Psychic Warrior

Chapter Six

In all directions, white-coated mountains covered the countryside below the helicopter. Seated in the cargo bay of the Blackhawk, Dalton leaned back and took in the sights, every now and then spotting a ski slope he’d visited over the course of the last few years.

He had not only skied the mountains they were flying over, he had spent many days and nights traversing them. Part of the Trojan Warrior program had consisted of long, overland movements to put some of the theories they had learned to the test. Dalton had participated in the training for two reasons— one was the same reason he was on board this chopper: to make sure the men were taken care of. The other was because the limited information they had received beforehand about the content of the training had interested him.

The six months of intensive work had been interesting and frustrating. Some of what they were taught by the various instructors clearly had a connection to their war-fighting mission. But other subjects, such as the bio-cybernetics, had seemed more radical. That training had concentrated on mental alertness, strength of concentration and focus, and control of the body’s voluntary and involuntary systems, all while getting feedback from various machines they were hooked to. They had learned to do such things as mentally increasing the blood flow to their extremities, which was of some use during winter warfare training, but at the time had not seemed worth the amount of time they had invested. They’d also learned to reduce levels of muscle tension.

One aspect that had seemed very strange at the time was the training spent hooked to a machine that gave them feedback on their alpha brain waves. They’d learned to increase those waves, which the trainers said resulted in decreases in anxiety and apprehension and allowed them to master stressful and life-threatening situations, something Dalton thought he had gone a long way toward achieving in Vietnam.

All the men who had gone through Trojan Warrior— named after the figure on the crest of the 10th Special Forces Group when it was first formed in 1958— had changed, mostly for the better.

But then the training had ended, the instructors were gone, and everyone seemed to lose interest in the entire program. Life went back to the normal cycle of training and deployment Special Forces was used to.

Dalton looked around the interior of the Blackhawk, mentally cataloguing the other seven members of the team. It was a thing he found strange about the military, the sort of lottery that resulted in one man’s getting chosen to go on a mission while another didn’t get picked. One man died on the luck of the draw while another lived. It was something he had struggled with over the years, having too much imagination to simply accept as others did that it was just fate.

Captain Anderson was, of course, the highest-ranking man and the team leader. But Dalton had worked with Anderson and he knew that the younger man would defer a lot of responsibility and decision making to him due to his experience. It was the traditional Special Forces way of doing business.

Master Sergeant Trilly had not questioned Dalton’s position or attempted to take charge of the team during the load-out. Dalton’s major concern was whether the man would pull his own weight, never mind take responsibility. Trilly had been the weakest link during the Trojan Warrior training.

Seated next to Trilly was Sergeant Barnes, the medic. Barnes was a tall, well-built man with dark hair, in his mid-thirties. His slate gray eyes were his most distinguishing feature. Of all those that had gone through the Trojan Warrior training, Barnes had been the one most deeply affected.

Staff Sergeant Stith, an engineer/demo man, was a quiet black man who, Dalton knew, had plans to get out and go back to college to get a degree in architecture with his GI Bill money. Sergeant Monroe, a hulking presence in the helicopter, over six and a half feet tall with a completely shaved skull, was known for his imaginative work with weapons.

The last two members were an intelligence sergeant and an executive officer. Sergeant First Class Egan was a quiet man who wore wire-rimmed glasses. Dalton knew Egan’s passion was reading military history, and he felt the man was a strong asset to any team. Warrant Officer Novelli, a large, slow-moving man, was the second-weakest man on the team, in Dalton’s opinion. Dalton felt Novelli had somehow slipped through the cracks over the years. As with Trilly, Dalton simply hoped Novelli would hold his own.

The chopper turned and Dalton looked out. He spotted the distinctive white cross of snow on the Mount of the Holy Cross to the north. From that, he knew they were somewhere in the White River National Forest, south of Vail, north of Aspen, and west of Leadville, in the heart of the Rocky Mountains.

“Check it out.” Barnes nudged him, pointing forward.

