Psychic Warrior

Chapter Twenty-seven

“Sybyl’s holding it, but I don’t know how long she can keep it contained.” Lieutenant Jackson’s voice was on the edge of hysteria, but her training and discipline were holding. Dalton had heard radio calls like this before— from an A-Camp being overrun in Vietnam; from the trapped Delta Force soldiers in Mogadishu; from pilots shot down in the Gulf War calling for rescue as Iraqis closed in.

“But Sybyl is holding, right?”

“If she wasn’t, we wouldn’t be talking. The bomb must be on some sort of timer that is on hold until it clears into real space.”

“Can you clear out of there?” Dalton asked.

Jackson gave a wild laugh. “To go out we’d have to shut down the psychic wall. If Sybyl turns off the wall, we’d be destroyed instantly. We’re caught between two walls. The bomb is inside the outer wall, but Sybyl used the backup containment program to stop it before it came into the real plane inside. The psychic wall and the containment program work off the same system. Turn one off you turn the other off.”

Dalton looked at Major Orrick “How long?” he mouthed.

Orrick flicked his ten fingers at Dalton. Ten minutes.

“How long can the wall hold?” Dalton asked.

“Dr. Hammond is putting every bit of power she can into the computer. But we have no idea. Every time Sybyl ups the containment, it seems like the other side ups too. Jesus, Sergeant Major, the damn nuke is just hanging there above our heads, slowly coming into reality. It’s about a fifth in now. It comes all the way in, we’re done for. I don’t want to put any extra pressure on you or anything, Sergeant Major, but could you hurry the hell up!”

Feteror had put the bomb into Bright Gate without much trouble. The outer virtual wall had been relatively easy to pierce. But that damn computer had reacted with startling speed. The bomb had been caught in a virtual containment field.

He’d left the bomb there, operating off the program from the phased-displacement generator. It was going into the real world, much slower than Feteror would have liked, but it would get there eventually.

“Two minutes out,” Colonel Searl announced over the intercom. “Slowing to recon speed.”

“Extending surveillance pod,” Major Orrick said. He looked up at Dalton. “We have to slow down or else we’d rip the surveillance pod right off. We’re down to about two thousand miles an hour right now.” He leaned forward and placed his eyes into a set of eyepieces that had cycled up from the console. “We’ll get a good shot across the spectrum. Someone’s farting down there, we’ll pick it up.”

Dalton waited. He looked down, noted that his left foot was tapping impatiently against the wall of the recon room and forced it to stop.

“Missile launch.” Orrick mentioned it as if he were saying the sun had come up in the morning.

“We’re tracking red,” Colonel Searl acknowledged.

Orrick hit a button. “Pod in. Clear to boogie.” He smiled at Dalton as they were both slammed back in the seat. “We’re faster than any missile made.”

“Tracking green,” Searl announced. “We’re all clear. Entering approach to destination airfield.” He laughed. “Damn Russkies are gonna be surprised to see this baby land.”

Dalton clicked on the SATCOM link. “Jackson?”

There was no reply.

‘Jackson, I don’t want to take anything from what you’re doing, but if you can answer me, let me know.”

“I can talk,” Jackson said.

“How’s the wall holding?” Dalton asked.

“It’s a losing battle. The bomb is sliding from virtual to real at the rate of three percent per minute. At this rate, it will completely be in the real plane in twenty-two more minutes.”