Psychic Warrior

Chapter Sixteen

Dalton looked around. He was in a large open space, the horizon limitless. The ground beneath his feet was flat and a featureless gray. The air was filled with a white fog, making him wonder how far he was really seeing.

“I am bringing all of you here in your forms in the virtual plane first,” Hammond said.

Dalton noticed something above him. He looked up and saw a falcon and two eagles soaring. He immediately knew from Sybyl’s input that they were Jackson and the other two RVers, Sergeant Williams and Chief Warrant Officer Auer.

More forms began appearing on the ground around him. Dalton was slightly surprised that he could recognize each of his men, their forms very similar to what they were in reality, even though their facial features were white masks without features. There was enough variance in size and shape to allow him to separate them.

“Your weapons,” Hammond announced.

Right arms formed into tubes from the elbow forward. Dalton’s tube was about four inches in diameter, tapering to a smooth muzzle about a half inch wide. Two others were similar to what Dalton carried, two were the “shotguns” he had asked Hammond for, and two were the more powerful, slower-firing tubes.

“What about you?” Dalton projected the question to the RVers circling overhead.

Lieutenant Jackson’s voice answered inside of his head. “We need the power to fly. We can be your eyes for this mission. If we had weapons, we would take away power from yours.”

“All right.”

He saw another figure, Raisor, standing not far away, blank face watching.

The avatars gathered round. It was eerie to watch the bird forms of the RVers simply come to a halt overhead, wings folded. But Dalton knew that if he tried, he could hover off the floor and hang next to them.

“Mr. Raisor has set up a practice scenario for us at Fort Hood, Texas. They’ve closed off a tank range there and put in a bunch of targets, both stationary and moving, for us to attack. We have no idea right now what form the Mafia assault on the nuclear weapons train will take, but this is the best we can come up with on short notice.”

“Do we fire on full power?” Captain Anderson asked.

“Yes,” Dalton said. “We act as if this is the real thing. Dr. Hammond?”

“Yes?”

“Show us the computer mock-up of what’s been set up for us at Fort Hood.”

A line of old railcars appeared, towed into place on a dusty, scrub-covered range. Several armored vehicles, relics towed off other ranges, were lined around it. Scores of silhouettes, some red, some blue, were spaced all around. The terrain around was the hill country of mid-Texas that Dalton remembered from a tour of duty at Fort Hood.

“The blue are friendly. The red are the enemy,” Hammond said.

“All right. Here’s what we’re going to do.” Dalton led his men through his plan for the assault on the attackers.

Feteror was out of time. The link back to SD8-FFEU was weakening, General Rurik’s way of drawing him back. The longest Rurik had ever allowed him to be out on a mission had been six hours in real time. It was another way the general tried to keep a leash on his demon and one that had worked very effectively over the years.

Feteror headed back to SD8-FFEU, sliding down the tunnel, feeling the virtual window shut behind him. He settled in and immediately accessed his inner eyes and ears, somewhat surprised to find them on. There was no sign of General Rurik in the center, which didn’t surprise Feteror. He assumed Rurik had had him called back as soon as he got called about his wife and children, and that the general was still trying to find out what had happened.

Feteror paused as he moved through his electronic home. Something was wrong. Like a tracker noting a blade of grass disturbed here, a broken stick there, Feteror did a detailed search of his domain.

His scream of anger echoed along the wires of Zivon as he found that the intruder had tried to get into his memory files.

“Tell me about the phased-displacement generator,” Barsk ordered.

The old man was blinking, not used to the light even though the interior of the hangar was dim. Barsk looked past the man toward the runway, where the blades on all six helicopters were turning. The first one, with Leksi on board, lifted and headed south. The others followed.

The old man gulped down the water one of Barsk’s bodyguards handed him, finishing the canteen in one long swallow. Barsk waited.

The old man put the empty canteen down and squinted in Barsk’s direction. Getting out of the hole seemed to have bolstered the man’s confidence somewhat. Or, Barsk thought, he had simply given up. He had seen both reactions over the years among those who knew the end was near.

“Who are you?”

“I ask the questions, old man,” Barsk reminded him. “What is this phased-displacement generator? How does it work?”

Vasilev worked his tongue around his mouth, feeling how swollen it was. “It is a weapon.”

“What kind of weapon?”

“It can take a physical object and move it into the virtual plane and then bring it out of the virtual plane.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Vasilev, despite his condition, drew himself up. “I would have to teach you four years of graduate physics for you to grasp the basics, and then I would have to be honest and tell you I do not know exactly how it works.”