Straight ahead, a large door, camouflaged to look like part of the mountainside, was sliding up, a level metal grating coming out at the bottom. A dark hole appeared on the side of the mountain.

“Some high-speed stuff, Sergeant Major,” Barnes said. “Who the hell are these people?”

Dalton knew that Anderson and Trilly had not had a chance to fully brief the team, but Special Forces men were used to missions with vague parameters.

The blades flared and the chopper settled onto the metal grating. Dalton grabbed the door handle and slid it to the rear. He felt the chill blast of air as he stepped out.

“Gentlemen, welcome to Bright Gate.” Raisor waved the team off the helicopter. Dr. Hammond was next to him, holding her coat against the chopper blast.

It had taken them two hours to reach this location deep in the spine of the Rocky Mountains. The helipad was extended out of the side of a massive, thirteen-thousand-foot peak. The entire platform shuddered, then began retracting into the hangar cut into the side of the mountain, taking the helicopter and its passengers with it. As they cleared the side of the mountain, the door slid down, cutting them off from the outside world.

“This way.” Raisor gestured toward a large door on the side of the hangar furthest into the mountain. He and Hammond led the way, the team following, carrying their gear in large green rucksacks. Raisor paused before the door, a large circular steel structure, over eighteen feet in diameter. It was strangely formed, with rings of concentric strips of black metal spaced evenly out from the center on the polished steel. Dalton noticed that strips of the same black metal were attached to the rock wall that extended left and right the length of the hangar, disappearing into holes drilled into the rock where the hangar ended.

Dalton looked closely. There was something strange about the door, in fact the whole wall the door was set in; a shimmering effect that was barely noticeable.

Raisor punched a code into the panel on the right side. Dalton blinked. The shimmering seemed to have stopped. The door rolled sideways into a recessed port. A corridor lit with dim red lights beckoned. Raisor made a sweeping gesture with his hand and the team trooped through. The door rolled shut behind them and Raisor again punched a code into the inside panel. Dalton swore that the shimmering came back, this time on the inside of the door. And the inside was also covered with the black metal circles, branching off into holes drilled on this side into the rock.

Dalton followed the rest of the team down the corridor. They walked through a door, then down a hallway cut out of the stone. Hammond opened a door and showed them a large room with gray painted walls and several bunk beds.

“I’m sorry the arrangements aren’t the greatest,” Hammond said, sounding not sorry at all as the team members threw their rucks down. “I’d like to get started right away,” she added.

They followed Raisor and the doctor down another corridor deeper into the mountain. The corridor opened into a large chamber. They all stopped, taking in the view. There were two rows of ten of the large cylinders that had been on the slide. Two had people in them, floating in the green liquid, a man and a woman, like full-grown fetuses in suspended animation. Each wore a slick black one-piece suit over their torso.

The team silently walked up and stared at the two bodies.

“Don’t touch the glass,” Hammond warned. “The fluid inside is supercooled and your hand would freeze to the glass.”

Dalton looked closely and now he saw a thin haze in the air surrounding the glass as the ambient room temperature met the much lower temperature.

“Supercooled?” Anderson asked.

“It’s necessary to slow the body’s processes down to allow the brain to function at a higher level.”

“How do they breathe?” Master Sergeant Trilly asked.

“Actually, they’re not breathing as you know it,” Hammond said, a statement which caused a ripple of concern among the team.

Hammond pointed. “You see the center tube going into the helmet?” Next she pointed to a bulky machine on the outside. Clear lines coiled around the outside of a pump moving so slowly, the action was almost imperceptible. The liquid in the lines was a dark blue.

“A mouthpiece is attached to that lung machine. It doesn’t send oxygen in the gaseous form as you are used to, but rather a cooled, special liquid-oxygen mixture directly to their lungs. The machine actually does the work for the lungs, because we can’t count on the autonomic nervous system to function properly.”

“They’re breathing that blue stuff?” Trilly asked in astonishment.

