Psychic Warrior

Chapter Twenty-four

Sergeant Major Dalton woke as the Blackhawk settled down onto the grass next to the concrete runway at Denver International Airport. Several phone calls from the National Security Council had shut down one of the runways twenty minutes ago. Police cars, lights flashing, were parked near the end of the runway.

“Your ride is about two minutes out,” the pilot informed Dalton through the headset.

Dalton opened the side door and stepped off the chopper, carrying the com link. He could see the white-capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains to the west. The airport itself was surrounded by miles of open rolling plain. The white peaks of the uniquely designed terminal were about two miles away, but Dalton had no intention of going there.

He scanned the sky and was rewarded when he spotted a small dot rapidly approaching from over the mountains. It closed swiftly, the shape not that of a normal plane, but more a solid V-form without wings.

As it got closer and slowed on its approach, Dalton could make out details. It was over 250 feet long and a hundred feet from tip to tip at the widest part. The best Dalton could describe the aircraft was that it was shaped like a stretched-out B-2 bomber.

Nose up, it came down toward the far end of the runway from Dalton. He knew that many in the terminal and waiting planes were getting the first public glimpse of one of the most classified projects in the Black Budget, but apparently the decision makers on the National Security Council felt that was a small price to pay for the mission he had to accomplish. Besides, a toy manufacturer had already designed and was selling a model that looked very similar to what was landing; they even had the name right: the SR-75 Penetrator, developed under the project code name Aurora.

The wheels touched down and the plane decelerated. Dalton could see smoke coming from the tires as they tried to halt the forward momentum. He knew about the plane from classified briefings he had attended while assigned to a top secret antiterrorist task force. At its home base at Groom Lake in Nevada, near Nellis Air Force Base and the infamous Area 51, the plane used a runway— the longest runway in the world— over seven miles long to take off and land. It was straining to stop even on DIA’s longest main runway.

But the pilots accomplished the task, slowing to a roll about five hundred yards from Dalton’s location, then bringing the plane toward him. The skin of the craft was a dull black, the small windows in the front hard to spot. The design lines were smooth and sleek.

The plane halted and a hatch opened in the belly between the two large sets of landing gear. Dalton started forward as a ladder extended down. He grabbed the bottom rung and climbed on board.

The man who greeted him was wearing a high-pressure suit, the mask on his helmet swung open. “I’m Major Or-rick, recon officer. I don’t know who the hell you are, but you sure got some pull to get us out in public like this.”

Dalton shook the man’s hand, introducing himself. They were standing in a small space, another ladder leading out of it. Orrick pulled the bottom ladder in and sealed the hatch. He pointed up. “Follow me.”

Dalton climbed behind him into a room crowded with electrical gear and computer screens. There was barely room for both of them to fit.

“This is my area,” Orrick said. He handed Dalton a pressure suit and helmet. “One size fits all when the size is extra large.” He jerked a thumb toward a four-foot-high opening in the front of the compartment. “Cockpit is that way. Better get that on and get up there. The pilot would really like to know what he’s doing and where we’re going.”

The entire plane was vibrating from the engines. Dalton could feel the small movements indicating it was taxiing. He quickly stepped into the pressure suit and pulled it up. He crouched down and made his way down the tight corridor. There were dim red lamps lighting it and the glow of daylight about twenty-five feet ahead. He poked his head out the corridor.

The pilot and copilot were strapped tightly into their form-fitting crash seats, half reclining back, the seats canted up so they could see out the four small windows. The rest of the front was taken up with instrumentation.

The man in the right seat turned his head slightly, seeing movement out of the corner of his eye.

“You Dalton?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Colonel Searl. World War III starting or something?”

“It could,” Dalton said.

Both men twisted in their seats to get a better look. “What the hell does that mean?” Searl said.

The SR-75 was pointing down the main runway, holding. “Maybe we ought to get airborne, then I’ll fill you in.”

“Where are we going?” Colonel Searl asked.

“That’s something else I’ve got to find out once we get airborne. All I can tell you right now is, we’re heading for someplace in Russia.” He held up the case holding the SATCOM. “I need to hook into your commo system to find out exactly where we’re going.”