“How do you know it works at all, then?”

“We tested it a long time ago.”

“At October Revolution Island?”

Vasilev nodded, his eyes distant.

Barsk remembered the bodies in the cavern. “What happened?”

“We succeeded and we failed,” Vasilev said.

“I don’t have time for word games,” Barsk warned.

“We sank an American submarine in the Atlantic Ocean with a nuclear warhead.”

Barsk looked at his bodyguards and signaled for them to back up, out of earshot. “If this generator is so effective, why was it abandoned?”

“Because— ” Vasilev paused, then continued, “Because, as I said, we also failed. Part of the system, shall we say, malfunctioned, and all those involved were killed.”

“The bodies in the coffins. They were mutilated. Were they the cause of the malfunction?”

Vasilev raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

Barsk sat back, considering the old man. “Can you make it work now?”

“Not without— ” He paused. A sense of dread overcame him. Had they done it again?

“Without what?”

“The remote viewers to fix the target.”

Barsk assumed Oma had thought of that. “If you have that part, can you do it?”

“With the proper computers, enough power, the generator, the proper program, I suppose— ”

“You had better do better than suppose,” Barsk warned.

“You are working with the demon?” Vasilev asked.

Barsk leaned forward. “What do you know of this demon?”

“He visited me there.” Vasilev pointed at the pit.

“Who exactly is the demon?”

“It is more a question of what is this demon,” Vasilev said. “I suspect he is a creature that exists on the psychic plane.”

“Explain as much as you know to me,” Barsk ordered.

Vasilev gave a weak laugh. “That won’t take long.”

“Go!” Dalton ordered.

The three RVers unfurled their wings and took off. Dalton watched them until they suddenly disappeared from view.

“Hammond?” Dalton checked.

“Here.”

“You can have Sybyl relay information from Lieutenant Jackson and the others?”

“Yes.”

Dalton shook his head. This was all happening too fast. He had little idea what their capabilities and limitations were. But he knew that Raisor and Hammond had little idea also. He had to consider so many factors that he knew he was missing some important aspects. He also knew from his combat experience that it was the details that were overlooked that got people killed. And whatever could screw up was going to. Murphy’s law had been a maxim of military operations since the first man had clubbed a guy over the head in the next cave.

Dalton broke his seven-man team into two three-man fireteams. He put Captain Anderson in charge of one. Each fireteam had one fast firer, one “shotgunner,” and one heavy firer.

The plan was as simple as Dalton could make it. He had to guess what the Mafia’s plan would be, but he figured they had to have military men working for them and thus he felt reasonably sure about what would happen. The Mafia force would set up what was called an ORP, objective rally point, near the attack site, but out of direct line of sight. They would launch their attack from there. Dalton’s plan was to use Captain Anderson’s fireteam to attack the ORP while his team assaulted the attacking force. That would force the Mafia to fight on three fronts: the Russian troops guarding the train in front of them, Anderson’s team from behind, and Dalton’s team right among them.

“We’re closing on Fort Hood. ” Jackson’s voice was inside his head, as loud and clear as Hammond’s, startling him out of his military speculating.

Entering the real plane, ” Jackson said.

Dalton waited.

“Okay, we’re here.” There was a difference to Jackson’s voice. As if she were in a large, empty space, her voice echoing strangely. “It’s like the mock-up but there’s also some more armor in the ORP area. About fifty ‘men’ in the ORP. Another force of about a hundred stretched out between the ORP and the train. Hold on, I’ll show it to you.”

Dalton blinked as an image flickered across his vision, momentarily blocking out the featureless area of virtual space around him. He focused and he could see the range target area as Jackson saw it, circling overhead.

“All right,” Dalton said. “Captain Anderson, designate targets for your men.”

“Roger that,” Anderson answered.

Dalton did the same, able to use the views forwarded from Lieutenant Jackson and the two other RVers to give each of his men specific targets. As he did this, a part of Dalton started feeling more confident. He’d been on many military operations in his time in the Army, but this one, while undoubtedly the strangest, also was presenting him with advantages he hadn’t even dreamed of. Being able to see the target like this and then being able to mentally communicate with each of his men, letting them know his plan by seeing it, instead of just telling them what he wanted, was something every military commander would give anything for.

“Are we ready?”

He received an affirmative from each man.

“Sybyl, give us the visual checkpoints,” Dalton ordered.

It was a technique the RVers had perfected. Sybyl could access the NSA’s satellite imagery database and pick easily identifiable spots on the earth’s surface between their present location and the target. They could then project themselves through virtual space from checkpoint to checkpoint by imaging the picture.

