Psychic Warrior

Chapter Twenty-two

“Sergeant Barnes made it back, thanks to you,” Jackson said.

Dalton’s hands were cradled around a steaming mug of coffee. He had ladled in several heaping teaspoons of sugar. He took a sip, relishing the burning feeling on his tongue. He was seated at the table in the small conference room off the experimental chamber. He couldn’t bear being in there, looking at the bodies of the rest of his team floating inside their isolation tanks. Jackson was seated next to him. Hammond was on the other side of the table.

“Where is he?” Dalton asked.

“In the dispensary. He’s sleeping, but the doctor gives him a clean bill of health.”

“One out of nine. And the rest of the team?” Dalton asked.

Jackson shook her head, not able to answer him.

“Their bodies are still viable in their isolation tanks,” Dr. Hammond said.

“Like the first team?” Dalton said.

“Yes,” Hammond said.

Dalton rubbed his forehead. “So they’re probably dead, as far as they’re concerned, right?”

“We don’t know that for certain,” Jackson said.

“And Raisor?” Dalton knew he had to ask.

“We don’t know,” Hammond said. “His body is also in stasis. I restored his power, but there’s been no contact. I think we might have lost the connection when I diverted all power to your team.”

“Where did he go?” Dalton demanded.

“We don’t know,” Hammond said, “but we have a larger problem on our hands. I just got a call from Washington. Your mission failed. The nuclear warheads have been stolen. Combining that with the information you brought back about the phased-displacement generator, we have the biggest danger this country has faced since the Cuban Missile Crisis. The National Security Council is very concerned. They are considering their options.”

Dalton looked up at the doctor, recognizing the panic in the clipped sentences. “Very concerned? Is that what you call it? They should be crapping in their pants. Options? What options? What are they going to do?”

Dalton took a deep drink of coffee, feeling the burning liquid hit his bruised throat. He relished the pain because it sharpened his mind, brought it out of the fog of near death and despair. The issue of Raisor’s disappearance bothered him, but it was a msytery that wasn’t a priority right now.

“For starters, they can now work with the Russians, given that the warheads have been stolen,” Hammond said.

“That’s like reuniting the Three Stooges,” Dalton said. “The Russians had to have known about— ” He paused, realization hitting him like a punch in the gut.

“What is it?” Lieutenant Jackson asked.

“Something’s not right about all this,” Dalton said.

“What do you mean?” Jackson asked.

“This Russian avatar, Chyort, it’s not right.” Dalton’s mind was racing as he considered all he had experienced. “Chyort attacked us, not the mercenaries taking down the train.”

“Maybe he thought you were the greater threat?” Dr. Hammond suggested.

Dalton shook his head. “No.” He turned to Jackson.

“Chyort was in the railmaster’s shack the same time you were, right?”

Jackson nodded.

“So he knew about the change in the timing of shipment. Yet the Russian guards weren’t ready. They ran right into the ambush. And Chyort attacked us, not the ambushers.

“He’s with them. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, given that this Chyort is supposed to be part of the GRU, but he is with the Mafia, helping them. And we aren’t going to recover those bombs or stop the phased-displacement generator from being used, until we stop Chyort.”

Dalton turned to Dr. Hammond. “If you had to destroy your own project— stop Psychic Warrior— and you couldn’t defeat it on the psychic plane, how would you do it?”

Hammond spread her hands, taking in the complex. “To make sure I succeeded, I’d take out Bright Gate.”

“Which leaves you with the opposite situation from what we have right now,” Dalton said. “What happens to me if I’m on the virtual plane and my body here is destroyed? Or Sybyl is taken off-line?”

“I don’t know for sure what happens to your psyche if your body is killed, although I assume it would also be killed,” Hammond said. “But if Sybyl is taken off-line, then you will lose all the power and support you get from the computer. Your psyche might still be floating around out there, but it won’t be able to do much.”

Dalton nodded. “All right, then. That’s what we’ll do.”

Oma put the phone down. They had the bombs. They had the phased-displacement generator. But it had almost been a disaster. She thought about Leksi’s account of the strange beings that had attacked him— Americans, working in the same manner as Chyort. Yes, Chyort had won, but…

Oma knew the playing field had changed, she just wasn’t sure yet what the changes meant.