Searl returned his attention to the front. “You better get back there and settled in. We’ll be airborne in less than a minute. We’ll head for the polar route; it’s the quickest way to Russia, but you need to give us a more specific location pretty quick because Russia is a damn big country.”

Dalton returned down the corridor to the recon officer’s space. Orrick had folded down a small seat, and he helped Dalton settle onto it, buckling him into it just as the plane began moving.

Colonel Searl rolled up the throttle on the plane’s conventional turbojet engine, and the large plane began accelerating down the runway. It took the plane over two and a half miles, just about to the end of the runway, before the delta wings produced enough lift for the wheels to separate from the ground.

With the turbojet engine at max thrust, the pilot continued to gain altitude and speed. Dalton was slammed back into the seat, the straps holding him cutting into his suit. He could feel the strong vibration of the engines.

“We’re passing through Mach 2 now,” Orrick informed Dalton. “We’re already over the Colorado-Wyoming border.”

It had been less than five minutes since takeoff. Dalton opened up the SATCOM and tossed one end of the cable to Orrick.

“We’re going high,” Orrick continued as he plugged in the cable. He looked down at his console. “We’re passing through fifty thousand feet. When we get close to sixty thousand, the pilots switch over to the PDWE. Pulsed-detonation-wave engine,” he clarified. “It’s pretty simple— we’ve got a bunch of high-strength compression chambers in the back. We pump a special mixture into them, they explode in sequence, forming a high-pressure pulse, and they are guided into a combustion chamber which channels it out the rear.”

Dalton checked the small board on the SATCOM. It was functioning and he had a link back to Bright Gate. “How fast can you go?” he asked. That was something that had been left out of the briefing he had been given on the plane, the aircraft’s top speed simply listed as being something over Mach 5.

“Mach 7,” Orrick said proudly. “Over five thousand miles an hour.”

Dalton hoped that would be fast enough. He put the small headset on. “Dr. Hammond?”

“Here.”

“Do you have the link into the Russian secure military network?”

“Yes. The GRU just authorized it.”

“Lieutenant Jackson there?”

“Right here.”

“You got a cell phone number when we went to Moscow. For a Colonel Mishenka.”

“I have it,” Jackson said.

“Can you punch it up?”

“Wait,” she said.

There was a hiss of static, then Dalton heard a buzz. A voice answered in Russian.

“Do you speak English?” Dalton asked.

“Who is this?”

“Is this Colonel Mishenka?”

“You called me. You know who I am,” Mishenka said. “I want to know who you are. This is a classified Spetsnatz line.”

“My name is Sergeant Major Dalton, U.S. Army Special Forces.”

There was just the sound of the static for a few seconds.

“Very interesting,” Mishenka said. “People here are talking to the Americans. Most worried. Quite a bit of excitement. To what do I owe the honor of your call, Sergeant Major?”

“I believe we have a common problem,” Dalton said.

“We do?”

“Twenty nuclear warheads,” Dalton said succinctly. He saw Orrick’s head snap up across the small compartment.

“I’m not— ” Mishenka began, but Dalton cut him off.

“I don’t have time to argue or play games. I am heading toward Russia right now.”

“We do not need your help,” Mishenka said. “The situation is under control.”

“No, it isn’t. I also know about the phased-displacement generator. You don’t have a handle on either the bombs or the generator, do you?”

Dalton felt the plane seem to stutter, then he was slammed back in his seat once more.

“P-D-W-E,” Orrick mouthed the letters to Dalton with a thumbs-up.

Dalton nodded.

“Sergeant Major, you are speaking about things which— ”

“Don’t lie to me or waste my time,” Dalton snapped. “This is our problem. And it’s worse than you know.”

“The official word here is that we do not need your help,” Colonel Mishenka said. “This is an internal problem that will be dealt with using our own resources.”

“The phased-displacement generator makes it our problem,” Dalton said. “And if you are counting on SD8’s secret weapon to find the bombs or the generator, you are very badly mistaken.”

The tone of Mishenka’s voice changed. “Why?”

“Because someone in SD8 is helping the Mafia.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Because I was there when the bombs got stolen,” Dalton said. “My team was wiped out and I barely escaped.”

“How could you have been there? How do you know all this? We are getting very confused reports from those who have gone to the train site.”