Hammond nodded. “It’s similar to what some extreme-deep-sea divers use to get the exact right mixture of gases to handle the depth. It’s difficult to take at first, but you get used to it.”

“Breathing a liquid?” Trilly asked.

“You don’t even notice after you go over,” Hammond said.

“Yeah, right,” someone muttered from the back of the team.

“The autonomic nervous system?” Captain Anderson asked.

“All right,” Hammond said. “Listen up. Now is when we move you from what you learned in Trojan Warrior to Psychic Warrior. Where you learn what you need in order to be able to go in there.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the tanks. “We call these isolation tanks. The embryonic fluid not only cools your body, but suspends you so that you have no sense of physical contact with the outside world, not even gravity.”

Dalton could read the mood of the team. Hammond had not led into this well at all. He stepped up next to her.

“Remember how you all felt in airborne school at Fort Benning,” Dalton said, “the night before your first jump?”

Hammond turned in surprise at his interruption.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I was scared,” Dalton continued. “Not so much of jumping, but because I had never done it before. It was a new experience and everyone gets a little nervous before trying something new.” Dalton turned sideways so that he was half facing the team and half facing the tanks. “But as you can see, it works. Just like you knew at Benning that all those people before had jumped and been all right. That doesn’t mean it’s perfectly safe,” Dalton added. “But the more you learn about it, the safer it will be for you.” Dalton turned back to Hammond. “Sorry, Doctor. Go ahead.”

“Let me explain why these isolation tanks are important,” Hammond said, walking between the team and the tubes. “Your brain works on several levels. What we want to do with the machines is allow you to remove all other inputs and distractions to your brain and allow you to concentrate on the virtual plane.”

“I don’t call breathing a distraction,” Staff Sergeant Stith remarked.

Hammond ignored the comment. “There will be two major aspects to your training here. In the mornings, we will work on adapting you to the equipment. In the afternoons, we will work on adapting you to your own bodies and minds.

“Come with me.” Hammond guided the team out of the main chamber into a classroom. She waited until they had all found seats. There was a large table in the front of the room, crowded with various machines.

She picked up a helmet, the twin of the one on the bodies in the isolation tanks. It was solid black and large, about twice the size of a football helmet on the outside.

“This is the key.” Hammond turned it so that they could see inside. She shone a light into it. There was a thick lining that she ran her finger across. “This is the thermocouple and cryoprobe projection assistance device, or TACPAD for short. This is the breakthrough that has changed everything and makes the Psychic Warrior concept possible.

“We will be fitting each of you shortly for your own TACPAD. What the TACPAD and the isolation tank allow us to do is— ” Hammond paused, looking at the eight men in camouflage fatigues. She sat on the edge of the desk. “All right, let me try to explain this as best I can.

“What we tried to do in Trojan Warrior was focus your brain. To bring out capabilities that each of you has but that have remained dormant. But it goes beyond the training you received there. I know you may not believe it, but trust me when I tell you there is a residual telepathic capability in every person.

“Many, many thousands of years ago the first human beings did not have a verbal language. We were just a step, a slight step, up from being monkeys. But there was a big difference: our brain. It was larger and more complex than that of any other species on the face of the planet. At some point, the human brain made a fantastic leap. We became telepathic.”

Dalton raised his eyebrows. “I’ve never heard of this.”

“Most people haven’t,” Hammond said. “But if you went to a university and talked to a physiology professor, he or she would tell you that this was indeed likely but it was still only an unproven theory. But we aren’t in a university here, and I’m telling you the breakthroughs we have made prove to me that this theory is valid.

“This telepathy was not as big of a deal as you might think. It wasn’t like these early people could ‘talk’ to each other with their minds. The reason they couldn’t was they couldn’t talk verbally— they had no language— so the telepathic communication was emotional. If someone saw a large tiger approaching the group, that person could use their mind to warn the others by sending their fear into the others’ minds. There are even some examples of this ‘pack mentality’ in the animal world today.”

