Psychic Warrior

Chapter Nineteen

Colonel Verochka walked quickly from the back ramp of the BMD to the left side door of the MI-14 transport helicopter. As soon as she was inside, the door was swung shut by the loadmaster.

She checked her watch. It was time. She gave a thumbs-up signal to the loadmaster, who relayed the order through his headset to the cockpit, and the helicopter took off.

Other than the loadmaster, who sat down across from her, she had the spacious interior of the cargo bay to herself. She set the metal case down between her feet, making sure that the chain wasn’t tangled. She twisted in the seat and looked out one of the small glass portals as they gained altitude. She saw one Havoc gunship about fifty meters away, and she knew the second was on the other side. She also knew that four Mig-24 jet fighters were taking off at this moment and would provide overhead cover.

She leaned back in her seat and relaxed for the first time since she’d signed for the metal case.

The lights were off, leaving only the dim reflection from the half-open door to illuminate the room. Dalton was sitting on his bunk, back against the cold wall, listening to the nervous rustlings in the room. Some of the men were asleep from sheer exhaustion, but he knew most were awake, unable to sleep. No one had taken Hammond’s sleeping drug, not wanting to have anything in their system that could interfere with their ability to operate. There was slightly under ten minutes before they had to go to the experimental chamber and prepare to launch.

Dalton turned his head as someone slipped in the door. He recognized the slender figure of Lieutenant Jackson. She wove her way through the bunks until she arrived at his location. Dalton slid over, giving her room to sit at the foot of the bed.

“You okay?” he asked in a low voice.

“No.”

Dalton smiled in the dark. “Me neither.”

Jackson’s head came up. “But you’ve been in combat. Don’t you get used to it?”

“You never get used to it,” Dalton said. “Plus, this is different than anything else I’ve ever done. One time I sat down and figured it out. I’ve fought on every continent except Australia and Antarctica. I guess I should be grateful there’s no native population in Antarctica and we haven’t gone to war with the Aussies, or I’d be seven for seven. Vietnam. El Salvador. Lebanon. Somalia. Panama. Antiterrorist work in Berlin. Other places. Other times. Each one a little different, each one pretty much the same.

“I’ve jumped in, walked in, been flown in, swum in, ridden in— you name it— I’ve gone into combat every way I thought was possible. And now here’s a new way.”

“I’ve never fired a shot in anger,” Jackson said.

Dalton chuckled. “Hell, neither have I. I’ve fired a heck of a lot in fear, though.” He stretched his legs out. “It feels strange to be this close to infiltration— I guess we can call it infiltration— and not be doing something. Usually we would be cleaning our weapons, loading magazines, sharpening knives, memorizing call signs and frequencies and doing radio checks. But we’re just sitting here waiting.”

Dalton knew some of the men were listening in. He also knew there wasn’t much he could say to make them feel better. In his experience, he never knew how someone was going to react in combat until they were there. Training helped, but no training could prepare someone for the ultimate test. He’d seen men he’d thought he could count on flake out and others he hadn’t thought much of do the most incredible feats of arms.

His watch began beeping. Dalton stood. “Rise and shine. Another great day in airborne country.”

The members of the team got out of their bunks.

“Let’s do it.” Dalton headed for the door.

Feteror looked down on the rail line. The armored train was twenty minutes from the border checkpoint between Kazakhstan and Russia. He noted the Havoc helicopters flying cover, and on the train the number of guards and their weapons.

Then he swept north searching, doing quick jumps through the virtual plane, peeking into the real. After six tries, he spotted the MI-14 helicopter with its fighter and gunship escort, heading northwest, toward Russia. The aerial convoy would cross the border in six minutes, but he knew its destination and it had another hour and twelve minutes of flight time. More than enough, Feteror knew.

He jumped, through the virtual plane, and poked into the real above the FARP. He could see the men preparing their weapons, the helicopters warmed up. Leksi was yelling orders, getting everyone moving.

Feteror settled down on a mountain peak, between the FARP and the rail line. He slowly materialized into the real world, keeping his form colorless so he couldn’t be spotted. He felt the spatter of the light rain on his wings.

Like a huge vulture perched on the rocky crag, he waited.

Oma turned the card the NATO representative had given her over and over in her liver-spotted hands.

The phone rang and she put the card down and picked the receiver up.

“Yes?”

“We accept.”

She recognized Abd al-Bari’s accent.

“In fact,” the voice continued, “we would like delivery of four packages.”

Oma closed her eyes. She had dealt with large sums of money, but the thought of four billion dollars staggered even her.

“The money?” she asked.

“The first payment has been transferred to the account you indicated. As we discussed, the balance will be paid upon our satisfaction that you have completed your terms of the agreement.”

With her free hand, Oma began typing into her computer, accessing her Swiss account. She knew al-Bari was not lying, but she had to see the numbers for herself.

“Where do you want the packages delivered?” she asked as her fingers worked.

“That data is being transmitted via encrypted fax as we speak.”

Oma looked up as the bulky secure fax machine she had appropriated from the defunct KGB buzzed, then hummed, spilling out a piece of paper.

“We will be waiting,” al-Bari said, then the phone went dead.

Oma looked at her computer screen. Four hundred million dollars was credited to her account. She slowly walked across the room to the fax and picked up the paper.

Oma’s hand shook as she read the list and realized the implications of the targets and the order of destruction. One word sprang to mind as she carried the paper back to her desk: jihad. Abd al-Bari’s people were preparing for the Holy War they had always dreamed of, crippling the abilities of the Americans and Israelis to fight against the storm of fanaticism they hoped would arise.

She placed the target list on the desktop next to the card. She looked once more at the computer screen and the flashing dollar figure there.

She opened a drawer and pulled out a cellular phone. She punched in memory one. It was answered on the second ring.

“Yes?”

“Barsk, are you ready?”

“We have off-loaded the weapon and Vasilev is setting it up, hooking it into the computers you had waiting here. I have men working now on splicing into the power lines.”

“Good. Wait until you hear from me again.” Oma cut the connection and put the phone on the desk in between the card and the target list. Then she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.

General Rurik paced back and forth, bathed in the glow of the flashing red light that indicated that Feteror was out.

“Anything further on what our friend has been up to?” he asked the senior technician.

The man looked up from his computer screen with a troubled visage. “It is most strange, sir.”

Rurik halted in his pacing. “What is?”

“Feteror is gone, but I’m picking up indications that he isn’t gone.”

“How can that be?”

The man shook his head. “I am not certain. There is a presence inside of Zivon that I cannot pin down.”

“Well, pin it down,” Rurik snapped.

Dalton felt the embryonic solution slide up his legs as he was lowered into the isolation tank. He knew the other members of his team were being lowered at the same time into their own tanks, but he could see nothing with the TACPAD helmet securely fastened on his head. He gave a thumbs-up as the solution came up over his waist, then chest.

“All right.” Dr. Hammond’s voice echoed in his ears. “All systems are green on all tanks. We are ready to proceed.”

Raisor’s voice replaced hers. “We have final approval from the National Command Authority. Psychic Warrior is a go for its first operational mission.”

Dalton felt the first tinglings of the TACPAD being activated.

From his rocky aerie Feteror watched Leksi move his forces out. Then he leapt into the air, sliding into virtual space, and jumped.

He came out where he thought the air convoy with the PAL codes should be. He twisted in the air, searching, and spotted it moving at 140 knots to the northwest. He focused on the MI-14 in the center. He knew that to act too early would be to alert the troops guarding the train, so he flew alongside.