“Listen closely,” Dalton said. He quickly told Mishenka about the Bright Gate program, witnessing the briefing inside KGB headquarters, and the battle at the train ambush. He ended with his belief that Chyort was a creation of SD8 and was helping the Mafia.

“Chyort,” Mishenka repeated the name. “I have heard of this creature. I thought it only a rumor, a myth.”

“Chyort is real,” Dalton said. “And you know what it is. I heard General Bolodenka authorize you to be briefed on Department Eight’s current operation. It has to be Chyort. And if it is on the other side, any action you take will be thwarted by it. Chyort just took out our Warfighter I satellite that was trying to track down the generator and the bombs.”

“How could this creature do that?”

“I don’t exactly know, but you should be getting a fax into the GRU war room any second now. It shows Chyort just before he destroyed Warfighter. He wanted us to know it was him.”

“Wait a second.”

Dalton impatiently listened to the hiss.

“Your fax arrived a few seconds ago. What is this thing?” Mishenka asked. “I have never seen anything like it.”

“A monster your people created and now it’s turned against you.”

“What is your plan?” Mishenka asked.

“Do you have communications with SD8?”

“I’m not sure.”

“We have to take out SD8; it is from that base that

Chyort is able to work. We have to destroy its ability to project onto the virtual plane.”

“How do you propose to do that?”

“We must attack it at the source. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes.”

“Send me the coordinates. I’ll head straight there. Then call whoever you have there and get them to stop this thing.”

“I’m having the coordinates of the base sent to you. I will be heading that way myself shortly. I will try to make contact with Department Eight.”

The screen flashed with numbers. “Major Orrick!” Dalton called out.

“Yes.”

“Here’s our target area.” Dalton read off the numbers.

“I have partial system running,” Vasilev said.

“What does that mean?” Feteror growled.

“We can try a test run,” Vasilev said.

The phased-displacement generator gleamed inside of the hangar, reflecting the glow of the lights set up around it. Leksi had put all the helicopters under cover of the other old hangars. He’d deployed his men in an efficient perimeter, antiair and antitank missiles ringing the airfield. Feteror knew without the help of the Americans, the GRU would never find them in time.

He was also aware, though, that once he started drawing power from the lines, someone at the closest monitoring plant would notice. He was tired of having to worry about all these potential problems. He had spent years considering all the possibilities, and his plan would take care of that problem.

For a moment, he considered running the test against SD8. That would bring it to a conclusion. But his anger forestalled that. There were many who must pay first. He had been trained always to stick with the plan, and he would do so here.

“Load the generator,” Feteror ordered.

“We must wait until we hear from Oma,” Barsk protested.

“We must test the generator,” Feteror said. He smiled, noting that Leksi was moving behind the boy, weapon at the ready. As if that could achieve anything.

“I need to call Oma before you do anything,” Barsk said.

“Oma and I are partners.” Feteror resisted the urge to just take the man-child’s head off. He needed these people for a while longer. Instead, he pointed a long claw at the generator. “Do not worry. I plan to run the test in a manner designed to gain us some time. Your Oma would approve.”

“I must call Oma.” Barsk was sounding like an irritating tape, playing over and over.

“Call her then!” Feteror snapped. “In the meanwhile, load the first warhead in the generator. We do not have forever. If I know her well, and I believe I do, your Oma will want to know it works before committing to a course of action.”

Leksi looked to Barsk, who reluctantly nodded. Leksi snapped orders and his men uncrated one warhead.

“What do I have to do, old man?” Feteror leaned close to Vasilev.

“The computer will integrate the physical material inside the generator into the virtual plane. Your job will be to target it. The computer will then fire it across the folded space and into the real. The bomb will be on a timer which I will activate prior to its leaving the generator.”

“That will not be a problem,” Feteror said.

“Where will you be sending the warhead?” Barsk asked.

“Do not concern yourself” Feteror said.

He noted that Barsk had his cell phone out. Feteror slipped into the virtual plane for a moment and reached out to the phone.

Colonel Mishenka climbed on board the helicopter waiting on the roof of GRU headquarters, his mind racing with what he had just learned. In the distance he could see the few skyscrapers that dotted the Moscow skyline. The fools below him were still scrambling, searching desperately for the bombs and the phased-displacement generator. They couldn’t accept that someone in SD8 was involved.

