Psychic Warrior

Chapter Twenty-nine

Feteror formed himself in the real plane inside the hangar. He looked about. Leksi and his men waited by the generator with eighteen plastic cases holding nuclear weapons lined up. Vasilev was at the computer console. Barsk was gone.

That last fact started to truly register on Feteror. Why would Oma’s grandson have left? He knew the answer as soon as he considered it: She was double-crossing him. He laughed, the sound startling everyone in the hangar. She was double-crossing everyone.

But it did not matter. His revenge had begun. He only needed to complete it.

He was adapting, changing. The link back to Zivon was as strong as ever, and the computer was helping deal with this unusual situation with regard to the phased-displacement generator and the bombs. What else could he accomplish? Feteror wondered. Might he be able to actually direct more bombs while the one still was out there, not detonated? He saw no reason why not.

“Load the generator,” Feteror ordered.

The back ramp of the Antonov AN-24 was down, the wind swirling in the back, adding to the roar of the engines.

“One minute!” Colonel Mishenka yelled to Dalton and the Spetsnatz men lined up behind him. The Colonel knelt down, grabbing the hydraulic arm that lowered the ramp on his side.

Dalton went to the other side and assumed a similar position. He looked forward, blinking in the 130-knot wind that blew in his face.

The peak that held SD8 base was directly ahead. As he watched, there was a flash and a line of smoke streaked up into the sky.

“Missile launch!” one of the crewmen yelled. The man was seated on the center edge of the back ramp, a monkey harness around his body hooked to a floor bolt keeping him attached to the plane. He pointed a flare gun out the back and fired in the direction of the oncoming missile.

He continued firing as quickly as he could reload. It wasn’t high-tech, but it worked. At least for the first two missiles launched at the lead plane as the infrared seekers in their nose went after the hot flares.

“Stand by!” Mishenka yelled.

Dalton stood and shuffled closer to the edge of the platform.

“Go!” Mishenka stepped off on his side, Dalton on his.

Dalton tucked into a tight body position as his static line was pulled out. The chute snapped open. Dalton looked up, checking to make sure his canopy had deployed properly, and he saw a SAM-8 explode in the right engine of the second AN-24 cargo plane as the first jumpers exited.

The cargo plane’s right wing sheered off and the plane canted over. Dalton watched as desperate parachutists tried scrambling out of the open rear. A couple made it before the plane impacted with the ground, producing a large fireball.

Dalton turned his attention to his situation, forcing his feet and knees together, bending his knees slightly— as he’d been taught almost thirty years ago at Fort Benning by screaming Blackhats— and he prepared for his own impact with the ground.

His feet hit; he rolled and came to his feet. The wind was taking his chute upslope, so he cut lose the shoulder connects. The chute, minus his weight, took off. Forty meters away a machine gun chattered, stitching holes in the nylon.

There was a terrible scream. Dalton looked up. One of the last men out of his plane had hit the top of the psychic wall. He was still descending, but the man had both hands wrapped around his head. Even at this distance, Dalton could the blood gushing out of the man’s ears, nose, and mouth.

The scream ended just as the man hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. An automatic machine gun fired twenty rounds into the corpse. The man lay there, his parachute anchored by his body and flapping in the breeze.

Dalton watched as two Spetsnatz commandos slapped down a tripod, slid a tube onto the top, loaded a missile, and fired, all in less than ten seconds. The missile streaked right into the source of the firing that had shot up Dalton’s parachute. The small mound hiding the machine gun exploded.

Colonel Mishenka was yelling orders, but the men were well trained and needed little direction. Other Russian soldiers were opening their bundles, pulling equipment out.

Three men ran forward to the minefield warning signs and opened up a large satchel. They pointed a thick plastic tube upslope. There was a flash, then a thick line flew out of the end of the tube, soaring high through the air until it landed, a hundred meters away. One of the men pulled a fuse ignitor on the close end of the line, then all three dove for cover.

The cord of explosive detonated, blowing a five-foot-wide path through the minefield. The three men dashed into the path, made it ten meters, then were cut down by another automatic machine gun.

A rocket destroyed that bunker.

And the bloody process continued as Colonel Mishenka’s Spetsnatz worked their way up the hill, closer and closer to the shimmering psychic wall.

Dalton ran forward and threw a grenade at a bunker housing a machine gun that had just killed a soldier. He knelt and checked his watch. Nine minutes.

Zivon alerted Feteror to the attack, even as the computer battled the attackers with the automatic defense system. Leksi’s men were loading the third warhead into the generator.

“How soon will you be ready?” Feteror demanded of Vasilev.

The professor looked up at the demon. “You still have the second bomb in stasis in the virtual field. That’s affecting the computer. Slowing it down.”

Feteror frowned, dark ridges coming together on his demon face. “Can you fire the next one?”

Vasilev didn’t look up from his keyboard. “I am trying to get the program to accept the new mission.”

“How long?” Feteror demanded.

Vasilev ignored him. Feteror stepped forward.

The professor looked up. “We can fire the third now.”

Jackson felt the liquid pouring into her lungs, but her focus was elsewhere. She had Sybyl access everything in the database on Russian nuclear weapons. She contacted Hammond through the computer.

“Anything from Sergeant Major Dalton?”

“He is on the ground. They are assaulting SD8’s base, Chyort’s home.”