“What happened to this ability?” Captain Anderson asked.

“It’s still there in some people but regressed,” Hammond said. “Once we developed a verbal language, it wasn’t as important. The person who saw the tiger could yell ‘Tiger!’ which was just as quick and more effective in that it specifically identified the threat. Since this was a better mode of communication, evolution took over and the verbal mode of communication became dominant.

“So as humans used the verbal language more and more, the telepathic capability waned and became residual. It’s not entirely gone. All of you have had moments when you sensed things despite the fact that there were no specific normal sensory inputs that gave you that information. A sixth sense.”

Hammond stood up. “Especially you men. Each of you has an even stronger residual mental capability than the norm. Significantly stronger. That’s why you were chosen for Trojan Warrior three years ago.

“First, each of you is left-handed or ambidextrous. The brain consists of two hemispheres.” Hammond pointed at her neck. “At the base of our brain, our nervous system does a switch. So the right side of your brain is responsible for the left side of your body and vice versa. Thus a left-handed person is right hemisphere dominant.

“Both sides of your brain are pretty much the same. That makes for redundancy. There have been clinical examples of people who have suffered tremendous damage to one hemisphere, or had extensive surgery, who were still able to rehabilitate to almost a normal level of functioning.”

Dalton thought about Marie, lying in her hospital bed. Whatever damage the aneurysm had done, perhaps there was hope that she would recover. Hope. Dalton knew what a two-edged sword that was from bitter personal experience. He forced himself to accept reality: Even if by some miracle she did regain consciousness, the ALS would be that much worse, the disease still progressing even as she lay in the coma. And he knew Dr. Kairns had leveled with him— Marie was never going to wake up.

Hammond walked to the front of the room and pulled a chart down. It was a top view of a brain. She pointed to the right side. “But there is something very interesting that doctors have always wondered about right here. The speech center on the right side appears to not work. All our speech comes from the left side. But the same parts are present on the right. Why?” She didn’t wait for an answer and tapped the chart. “This is where the residual telepathic ability resides. This is where we focus our efforts to get you into the virtual plane.”

Hammond went back to the desk and picked up the TACPAD. “This machine amplifies the parts of your brain that can allow you to get to and operate on the virtual plane. We’ve used the TACPAD successfully for two years.

“What the TACPAD does in conjunction with the isolation chamber is the following— ” She grabbed a marker and begin writing on the board.

Hammond pointed with the marker. “When the parasympathetic nervous system is operating, your body relaxes. Your pupils constrict, your heart rate slows, your digestive system practically shuts down, your muscles relax. You did some of this consciously in Trojan Warrior, as you remember. The isolation chamber does this by lowering your body temperature to the point where your body is almost totally inactive.”

She pointed at the wall plug. “Your brain operates on such a low voltage that its power is almost negligible. We can’t exactly increase the voltage into your brain, as that would fry the cells, so we focus the power that is already there by reducing the need for it to be expended on unnecessary outputs. As I told you earlier, the isolation tube even does your breathing for you. It will also control your heartbeat.”

“How?” Barnes asked.

“We do direct electrical stimulation to control and maintain your heartbeat and also control the nervous system in the brain.”

Dalton glanced at the other men in the room. No one looked particularly happy.

The pen squeaked against the board again.

She turned the helmet once more so that they could see the thick lining inside. “The cryoprobe is a device that surgeons have used for a decade or so to target certain areas of the brain. It’s a very fine probe that reduces the temperature in the target area to ninety-three degrees. This causes the neurons there to cease firing, effectively shutting that area down.”

“What parts of the brain do you shut down?” Dalton asked.

“Those connected with the parasympathetic nervous system, since those bodily functions are taken care of by the isolation tank,” Hammond said. “Every milliamp of power we can save is critical.”

“What exactly is the microprobe?” Captain Anderson asked.