“Let’s do it.”

The Special Forces men’s avatars lost their weapons as their arms shifted into wings. They entered the virtual plane and headed south.

Dalton found himself alone once more, moving through the virtual sky with his virtual wings. He hit the first checkpoint and spotted two other of his men passing through. He kept going, until he was at the last checkpoint, less than a kilometer from the target. At that point, he pulled in power from Sybyl and materialized on a hillside, the bulk of the mountain between him and the target. He watched as the other men showed up within a couple of minutes of each other.

“Hell of a way to infiltrate a target area,” Captain Anderson noted as he gained his feet and took a few tentative steps, refamiliarizing himself with operating in the real world with his avatar.

“Any change in the target?” Dalton asked Jackson.

“Negative, ” Jackson responded. “Here’s the current image.”

Dalton checked it. “All right,” he said to the men of his fireteam, Trilly, Egan, and Barnes. “We will go back into the virtual plane from here and I want us to come out into the real world right here— ” He picked a spot on the image. It was about a hundred meters from the railcar, in the midst of numerous red silhouettes indicating the attacking force.

“When you come out, come out blasting,” Dalton said. “Ready, Captain Anderson?”

“Ready.”

“Let’s go.”

Dalton released his hold on the real world and dematerialized. He focused on the image of the spot he had picked. And then he was there. He materialized, the power tube flowing out of his right arm as he flickered into existence in the real world.

He fired at the closest red silhouette.

On a hill to the south a wide-angle video camera had been set up on orders from the CIA to send an image back to Bright Gate. The range area was supposed to be completely evacuated, but two officers from Fort Hood had stayed in the observation post, curious to see what the results of all the strange, high-level orders they had received would be. They had expected to see parachutes come out of the sky, perhaps carrying members of a Ranger battalion practicing a train takedown.

They were stunned when strange men appeared out of nothingness, firing with what looked like tubes in place of forearms and hands. Silhouettes splintered as small fireballs hit them.

Through his binoculars, one of the officers watched as a derelict tank was hit by a larger fireball that smashed through the front armor and exploded inside.

“Who the hell are these guys?” the officer asked his partner.

“What the hell are they?” the other officer asked in return as he focused in on one of the forms, seeing that the face was a featureless white mask.

It was going very well. Of course, Dalton reflected as he moved and fired, the silhouettes weren’t shooting back. That was perhaps the biggest concern he had. Despite Dr. Hammond’s assurances, he wasn’t absolutely confident that the avatars could sustain much damage or that they could be reconstituted as easily as she imagined. There was the issue of what had happened to Stith lurking in the back of his mind.

He did a forward roll behind a berm and fired, slicing a red silhouette in half. “Anderson?” he asked through Sybyl.

“We ’ve wiped the ORP out. No problem!” Anderson’s voice was excited, like a kid who had just won a big ball game.

Dalton didn’t blame him. It was intoxicating, being able to move and fire, to communicate instantly, to come in and out of reality. As he thought that, Dalton looked at a tank hulk fifty meters away. He faded out of the real, sped through the virtual, and popped into existence inside the tank. He “killed” all the crew, then “jumped” again to another position.

Without being asked, Sybyl was updating him on the position of the other members of the team, pushing the data through his consciousness without interfering with what he was doing. He could see that Anderson’s team was moving slowly in his direction, clearing out the terrain between them.

That was when the drones came in overhead. Three of them, flying in triangular formation, they were firing off flares to simulate weapons. Each was programmed with their flight route and had a wingspan of twenty feet. They were flying at two hundred miles an hour, low out of the setting sun.

Even as Dalton noted this unexpected development, he was getting the exact positions, directions, and speeds of the drones from Lieutenant Jackson. He swung up his tube and fired, as did Barnes. The drones were blasted out of the sky less than two seconds after they had been spotted.

“Behind you!” One of the RVers warned him.

Dalton spun, tube at the ready, but even before his avatar completed the turn, the RVer had shown him what was happening. A group of the blue silhouette targets had dropped their covering and were now red.

That lasted for less than a second as all six Special Forces men fired into the new targets.

Dalton paused. There were no more targets. The other members of his fireteam “jumped” to his position. Then Anderson’s team was there. He could see Raisor’s avatar floating to the north, watching, and he knew where the surprises had come from.

“Let’s go home,” Dalton ordered.

On the hillside, the two officers lowered their binoculars after watching the ten men’s arms shift into wings before they simply blinked out of existence.