She looked at the computer screen on which she had left the information from her Swiss bank account. Four hundred million dollars. With 360 billion pending.

Her gaze shifted to the desktop, on which two things sat: the target list and the card from the NATO representative.

The phone rang. She grabbed it. “Speak.”

“We have dropped the child off as instructed,” the voice on the other end informed her.

“Very good.” Oma held the receiver in her hand as the other end went dead. Another piece in the puzzle that she didn’t quite understand. She’d assumed that Chyort had had her kidnap General Rurik’s wife and children for revenge. But if so, why had he told her to free one of the children in a place where the GRU would find him quickly?

She pushed down on the receiver button and got a dial tone. She punched in the number off the card. It was answered on the first ring.

“Yes?”

“Do you give this number to everyone or do you know who I am?” Oma asked.

“I know who you are,” the NATO representative replied. “Are you calling to chat about the weather or do you accept my offer?”

“You know about the warheads?”

“You have many people’s attention now,” the man acknowledged. “You might not enjoy the heat of the spotlight that is now shining in your direction. In fact, I’m not sure I can keep my offer on the table much longer.”

“I have four hundred million in an account already,” Oma said. “An advance against four billion. Do you understand my situation?”

There was a brief silence before the man spoke again.

“We can match the four hundred now that you have the bombs. But we also want the name of the original bidder and all other information you can give us.”

“I cannot do— ” Oma began.

“I would think that would be in your best interest,” the NATO representative interrupted. “Even if you give back the advance, they— whoever they are— will not be happy about your reneging on a deal. Give us the name and perhaps we can clip their wings so they don’t come after you.”

Oma knew that NATO was willing to pay ransom to get the bombs rather than launch a military mission that could easily be as costly in financial terms and more importantly costly in the arena of NATO blood spilled and public image. It was overall cheaper, more direct, and more in line with the realities of the world to pay. It was the way the real world worked.

“Deposit the money and we can discuss this,” Oma said. “Right now, this is only talk.”

“You are playing a very dangerous game and the clock is ticking. This deal requires all the bombs to be turned over. Every single one. I will have the money in your account inside of the hour. Then we will talk again. It will be the last time we talk, one way or the other.”

“You should learn to relax. To enjoy life.”

Feteror stopped his “pacing” and looked at his grandfather’s image in amazement. They were in the clearing near the stream. Feteror was beginning to worry that something had gone wrong. That Rurik would not let him out again. That Oma had the bombs now and had betrayed him.

“This is not life,” Feteror said.

Opa raised his bushy gray eyebrows. “What is it then?”

“This”— Feteror waved his hands around the glade— “is all an illusion. It isn’t real. We are inside a computer.”

“A computer? What is that?”

“ You aren’t even real.” Feteror had no patience for this. He needed to get out, or all that he had worked for would go to naught. He knew he could not trust Oma to keep her end of the bargain without looking over her shoulder. She needed him to operate the phased-displacement generator, but he knew that she might make a deal that didn’t require the generator now that she had the bombs. Of course, he reassured himself she didn’t have the PAL codes.

Opa didn’t look angry, merely puzzled. “How can I not be real?” He stretched his arms. “I feel real.”

Feteror stopped and walked over to his grandfather, who was seated on the tree stump where he had always sat. Feteror thumped his chest. “I am not real either. None of this is. I am a monster. I’m supposed to be dead. You are dead. And I am going to join you soon— and bring those who did this to me on the journey. They will pay for what they inflicted on me. For betraying a loyal soldier.

“Like you said, Opa, the generals don’t care about the common man. They use us like a sponge until we are soiled and dirty and can work no longer, then they throw us away. They have betrayed the entire country. I gave everything, everything, for Mother Russia, and she kicked me in the face. You gave everything. Millions gave everything. And now criminals and bootlickers run the country. I am going to end that and make them all pay.”

Opa looked at him. “How can you do that if we are not real? Is this a dream? I do not understand.”

Feteror shook his head, knowing there was no way he could explain this to his grandfather. “Trust me, Opa. I will do all that I say.”

Opa frowned. “But why? I fought in the Great Patriotic War. I came home to you and my daughter, your mother. I raised you. I did not seek vengeance. What was done in the war was done for necessity. I still had my life to live.”

“I don’t have mine!” Feteror exploded.