“A microscopic wire that is inserted directly into the targeted areas of the brain.” As there was an uneasy rustle in the room, Hammond quickly elaborated. “The wire is so small that you won’t even feel it go in, and when it’s removed there is no bleeding. Less than.008 millimeters in diameter. The fact that there have been so many breakthroughs in microtechnology in the last several years has been one of the reasons we’ve been able to develop the TACPAD.” She held up the helmet. “It’s so thin, you can’t even see the probe with the naked eye.”

She wrote again.

“The thermocouple does the opposite of the cryoprobe. It targets those areas we want to activate and emphasize. It raises the temperature of the designated area, which facilitates its functioning.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Barnes asked. “Wouldn’t that be like someone suffering heat exhaustion, where the body temperature goes too high? I’ve seen guys get their brains fried like that.”

Hammond shook her head. “No. It’s very controlled and specific. There is a low-grade electrical current running through the thermocouple that does slightly over half the emphasizing.”

“Hold on,” Dalton interrupted. “You just said that it’s not a good idea to up the voltage or amperage in the brain.”

“In an uncontrolled or nonspecific manner, yes. But here, we’re talking about less power than you would get from a double-A battery. It’s safe, I assure you,” Hammond said. “Doctors have been using this technique in brain research for years.”

“Do you use wires into the brain for that too?” Anderson asked.

“Yes. Again, so fine that you can’t see it or feel it.” She went back to the board.

“Not only has this technology been used by experimental psychologists, everything I’ve talked about up to now has also been used for the past couple of years in the Bright Gate program by our remote viewers. It is only in the past six months that we have developed the critical piece of technology that takes us one step beyond.

“The last component that makes the Psychic Warrior program possible is the cyberlink.” Hammond paused for a second in thought. “You’ve all seen or used simulators that act like the outside environment, such as pilots practice on?”

Everyone nodded.

“In a way, the cyberlink reverses the simulator process.” Hammond reached into the TACPAD and held up a black pad about two feet long by eight inches in width with numerous wires coming out of the back. “We can use our mainframe computer, code-named Sybyl, to help you locate where you are going on the virtual plane and also to orient you. More importantly, the computer gives you form— what we call an avatar— in hyperspace that you can project into real space.”

“Form?” Anderson asked.

“That is the key to being a Psychic Warrior,” Hammond said. “You have to be able to come out of hyperspace, or virtual reality, and into the real world. By using the precoded avatar formats that our programmers have developed with Sybyl, you will be able to stay oriented while in the virtual world and come out into the real.

“Sybyl is one of the most powerful computers in the world, perhaps the most powerful. She is able to calculate at a rate that was unheard of even six months ago. Because of that, she is capable of the vast number of concurrent calculations needed to give your virtual reality avatar enough substance so that you can project it into the real world. She also projects the power into the virtual plane that you reconfigure into mass when you want your avatar to materialize. The power she sends out is critical— that’s what allows us to make the transition from simply remote viewing into being able to project the avatar form in both the virtual and real planes.”

Hammond was now walking back and forth across the front of the classroom, her eyes gleaming. “But Sybyl does more than that. She is also your communications link back to our operations base here. You can also access the computer’s database for information as needed.” Hammond’s words were tumbling over each other as she raced to get them out. “It’s truly remarkable. You’ve never experienced anything like it. Through the link, you can get whatever knowledge you could ever possibly need. It’s like you are part of the computer.”

“As long as the computer has it in its database,” Dalton cautioned. “Correct?”

Hammond stared at him. “Sybyl has over— ” She paused.

“Suffice it to say Ican’t think of any information you would need that Sybyl doesn’t have somewhere in its memory and couldn’t access through the Internet.”

Raisor had been standing in the back of the class. “Time, Doctor,” he said.

Hammond nodded. “All right. You’ve seen the equipment that you will use in the isolation tank, and I’ve told you how it will help you. The other part of your classes here will consist of some refresher training on mind control techniques.” She pulled down another chart. “These are some of the techniques our experts will be reintroducing you to:”

“Whoa,” Dalton said, reading down the list. “What the heck is death and dying? And mission commitment?”

