be able to. You’ve got to think of the team, not yourself. The team needs you.”

“I can’t— ”

“Shut up,” Dalton hissed. “Get your head out of your ass, Trilly. Think about somebody else for once. You got the stripes on your collar, you do the job. You flake out on this, we’re another man short, and sometimes one man can make all the difference.”

Dalton could see the clock over Trilly’s shoulder. He had no more time. “Get some sleep.”

Trilly turned without a word and went to his bunk. Dalton watched him, then walked into the corridor and to the experimental center. He noted the doors on the wall that he had not been through. He wondered which one hid the bodies of the first team.

Two of Hammond’s technicians had his TACPAD waiting. They rigged him, the process going somewhat faster now that he was used to it. He still wasn’t thrilled when they shoved the tube down his throat or his head was encased in the TACPAD, but he hardly noticed the micro-probes going in anymore.

“We’re going to send you over to the virtual plane this time,” Hammond told him through the computer.

He was lifted up, then lowered into the isolation tank six minutes ahead of the new schedule. The handoff to Sybyl went smoothly.

The computer quickly ran through a check of his stick man form, insuring that he had control.

“It is time now,” Hammond finally announced, satisfied. “You will feel power. It’ll feel good. A feeling of strength. Do not do anything until I tell you. Do not do anything unless I tell you specifically to do it. Is that clear?”

“Clear,” Dalton replied. “I am giving you ten percent.”

Like a jolt of adrenaline, power coursed through him. Dalton felt giddy. He began to lift this arm.

“Do not do anything until I tell you.”

Dalton forced himself to remain still. The feeling grew stronger.

“Turn to your left.”

Dalton did as instructed.

“Do you see the light?”

There was a bright glowing tunnel straight ahead. All else was dull gray fog. Dalton paused as he realized what he had just done, or what had been done for him by Sybyl— he was inside the avatar, looking about— not in his own head looking at the form.

“I see it.”

“Walk toward it. I am giving you a surface to walk on and a feeling of weight.”

Dalton did feel ground beneath his feet. Slightly spongy, like walking on a gym mat, but it gave him something to push off of. The tunnel got closer. Then it was right in front of him.

“Wait,” Hammond said.

Dalton paused.

Hammond’s voice, filtered by the computer link, came through. “When you step into the virtual plane, there will be nothing beneath your feet. It will be like floating in a mist. You will have no sense of orientation. It will take us a little while to get you both oriented and able to move. Some have difficulty with this.”

Dalton remembered the first time he had free-fall-jumped out of a plane. It was much different from static line parachuting. He had tumbled in the air as he fell; the only orientation he had had was the ground far below that he was rapidly plummeting toward and the air whistling by. He had an idea what Hammond was talking about. He had seen men panic in such a situation, unable to deploy their chutes as they tumbled, saved only when their automatic opener activated at a predetermined altitude.

“All right. I’m ready.”

“Step into the tunnel,” Hammond ordered.

Dalton moved his leg forward. There was nothing to put it on. But he didn’t fall as he lifted his other leg. He felt himself drawn forward and then he was in.

His stomach spasmed his last meal ready to come back up as he floated in a fog. He had no idea how far he was able to see, because there was nothing to see.

“I f el like I’m going to throw up,” Dalton said. “That’s a psychological reaction,” Hammond said. “And a very good one.”

“Good?” Dalton swallowed. “Yes. Because you can’t really feel your real stomach. So this is a subconscious psychological reaction, which means your mind is very attuned to the virtual world. That your mind believes the world you are in now, the form that you are taking, is real.” “That’s nice.”

“Take some time and get adjusted to being there.”

Dalton did as Hammond instructed. More than free-fall parachuting, it reminded him of scuba diving at night, when there was no way to determine which way was up. Neutral buoyancy in the netherworld; Dalton found that concept interesting. He looked about, but everything was the same grayish mist. He had no idea if he was seeing fifty meters into it or ten. He put a hand in front of his face, but all that was there was the stick arm of the avatar. He had no idea where he was either.

“Now we will teach you how to fly,” Hammond said. “Fly?”

“How else do you think you will be able to get around?” Hammond asked. “Although possible, it is very hard to jump with just your mind, especially on your first time. It is much easier using the avatar form.”

“All right,” Dalton said. “How do I fly?”

“With your wings, of course.”

Dalton’s stick arms transformed into two wide wings, white feathers glistening. “Sweet Lord,” Dalton whispered. He swept them down and felt himself lift. He swooped, tried to turn and felt himself lose control, before regaining his balance. He looked down. He still had the stick figure he’d originally had, but the wings had replaced his arms.