They had tried to call General Rurik, the commander, but the base was shut down to all outside communications and had missed its last contact. That in itself had Mishenka convinced that what the American Green Beret had told him was true— someone in Department Eight had gone over to the other side. And Mishenka had a very a good idea who that person was— he had been truly startled and shocked to learn the identity of the man behind Chyort: Major Arkady Feteror.

Mishenka remembered Feteror from Afghanistan. A brilliant and ruthless warrior. A man who took only the hardest missions. But Feteror was supposed to have died. Mishenka remembered hearing that they had found the major’s body in a village, torn to pieces. What had these GRU people done to him?

There wasn’t the slightest doubt in Mishenka’s mind that Feteror was behind all this trouble, the last report on General Rurik’s son being found notwithstanding. Feteror would use a boy like a pawn with not the slightest twinge of conscience. The Feteror that Mishenka remembered would gut a child as easily as another man would give a piece of candy. A most formidable foe.

The helicopter shuddered and headed toward the airfield where a jet was waiting. Mishenka hoped only one thing— that this American Special Forces man who was coming was up to facing down Feteror or the psychic cyborg— the term the briefer had used— that Feteror had been made into— and had a plan to stop this madness.

“We’re two hours out from the grid you gave us,” Major Orrick said. He pointed on a chart. “It’s here.”

Dalton nodded. He spoke into the boom mike. “Jackson?”

“Yes?”

“Any change?”

“Nothing has occurred.”

“Raisor?”

“Nothing there either.”

“Notify me if anything happens.”

“I will.” There was a pause. “I’m sorry.”

Dalton leaned back in the seat, closing his eyes in weariness. “What for this time?”

“For the men of your team.”

“Let’s just do this right.”

“I’ve been looking over the information Sybyl gathered from the battle. I think we’ve learned some things about this Chyort.”

Dalton opened his eyes. “Like what?”

Hammond’s voice came over the radio. “The Russian projection— the Chyort avatar— is different from what we are doing here.”

“No shit,” Dalton said. “How?”

“The interface is purer than what Sybyl can accomplish through Psychic Warrior. Our TACPAD is efficient, but ultimately there is a degradation in power and focus. Sybyl doesn’t read that degradation in Chyort. The interface of human and machine seems to be almost perfect.”

“How do you think they are able to do that?”

“I asked Sybyl that,” Hammond said. “The computer thinks they have created a cyborg.”

“Come again?”

“Chyort appears to be the result of a human brain being directly wired into a computer full-time.”

“Can that be done?” Dalton asked.

“We could do it here”— Hammond almost sounded jealous— “except that the process would not be reversible and that would cross an ethical line we aren’t even allowed to contemplate.”

It all clicked for Dalton then, what Chyort was doing and why. “They’ve created their own Frankenstein and it’s turned on them.”

“Warhead loaded and armed,” Leksi said.

“Setting?” Feteror asked.

“Two kiloton as directed. Ten-second delay from phase displacement.”

Enough to cause absolute devastation in an area about three kilometers wide and collateral damage for five times that distance. More importantly, the EMP— electromagnetic pulse— emitted by the explosion would fry every electric device within fifty kilometers.

Feteror turned, claws grating on the concrete floor. “The program?”

Vasilev’s face looked even more haggard in the dim glow of the computer screen. “In phase. Ready to phase bomb into virtual.”

“Power,” Feteror ordered.

One of Leksi’s men threw a switch. The entire hangar hummed as the power lines going into the phased-displacement generator fed it the energy it needed.

Barsk edged closer to Vasilev. “You are sure this will work?” He had given up trying to dial out to reach Oma. The phone wasn’t working.

“I am sure of nothing except that I will die shortly,” Vasilev said, “and this will all finally be over.”

Feteror was preoccupied. “A speedy and painless death is what you are working for.”

Vasilev shook his head. “No. That is not why I am doing this. I am working for atonement. To pay for what I have done. To pay for trying to play God.”

Feteror focused his red eyes on the gleaming metal tube. The warhead rested in the top chamber. There was no vent here. If the warhead failed to project and detonated— well, there would not be much left for the authorities to find.

Feteror lifted a large, scaly arm. He began to slide over the line into the virtual plane. He stretched his self out, toward the generator. He could sense the bomb inside, flickering on the edge of the virtual plane also. He dropped his arm and snapped entirely into the virtual plane at the same moment as Vasilev hit the final control to send the bomb over.