Hammond held up her hands, palms out. “ ‘Going over’ is transcending to another level. Alevel most people never experience. In fact, the closest experience to ‘going over’ that I’ve heard of is those people who have near-death experiences. Who travel out-of-body while their physical self passes into what is often physical death. Some of our RVers experience an initial panic when they go on missions. The feeling that they may never return to their bodies, that they have indeed died.

“We have found the best way to deal with that is to train you on the emotional problem you will experience, to make you feel more comfortable with the theoretical concept of death and dying.”

“I don’t find death to be theoretical,” Dalton said. “I’ve seen it many times and it’s damn real.”

Hammond shook her head. “But it’s not real when you go to the virtual plane. There’s another aspect to it. We’re talking about the concept of virtual death also. That you might encounter some conflict on one of your missions and your virtual self is wounded or killed but your real self is still alive. We want you to be prepared for that so you can come back to your real self.”

“So,” Dalton said, “what you are in essence saying is that you want to teach us to accept the virtual death?”

“Correct.”

Dalton shook his head. “I don’t like that. To me that means you want us to give up. To surrender our will. There’s a big difference between accepting a situation and surrendering one’s will.”

Hammond sighed. “It is what we think will be best.”

“Has anyone ever been ‘killed’ in cyberspace?” Dalton asked.

“We haven’t had that occurrence.” Hammond’s eyes shifted once more to Raisor.

Dalton caught that look. He also noted that the CIA agent was no longer leaning against the wall. “So this, like the other stuff you’re talking about,” Dalton said, “is still theoretical. For all you know, if someone’s cyberself their psyche, gets killed, they are dead.”

“Well, that’s theoretically possible,” Hammond said, “but the body will still be alive. The structure of the brain will still be intact. So there’s no reason to believe the self can’t be restored.”

Dalton shook his head. “But if you turned that thinking around, wouldn’t that be like saying if you programmed everything a person knew into a computer, that computer would be alive? Would be that person?”

“I think if you were truly able to do such a program,” Hammond said, “that the computer would indeed be alive. But no one’s been able to accomplish that yet, so your argument holds no weight. As you noted, the situation is exactly the opposite here— your real self remains here at Bright Gate, while the projected self, with the aid of the computer, will be out there on the mission.”

“Enough theorizing,” Raisor snapped. “We have a very tight schedule, Dr. Hammond. We should get started.”

She nodded. “The first thing we need to do is fit all of you for your TACPADs.”

Oma had dismissed Barsk, letting him rest after his journey from Kiev. She turned to the window and looked out on Moscow, a city she could rightly call hers. She knew if she so desired, she could wipe out the other six clans that also worked the city. But there was no point to that. Because the effort required would not be worth the reward gained. It would be like a jackal fighting the others over an already eaten carcass. Oma had no trouble seeing herself as a jackal. She believed that self-awareness was the trait that had led her to her current level of success. One always had to be aware of one’s capabilities and limitations, or else any other kind of awareness was worthless. She knew she could not judge others unless she was very certain where her own perspective was coming from.

In the midst of her musings, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck tingle and she turned, recognizing the feeling. A shadow flickered in the corner of her office. She waited as the shadow took on the form of a large creature— Chyort.

“Yes?” she said.

“Very careless to have a GRU turncoat be your grandson’s bodyguard.”

The voice echoed in her head, the rough edge giving it an inhuman quality.

“Really?” Oma said. There was a rumbling sound that she supposed was the creature’s laughter. It caused even her hardened stomach to feel queasy.

“Ah, so maybe it was not such a mistake? Wheels within wheels perhaps?”

“What I do with my personnel is none of your business,” Oma said.

“It is if it threatens this operation.”

“I felt confident you could deal with it if there was a problem,” Oma said. “And you did. So shall we move on?” There was a pause. She felt the red eyes burning into her.

“So perhaps you are bluffing. Maybe you didn’t know about Dmitri. Maybe I am working with the wrong people.”