A black level space appeared ahead.

“I’ve had Sybyl make a place for you to stand, ” Hammond said. “We must work on the rest of your avatar. I’m passing you to Sybyl for training.”

Dalton landed on the black plane. His felt his “feet” sink into the surface slightly.

“I will show you the various forms we have computer generated, ” Hammond said. “You must pick the one you prefer in accordance with your own physical shape and size.”

Dalton watched as a series of forms appeared in front of him. All were man-shaped, but there were a number of subtle differences among them, ranging from the basic size to the lengths of the arms and legs. One of the forms was moved out in front of the others.

“The data indicates this would be the best fit, as it most closely approximates your own body shape,” Hammond said.

The form was featureless, the skin a pure white. The eyes were two black spots on the face. There was no mouth or nose. Dalton assumed that Sybyl had the form that way because there would be no need for mouth or nose in the virtual plane, but he wondered what they would look like when they came out into the real plane. He saw a certain advantage to not having an entirely human appearance in such a situation.

“Will I be visible in the real plane?” Dalton wanted to check what Raisor had told him. “You will cause a disturbance in the electromagnetic spectrum,” Hammond said. “Despite the fact that the human eye does not see into that spectrum, we have noted that people in the real plane do sense something when an avatar materializes.

“You also will have the option to add color and pattern to your form if you have a need for your form to be seen.”

The form in front of him disappeared. Dalton felt a wave of something pass through him, and he staggered back. When he looked down, he now had the form that Sybyl had built.

He looked down at his hands, spreading the fingers, flexing them. His movements felt smoother than they had in stick form. He walked around. He felt like he had shed thirty years. His body— avatar— felt alive and vibrant. And powerful. He reached his smooth hands up, stretching. He slid one leg out in front of the other and did the basic first kata of aikido that he had learned in the Trojan Warrior training. At first he had some difficulty, but he tried again and again, until the arms and legs began functioning smoothly, without conscious thought. He worked his way through the eight katas up to black belt level before he felt satisfied.

“Weapons?” he asked.

There was a tingle in Dalton’s right arm. He looked down, watching the forearm and hand dissolve into a tube about three feet long from the elbow joint.

“Aim and fire,” Hammond said.

A target silhouette appeared about thirty feet away.

Dalton extended his arm, then paused. “How do I fire?”

“Think it and it will happen,” Hammond said. “Think about making a fist with the arm that is now the weapon. Aiming is easy as you will see a thin red dot on the aim point of your weapon much like a laser sight.”

Dalton focused. He saw the red dot, moved it on target. He sent the impulse to clench his nonexistent fist, and he felt a slight recoil in the arm/weapon. A glowing ball raced toward the silhouette and hit. The target shattered.

Several more silhouettes popped up. Dalton fired.

He found the tube to be extremely easy to aim— it was like pointing his arm, and the red aiming dot was dead on with where the round hit. But he was disturbed by the lag between aiming and firing. He found himself pointing at a target and waiting as the power built up to firing level. It took about two seconds between each firing, an eternity in combat in Dalton’s experience.

“The rate of firing is dependent on power?” Dalton checked. “Yes.”

“Give me minimum power to kill a man with a shot to the head.”

There was a short pause, then Hammond responded. “Done.”

Dalton fired at the array of silhouettes, moving at the same time, diving to his right, rolling. Coming to his knees and continuing to fire. This lower power setting was better, firing with what Dalton estimated was slightly more than a second between each shot. The accuracy was superb, as Dalton placed each power ball into the head of each silhouette.

“Can you equip my team with an array of power settings?” Dalton asked. “I want most of them able to fire this rapidly, but I want others firing on the stronger setting.”

“I can have Sybyl do that.”

“If you decrease rate and increase power,” Dalton wanted to know, “can you also fire a spread of balls?”

“At the same time?” Hammond asked. “Like a shotgun shell,” Dalton said. “Yes.”

“I also want some of my men to be armed with a focused, powerful shot that can punch through armor.”

“I can program that also.”

Dalton concentrated and the tube shrunk, dissolving into his avatar arm once more.

“What about the wings?” he asked. “If you are ready, you can change your arms to the wings. Just concentrate like you did with the power tube.”

Dalton paused, closing his eyes. He concentrated; his arms felt like he was flexing the shoulder muscles. When he opened his eyes, he had the wings back.

“Where would you like to go?” Hammond asked. “I must keep you within a certain area in the virtual world until you are more proficient. Consider the borders of the state of Colorado as your current limits. Where would you like to go in Colorado?”

Dalton knew the answer to that, but he didn’t bother to tell Hammond as he moved into the virtual plane.