Opa waved his hands around the glade. “But you have this!”

“It isn’t real!” Feteror screamed.

Opa reached out and touched Feteror’s arm. “There is good in everyone, grandson. You must— ” Opa began, but he was interrupted by the bright flash of General Rurik’s summons.

Despite his anxiety to get going, Feteror paused. He put a hand on his grandfather’s shoulder. “Opa, I have to go now. We will not meet like this again.”

Opa smiled, revealing his yellowed and stained teeth. “I do not understand what this place is or why I am here. I don’t understand why you feel you must do what you feel you must, but you are my grandson, so I will be with you in spirit. Good luck, Arkady. Godspeed.”

Feteror nodded, then flashed through the circuits to access his line to General Rurik. As he did so, his grandfather’s last words echoed in his mind. God? There was no God as far as Feteror was concerned. No God would allow what had been done to him to happen.

He spoke into his circuits. “Yes, General?”

“We found my youngest son, exactly where you said he would be.”

Feteror waited.

“Find my wife and other son,” Rurik ordered.

“I will.”

The door opened and Feteror was free. As he raced out the window into the virtual plane, he realized that if all went well, this would be the last time.

“We can’t beat Chyort in the virtual plane.” Dalton’s voice was firm.

“That makes Psychic Warrior worthless.” Hammond was shaking her head. “The whole purpose of this program was— ”

Dalton slapped his hand in the tabletop. “Look in the chambers. My people and yours are just empty shells, and the essence of those people is dead!”

Dalton watched the doctor with no sympathy. Her little world, her pet project, had fallen apart and failed. A black mark on her efficiency report. Dalton was more concerned with the bodies in the tanks and the twenty nuclear weapons heading toward the phased-displacement generator. And Chyort.

“As I said, I’ve already been in contact with the National Security Council,” Hammond said. “They’re using a satellite to search for the phased-displacement generator and to track down the nukes. They are also opening contact with the Russian government to offer support.”

“It won’t be that easy,” Dalton said. “Things are as screwed up on their end as they are on ours. The clock is ticking and by the time the official world reacts, it will be too late.”

“They’ll contact us as soon as they discover anything,” Hammond said.

Dalton stood. “Find where Raisor went. And where he is now.” He walked out without another word. He went to the dispensary and looked in on Barnes. The sergeant was sleeping, his body wrapped in blankets.

Dalton looked down at the younger man. He reached up and unpinned his own sergeant major’s insignia from his collar and put it on the small stand to the left of the bed. Then Dalton pulled his wedding band off his ring finger. He looked at the inscription on the inside for several seconds, then placed it next to the rank.

Dalton left the dispensary and went to the main chamber and up to the closest isolation tank. Captain Anderson’s body floated listlessly inside. The breathing fluid was moving slowly through the clear tubes, and the monitor said that the machine was keeping his heart going. But staring at the body inside the tube, the head covered with the TACPAD, Dalton felt little hope. Even if their psyches were recoverable, he knew that Chyort still waited on the virtual plane, ready to stop him from succeeding in any attempt to recover them.

Dalton stood for a long time, staring and thinking.

“I have a question.” The voice startled Dalton out of his morbid reverie.

Lieutenant Jackson had come up behind him unheard and unnoticed. She looked past him at Captain Anderson’s body.

“What’s your question?” Dalton asked.

“The story you told me— about the pilot who was brought in wounded while you were a POW and how you stayed up with him all night?”

“Yes?”

“What happened to him?”

Dalton sighed. “He died within a month. He just gave up.”

“But you didn’t, right?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Don’t give up now, Sergeant Major. We need you.”

Feteror popped into the GRU main conference room and maintained a silent presence for ten minutes. More than enough time to know that the Americans were now putting their cards on the table and talking to his government through the GRU, preparing a conventional response to the bombs’ being stolen.

Feteror had not expected such a quick reaction, but he also had not expected the assault at the ambush site by the Bright Gate personnel. He saw the Spetsnatz colonel sitting quietly at the conference table, listening to the various reports coming in.

Feteror came closer to the man. He knew him. Years ago, in Afghanistan. Then it had been Captain Mishenka, a ruthless and efficient leader of an elite hunter killer team. A fool to still be sitting here serving a new government when the old one had betrayed his fight in Afghanistan.