“You’re working with me,” Oma said, “because I am the most powerful and because you know that we can achieve our goals together.”

“Remember, old hag, that my goals are the only ones I care about.”

“I assumed that long ago,” Oma replied. “My main concern is who else you are working for. Who made you what you are? The KGB? The GRU?”

“Perhaps I am from the devil.”

Oma shook her head. “I know there is no God and I need no Satan to accept the evil that men do. I saw enough horror in the Great Patriotic War to convince me of both of those things. When I saw what the Nazis did to my sons, my village, I knew that man could make greater evil than anything written in the Bible. Men made you, of that I am sure.”

The shadow seemed to grow behind the monster. “Keep in mind that I know what you fear. Everyone has something that controls them. A chain in their own mind that if someone takes, they can make you do what they will. I know what controls you inside your own head.”

Oma stared at him. “If you knew such a thing, I think we would be talking differently.”

The creature moved, shadows shifting in the corner. Oma had never really been sure of the form other than it had two arms and two legs. Occasionally she thought she could make out claws at the end of the huge hands, and a ridged spine on the back flaring into two large, leathery wings, but it was like trying to watch the water come in with a wave, always changing a little bit, nothing of permanence.

“The Americans are aware that there is a plot.”

She clenched her steel teeth together. “Was there a leak from my organization?”

“If there was, I would not be here right now,” Chyort said. “They found out from the same source that led to them stopping the beryllium shipment in Vilnius last year. The Americans put a very high priority on maintaining an eye on nuclear material. They do not trust our government— should we be surprised by that? They know how incompetent those fools truly are.”

“Do the Americans know of Phase Two?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

Oma considered the way that answer had been phrased. “I will move up the timetable.”

“That would be prudent.”

She stared at the demon. “Was Dmitri really working for the GRU? I suspected, but I had no proof.”

“Is proof necessary? But, yes, he was turned by the GRU. Your grandson needed a lesson, one that the death of Seogky was not enough for. Also, it reduces his power, does it not? Which keeps your hand strong, does it not?”

“This is my organization,” Oma said, surprised at the demon’s insight. “I have run it for over forty years. I do not need your help.”

“I care nothing for your organization. Only that you keep it together long enough for me to accomplish my goal. The target will be at the location I gave you at 0800 local time two days from now.”

“Two days? You told me it would be seven!”

Chyort moved again. Oma swore she could hear the click of claws on the hardwood floor. A scaly hand with three-inch claws came into the light and picked up a Faberge egg that rested on the desk. She could see the egg through the claw. It took all her willpower to not move her chair back.

“The GRU is not as stupid as you would like to think,” Chyort said. “They have moved up the timetable while keeping a train on the original schedule as a decoy. They hope to move the bombs before anyone can plan anything. I suggest you call that big Navy ape of yours.”

“I can handle it.”

“You have the papers on the weapon’s location?”

“Yes.”

“And the computer program to run the weapon?”

“Yes.”

The egg dropped back into its holder. The room seemed to expand again to normal size as the shadow disappeared. Oma’s anger at being told what to do had never even had a chance to get started. She was simply grateful the demon was gone.

Oma sat still for several moments, reflecting on the conversation. It was something her husband had taught her how to do many years ago. To always go over every encounter or conversation immediately, to sift through and find the hidden meanings, the things said that had not been meant to be said. And what had not been said.

She didn’t know who the creature was. For all she knew, he was Chyort, the devil, but as she’d told him, she didn’t believe in such things. The first time he had appeared in her office, three months ago, it had taken all her considerable willpower to control her fear. Chyort was the name he had given himself or someone had given him. She had had some of her people make inquiries, and they had learned of a myth in the army, a myth about a creature with such a name that dated back to the war in Afghanistan. But there was nothing more than those vague rumors. She had them checking further, trying to uncover the truth behind the myth.