“That couldn’t have been real,” one of the men whispered.

“Those targets are all destroyed,” the other noted. “That’s real.”

The first officer headed for the door of the bunker. “We weren’t supposed to be here. As far as I’m concerned, we didn’t see anything. We didn’t hear anything. We don’t know anything.”

“We wasted them!” Egan, the intelligence sergeant, was ecstatic as he toweled off the embryonic fluid.

Dalton didn’t say anything, letting the adrenaline flow run its course. The trial run had gone far better than he’d expected. He’d had to reevaluate his outlook on the upcoming mission and accept that Raisor was mostly right— they would have a tremendous advantage and they were the best force for this mission. Not only were they a potent fighting force once they arrived on target, but the ability to infiltrate and exfiltrate a foreign country through the virtual field was unparalleled in its possibilities. Dalton saw Raisor and Hammond by the master control console watching.

“You see how I hit that tank and the fireball went right through the armor!” Barnes was using his hands like a fighter pilot to show what had happened. “Then I ‘jumped’ about twenty meters to the left and hit the tank again. Unbelievable.”

“Just remember nobody was shooting back at you,” Dalton noted.

That brought a moment of silence.

“What exactly happens if we do get shot?” Trilly wanted to know.

“You slip back into the virtual world,” Dr. Hammond said, “and allow Sybyl to reconstitute you.”

“Far out!” Monroe yelled, raising his hand for a high five from Egan.

“You go on the real thing in six hours,” Raisor said. “I suggest you get some rest.”

As the team filed out, Dalton cornered Lieutenant Jackson. “What do you think?” he asked her.

“I think it was too easy,” Jackson said.

Dalton nodded. “Two things worry me. First, we still don’t really know what happens when the avatar gets shot or blown up or run over, or any of the other things that can happen to it.”

“And the second?” Jackson asked.

“Murphy’s law,” Dalton said succinctly. “Whatever can screw up will. I’m concerned about the Russian psychic capability. What if they are on top of this?” He could see the look in Jackson’s eyes and knew she was thinking the same thing. “What if this demon, this Chyort, shows up? Or if what happened to the first team happens to us?

“We don’t know much about what we’re doing,” Dalton continued. “We really don’t know diddly about the Russian capability. What about this Dr. Vasilev? You said he worked in Moscow. Do you think you can find him?”

Jackson looked tired, black lines under her eyes, but she nodded. “I can give it a shot. He’s published in some journals that give some bio information. I can go to the Institute in Moscow and try to find him from there.”

“I’d really appreciate it,” Dalton said. “I know you need to rest, but— ”

Jackson held up her hand. “No problem. I’ll go back in.”

Dalton ran a hand through his goo-filled hair. “I’ll go with you.”

Feteror sensed a presence down the computer path he was on. A shadow where there shouldn’t be one. He paused, uncertain for the first time in a very long time. The shadow moved.

Feteror raced down a side path, his essence flowing through the circuitry, and he popped out behind the shadow. He froze, seeing his grandfather looking about in amazement at the hardware inside of the computer.

“Opa!” Feteror exclaimed.

The old man turned, a bright smile above his bushy gray beard. “Arkady!”

Feteror edged forward, uncertain. “How can you be here?”

Opa shrugged. “That is what I wanted to ask you. And where is here?” His frail arms waved about.

Feteror stepped forward. “But you aren’t real.”

Opa reached out and grabbed Feteror’s virtual arm. “Does that feel real?”

“But— ” Feteror shook his head. “How can this be?”

“How can you be?” Opa said. “I don’t know. I was asleep. And now I’m awake.”

“But I didn’t summon you,” Feteror said.

“Summon me? Summon me?” Opa glared at his grandson.

“What happened to wake you?” Feteror asked.

The old man frowned. “Someone tried breaking in.” He looked about, confusion crossing his face once more. “But I was home. In the cottage. Someone was at the window. I woke and yelled. They ran. But this isn’t the cottage.”

Feteror nodded. Rurik’s prying had woken the old man. But what he didn’t understand— and knew the figure in front of him wouldn’t know either— was how his grandfather’s image had come “alive” and escaped its memory cell. This was something new and unprecedented.

Feteror checked the time. He knew that General Rurik would exhaust all the normal channels to try to find his wife and children. When they failed— and they would, given Oma’s and his own thoroughness— he would reluctantly turn to Feteror. He estimated he had a little while before the call came.

“Where is the cottage?” Opa asked.

Feteror reached out and took his grandfather by the arm. “I will take you home, Opa.”