Despite Mishenka’s presence, Feteror’s own government acting alone did not worry him. By the time they discovered where the phased-displacement generator was, it would be too late. And the only way they would find the stolen nuclear weapons was when they exploded at their targets.

But the Americans— that was another story. They had capabilities that could pose a threat either acting on their own or helping the GRU. Feteror slid along the virtual plane, out of the room.

Inside the conference room, Colonel Mishenka shivered, looking up at the ceiling. He’d felt a cold draft down to the very marrow of his bones for just a second. His eyes narrowed, the deep lines etched at the sides indicating the years he had spent fighting in the brutal elements.

The chill was gone. He returned his focus to the briefer at the front of the room.

In orbit, 285 statute miles above the surface of the earth, thrusters on W a r fighter 1 fired, maneuvering the 850-pound satellite toward the target grid area. On board, doors slid open, revealing the hyperspectral imaging equipment bay. It was the most advanced spy satellite in the American inventory, launched just the previous year and capable of all-weather, all-condition viewing across a large number of frequency bands at extremely high resolution. Some of its imagers could even “see” through ceilings into bunkers and hangars by using certain bandlengths.

Just as important as the imaging equipment was the onboard computer that could be programmed to look over wide swaths of terrain for a specific image. The RHC3000, a 32-bit, 2-gigabyte, high-density mass-memory command and data handler, was currently being updated with information sent by the Russians regarding the makeup of the phased-displacement generator and with the exact composition of the twenty missing warheads.

It would be in position in six minutes to begin searching outward from the site of the ambush into central Russia.

Feteror had never gone this high— there had never been a need to and it had never occurred to him to try. As he passed out of the atmosphere, he wondered if he could travel far in space, or if his virtual link to Zivon and SD8-FFEU had a limit.

It was dark here in this netherworld, not the grayish white of the virtual plane closer to the planet. More a dim area, desolate, empty even of the whispering of the souls of those close to the surface. Feteror found it quite soothing.

He reached out through the virtual plane with his senses. He picked up the approach of W a r fighter 1 as it closed on the ambush site. He closed on the satellite. It was a spectacular piece of machinery. He noted the imagers pointing earthward out of the bay, the small maneuvering thrusters firing slight puffs, orienting the vehicle.

Feteror slid his being into the satellite. He became part of it, using its imagers as his own senses. He looked down at the earth, able to see the curving horizon of the planet in all directions. It was so spectacular that he almost forgot his task, but not quite.

He processed a picture through the main camera. Then he accessed the thruster control program.

“Sergeant Major.”

Dalton heard the resignation in Hammond’s voice before he turned and saw the defeat etched across her face.

“Yes?”

Hammond wordlessly held up a glossy piece of paper.

Dalton took it, Lieutenant Jackson looking over his shoulder. The demon’s face was etched against a black background, as horrible as Dalton remembered it.

“Chyort,” Dalton said, handing the imagery back. Jackson was nodding, also recognizing their foe from the ambush.

Hammond spoke in a monotone. “He took out the satellite the NSA was sending over to find the generator and the nukes.”

“Took out,” Dalton repeated. “How did he do that?”

“They don’t know, but they have no communication with it and the tracking station can’t even pick it up in orbit. It’s gone. The Russians”— Hammond’s voice betrayed her admiration in the face of the disaster— “they must have done something completely different than us to come up with this thing, this Chyort.”

Dalton considered the photo. “He wanted us to know he did it. There’s no other reason for him to allow his image to be processed.”

“Any more information on who or what Chyort is?” Lieutenant Jackson asked.

“I’m working on getting that information, but my best guess is that he’s the end result of their version of the Psychic Warrior program.”

Jackson gave a derisive laugh. “They’ve got something going that we don’t have a clue about. It’s far beyond what we’re doing here.”

Dalton shook his head. “We don’t have time for this.” He pointed at the imagery. “Allowing himself to be photographed like that means he’s confident that he can accomplish what he wants to and he’s not worried about us stopping him.” He turned to Hammond, who was still staring at the picture. “I want communication with the National Security Council.”

Hammond nodded. “We have a direct link in the control room.”

“How can we stop them?” Jackson asked while they walked to the control room.

“I’m an old soldier,” Dalton said, “so I say we do it the old-fashioned way. With some new-fashioned help.”