The only thing she held on to was that Chyort wanted something. And he needed her help to achieve his goal. That told her his power was limited. She had long ago learned that every relationship, whether it be personal or business, was a rope that pulled both ways. So far, Chyort had done all the pulling, but in doing so he had firmly handed her the other end of the rope. Oma smiled. She would wait and pull when it was most opportune for her own goals.

She didn’t know exactly what Chyort’s objective was, but each encounter they had she learned something more. Another thing he had said today that she found curious was the comment about the “Navy ape.” That meant he knew about Leksi, which was not surprising— everyone knew Leksi worked for her; what was more interesting was the way he had said it. She had picked up a note of derision. She considered that. Afghanistan and dislike of the Navy. That pointed to an army man, someone who was in an elite unit and thus able to sneer at Leksi’s naval commando background. That meant Spetsnatz, the Russian version of the American Special Forces. Oma marked that mentally for further investigation.

She hit a number on her phone and it automatically summoned who she needed. Then she leaned back in the comfort of her chair, feeling the ache in her spine as she continued to consider what she had learned in this latest encounter. She was still pondering that when a green light flashed on the edge of her desk. She pushed a button and the wood-paneled steel door slid open.

The man who walked in drew attention wherever he went. He was just shy of seven feet tall, and his head was completely shaved, revealing a jagged scar running from the crown down the left side, disappearing inside the black turtleneck he wore. He was not only tall, he was wide, his broad chest and thick arms indicating extreme strength. He walked to the front of her desk and halted, waiting, his manner indicating his military training.

“We must move up our timetable,” Oma said.

Leksi waited.

Oma’s left hand moved, writing the information Chyort had given her onto a piece of paper. She slid it across the desk. One of Leksi’s massive hands reached down and carefully picked it up. He peered at the Cyrillic writing, read it a second time, then handed it back to her. She tossed it in an opening on the left side of her desk and there was a flash, destroying the paper.

“I know it is not much time, but the window of opportunity grows tighter. You must accompany Barsk on Phase Two first. Then you must immediately return and complete Phase One.”

Leksi still had not said a word, a trait that Oma valued. He was a former naval commando, an expert in weapons and martial arts. But more importantly, he would do whatever she asked, without the slightest hesitation. He was not particularly imaginative but he was thorough. She had already gone over the plan for this operation with him several times and felt secure that he would follow it through to the letter. Today’s news only changed the timetable and the order of events, not the mode of execution.

She held out the papers. “This is the location you must go to for Phase Two.”

He took the papers.

She slid the CD-ROM across the desk. “Take that. I will supply you with the man who knows how to use it.”

Leksi put the CD-ROM in his pocket.

“Go,” she said.

Leksi went out the way he had come, still not having spoken a single word. The door slid shut behind him, leaving her alone in her high aerie.

A door slid open twenty feet up and food was thrown down, the first indication to Vasilev that he wasn’t really in a metaphysical hell. There were only torn pieces of bread and some meat that was suspicious at best, but Vasilev wolfed it down.

When he was done, he was disappointed with himself. He should have eaten more slowly. What else did he have to do?

The air crackled. Vasilev rose to his feet, swaying from weakness. The two red-coal eyes appeared. Vasilev squinted but all he could sense in the darkness was a deeper shadow in the black of the pit.

Vasilev waited, not saying anything, but the eyes only watched him for a while. Finally the voice came.

“You should have died.”

Vasilev blinked. “What?”

“You should have died with the others. You were as guilty as those who did die.”

Vasilev swallowed, trying to get moisture to his dry throat. “I don’t know— ”

“Special Department Number Eight.”

Vasilev’s throat seized and he could only make a strangling noise.

“You must pay for what you did.”

Vasilev fell to his knees, curling into a ball, whimpering his apologies, his sorrow for what had happened over thirty years ago.

“You will do what I tell you to do and forgiveness will be yours. Only then will you know peace. Do you understand?”

Vasilev could only nod, while his mouth moved in half-articulated apologies.

Then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, the red eyes were gone and he was alone once more.