The bomb was there, totally in the virtual plane. He could see the red digital clock counting down on the control face of the timer Leksi’s armament man had attached. Ten seconds.

Vasilev knew where he wanted the bomb to go, and he had planned the path many times. There were two jumps. He focused on the bomb and the first jump point. The bomb disappeared. The timer was frozen in the virtual plane and Feteror knew it would only start once he deposited it on target and it passed through to the real.

Feteror raced northwest, following the bomb’s path. He jumped, saw the bomb, projected the second and final jump point, and the bomb was gone.

Feteror jumped again. He was exactly where he wanted to be. The bomb appeared right in front of him in the virtual plane. He reached out and wrapped his claws around it. He moved in three smaller jumps to the exact position, high over a tall roof with the X of a helipad directly below.

The target. The bomb slid through the wall between the virtual and real. The timer clicked to nine.

Feteror jumped twenty kilometers away to the south. He slid into the real plane, hovering in the air a thousand feet above the ground, and looked back in the direction he had come from.

A tremendous flash lit up the early morning sky.

Feteror knew that in that second, GRU headquarters was nothing but a smoking hole in the earth: ground zero.

Colonel Mishenka was only twelve kilometers from the epicenter; the helicopter he was on was in final approach to land at the military airfield. He heard the startled yells of the pilots and caught the flash as it washed over the helicopter.

The fireball and shock wave were next, rolling out from ground zero. The pilots were shouting, stunned by the sudden loss of all electrical equipment on board the aircraft, flying by the seats of their pants, bringing the chopper down as quickly as they dared, seeing the wave of fire that was coming toward them.

Mishenka watched the approaching wave dispassionately through the Plexiglas window on the side of the cargo bay. It would either dissipate or kill them.

The chopper slammed into the edge of the runway, the shocks on the wheels absorbing only part of the impact. Mishenka was thrown against his seatbelt, which he rapidly unbuckled. He threw open the side door and stepped outside, facing directly into the wave.

But he already knew it was losing power. He’d seen films of nuclear blasts before, and this one wasn’t big. Somewhere under five kilotons, his mind calculated. By the time the wave hit him, it was like a strong, warm wind.

Mishenka also knew with that wind was a very unhealthy dosage of strontium 90, cesium 137, iodine 131, and carbon 14, the makeup of a nuclear weapon’s fallout having been drummed into him during the many training sessions he had gone through. He also knew that the pills in his antiradiation kit were placebos, designed to allow the soldier to keep fighting until he became incapacitated.

He looked at the runway. A Mig-1.42, the cutting edge of Russian aerospace technology, was waiting as he had ordered. It was shaped like a dart, with two large engines, each below a tall vertical tail. He could see the cockpit was open and the pilot was yelling at a ground crew man. Colonel Mishenka walked across the concrete runway to the plane.

The pilot looked down. “We cannot fly! No circuits. No radio. Nothing.”

“Do the engines work?” Mishenka asked.

The pilot stared at him. “Yes, but— ”

“If the engines work, you can fly, correct?”

“But I will have no instrumentation, Colonel!”

“Your compass works, correct?”

“My ball compass, yes, but my navigational computer is completely fried.”

Mishenka held up his briefcase. “I have a map. We can fly low and navigate by watching the ground beneath us. I also have a shielded satellite phone in here, so we will have communications.”

The pilot shook his head. “Flying low. It will be very dangerous, Colonel. Perhaps we should wait until— ” He stopped as Mishenka laughed. “What is it?”

“Dangerous?” Mishenka spread his arms wide. “Did you see that nuclear explosion?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you understand?” Mishenka didn’t wait for an answer. “We are all dead if we stay here. It will just take a day or two. So I would much rather die flying into a mountain than wasting away.” He pointed at the small packet on the man’s right shoulder. “Have you taken your pill?”

The pilot was still struggling to understand the impact of what he had just been told. He could only shake his head.

“Take your pill,” Mishenka said. “You’ll feel better and you’ll be all right as long as we get out of here in time.”

The pilot ripped open the packet and pulled out the pill, gulping it down without the benefit of water. He grabbed the inset ladder and flipped it down. “Let’s be on our way.”