“Any other nuclear explosions?”

“Not yet.”

“How long can you keep the bomb from coming through completely?”

“I estimate 8.4 minutes.”

“Come on, Dr. Hammond!” Jackson yelled. “Get me over there!”

Dalton fired on full automatic, right into the open end of a machine-gun bunker, his bullets smashing into the weapon. He rolled twice to his right, pausing at the edge of the path blasted by the line charge.

He was less than twenty feet from the psychic wall. He could not only see it shimmering now, but he could feel something. A thrumming on the edge of his consciousness. A feeling that made him want to turn and get away as fast as possible.

He looked over his shoulder. Over three quarters of the Spetsnatz were dead, but the survivors were still moving forward, wiping out the last of the automatic weapons.

Colonel Mishenka ran forward and threw himself into the dirt next to Dalton. He peered ahead at the wall, then glanced at Dalton.

A Spetsnatz soldier ran past them.

Mishenka yelled for him to stop, but too late as the man hit the psychic wall. His body spasmed, arms flying back. They could hear his spine snapping in a row of sharp cracks.

The man tumbled to the ground, his head canted at an unnatural angle, blood flowing from every visible orifice.

General Rurik pounded his fist in frustration against the console. “What is going on?”

“I cannot access the surface,” the technician said.

Rurik looked up at the red flashing light. He had missed the last contact with Moscow because Feteror was still out.

He had violated procedure for the first time in his career. He had no clue what was going on. But they knew something was happening above them. The dull sound of explosions echoed through the stone walls.

Someone was attacking them. But who?

There was only one answer— it had to be Feteror and help he had recruited. No one else would dare go up against the psychic wall. No one else could be this far into Russia and assaulting this most secret of bases.

“Captain,” Rurik said, turning to the chief of security. “Have your men ready to stop an assault.”

“But, sir— ” The man hesitated, then continued. “They cannot get in.”

“Oh, they will get in. Feteror is helping them! Now move!”

“The generator is in phase,” Vasilev announced. “The program is working slowly, but it is working.”

“Fire this one,” Feteror ordered, “and load the next one.”

Leksi stepped forward. “You are doing as Oma ordered now!”

Feteror looked at the huge naval commando. He smiled, revealing his rows of sharp teeth. Without a word he sliced forward with his right claw.

Leksi surprised him with his speed. The commando rolled forward, pulling up his submachine gun as he did.

Feteror jumped through the virtual plane to right behind Leksi, even as the man pulled the trigger. Feteror swung down with both hands. Leksi again surprised him by bringing back the submachine gun and blocking the right claw, but the left ripped into Leksi’s back.

Feteror relished the familiar sound of tearing flesh. He lifted Leksi as the commando tried to bend the gun back, to fire at his attacker. Feteror solved that problem by slicing off Leksi’s right arm.

He tossed the dying commando against the wall and stood over him. “I will destroy Oma’s targets but I do not need you to tell me to do it.”

“The bomb is in phase,” Vasilev reported.

Feteror turned to the cowering mercenaries. “Load the next bomb as soon as the generator is clear.”

He jumped into the virtual plane and connected with the bomb. He directed it west toward America.

“Time for your plan to get through the wall, if you have one,” Dalton said.

Mishenka spit and rubbed a hand covered in blood across his face. “I have one. You need a short?” He tapped the side of his head. “I’ve got one right here.”

Dalton wasn’t sure he had heard right.

Mishenka stood and walked toward the shimmer that indicated the boundary of the psychic wall. “I suggest you stay close to me,” he called over his shoulder.

“I can’t let you do that,” Dalton said.

Mishenka was standing right in front of the wall. Dalton came up next to him. He could feel the pain now, the fear, pulsing through his brain.

Mishenka laughed. He ripped open a packet on his combat vest and pulled out a small red pill. He held it up to Dalton. “My antiradiation pill. Perhaps it works, eh?”

Dalton knew the Russians issued the red pill as a placebo and that anyone with the slightest common sense knew that.

Mishenka tossed it away. “I am a dead man anyway. Let my death be worth something.” He looked at Dalton. “Are you ready?”

Dalton met the other man’s eyes. “I’m ready.”

Mishenka pulled his belt off and handed one end to Dalton. “I go, you follow.”

Dalton found he could not speak, so he simply nodded.

“Now!” Mishenka yelled.

He stepped forward into the wall, pulling on the belt. Dalton was pulled through behind him.

The Russian jerked straight up, his mouth open, a cry issuing forth that chilled Dalton’s heart.

Dalton hit the wall. He staggered, feeling a spike of pain rip into the base of his skull. His skin crackled, felt as if it were on fire. He kept moving his legs, going forward. He fell onto the ground, the pain receding.

Dalton rolled and looked back. There was a glow around Mishenka’s head. The Russian was looking straight at him. The mouth twisted from the open scream into a fleeting semblance of a smile, then a river of blood spilled over the lips and Mishenka fell to the ground dead.

Dalton looked down at his hand. He was still holding the belt. The other end was in the Russian’s dead hand. Dalton let go of the belt and stood. He headed toward the base.

Feteror’s head snapped to the left. He was halfway toward Washington, but something halted him at the jump point.

He opened to the flow of data from Zivon. Someone was through the psychic wall!

Feteror jumped for home, the bomb going with him.