Project Aura Read online

  Project Aura

  Robert Doherty

  Mind control is only the first step…

  World domination is the next…

  Bright Gate. HAARP. Remote Viewers. U.S. military operations so top secret that not even the president knew they existed. Now they have produced an elite group of commandos able to leave their bodies – and their souls – to fight anywhere, anytime, using the devastating power of the human mind.

  Sergeant Major Jimmy Dalton is one of them. An ex-Green Beret, a man with no family, no ties, and nothing to lose, Dalton believes that the most dangerous weapon in any arsenal is the mind.

  Among the first Psychic Warriors to be battle tested on the virtual plane, Dalton has seen up close the damage and destruction that the new weapons can cause. The memory will haunt him the rest of his days.

  But for Dalton, for all of us, those days are numbered. A psychic cabal called the Priory is striking without warning, killing without mercy, aiming for world domination. And infiltrating the Psychic Warriors themselves…

  Robert Doherty

  Project Aura

  A book in the Psychic Warrior series, 2001

  The Past

  Prologue

  The Himalayas

  1220 A .D.

  Jagged white-topped peaks crowned the horizon in all directions, cut only by the narrow river valley. Like an invasion of locusts, the great Genghis Khan’s army marched up the chasm, driving hostages they swept up before them. Finally, deep in the high country, the valley broadened, opening to a lake, next to which was a small town of whitewashed stone buildings. A thick layer of ice covered the water, even though it was the height of summer.

  Horses’ and men’s lungs labored for oxygen as the Khan deployed the bulk of his warriors in a semicircle around the captives at the near side of the village. More than a thousand hostages, every person who lived in the lower valley, milled about in fear in front of the Mongol soldiers.

  At over ten thousand feet in altitude, the valley was a desolate place holding little of obvious value. The twenty-thousand-foot-high peak of Kharta Changri loomed to the west, overlooking massive glacier fields that fed the lake and river, known as Kharta Chu to the locals, that came out of it. Ten miles to the south, Chomolungma, which was not to be called Mount Everest for another six centuries, filled the horizon.

  Khan rode forward, one hundred of his elite guard behind him. He was flush from recently having destroyed the great city of Samarkand several hundred miles to the northwest, in a more temperate and lower land. Astride the Silk Road, Samarkand had boasted a population of over two hundred thousand souls. Khan had ordered his troops to slay everyone except the most skilled artisans, whom he sent back to Mongolia in chains. Men, women, children, even cats and dogs, were put to the sword. The walls of the city were razed and broken into dust. A nearby river was diverted to wash over where the city had been so that no trace of it would survive-such was the fate of those who were in the Khan’s path. The world had never known such a conqueror-not even Alexander or Caesar had come close to inflicting the level of destruction that had been dealt by the Golden Horde led by Genghis Khan. It would take weapons of mass destruction in the twentieth century to approach the scale of the millions his forces killed, the cities he destroyed, the land he left barren behind him.

  None had stopped Khan so far, so he rode forward without fear, his warriors guarding him with arrows notched to the sinew strings of their bows. He paused as he approached the town. A lone figure barred his path: a slight old woman, seated in a chair made of reeds, set in the center of the small track that led into the town. Some of the hostages were crying out to the old woman in a strange tongue, no doubt pleading for her help. The town behind her, though, appeared deserted, as if it had not been occupied for a very long time. The cold air had preserved the buildings, but there was no other sign of life, and certainly little of wealth.

  The woman had light skin, unlike the darker tone of the hostages. Her hair was long and white, flowing over her shoulders like a waterfall. Lines etched her face, surrounding eyes the likes of which the Khan had never seen-they were icy blue and their gaze pierced into him.

  She wore a long robe of white that stretched to the ground.

  Less than ten feet in front of the old woman, Genghis Khan raised his left hand, halting his troops. Khan saw no fear in the woman’s face, something that gained his immediate respect after dealing with so many cowering noblemen from towns he had encountered on his march. Among the Mongols, women were held in esteem and their wisdom listened to, so Khan held back from immediately slaying her. Also, this strange situation interested him. It was not what he had been told to expect.

  “I speak your language,” the old woman said in Mongol, which surprised the Khan.

  This land was far from his home, and he had only come here because he had been told stories of a wonderful valley full of riches, hidden high in the mountains. The ones who told him of this place, wanderers without a home, were a group of outcasts. These people had assured him that he would find treasure beyond belief high in the rooftop of the world, as they called it. This place did not look rich, but it had been an arduous trip here and Khan did not want to go back empty-handed.

  “I am the Great Khan, ruler of all you see behind me, and soon to be ruler of all I see before me. ”

  “I know of you, Great Khan of the northern plains,” the old woman said.

  Khan was not surprised the woman had heard of him. All the world trembled at the approach of the Khan and his army.

  “You are far from your path,” the woman continued.

  “My path is whatever I choose it to be.”

  “So it seems.”

  “What do you know of me?” Khan demanded.

  The old woman’s voice became surprisingly loud. “Your greatest pleasure is to vanquish your enemies and chase them before you. To rob them of their wealth and see those dear to them bathed in tears, to ride their horses and clasp to your bosom their wives and daughters. Is that not what you believe?”

  Khan slammed a fist into the armor on his chest. “It is what I live for.”

  “Your goal is to conquer all the world.”

  “As far as I can ride will be mine,” Khan said. “None can stop me. ”

  “There are forces in the world that you do not know about,” the old woman said.

  Khan spit. “The sword and bow are great equalizers. None have stopped us so far.”

  She waved a frail hand. “We are not your enemy.”

  “I decide who my enemies are.”

  “You do not want my people as your enemy. It would gain you nothing.”

  Khan stiffened. He lifted his left hand and slashed it down. A troop of his warriors fired their short bows into the hostages. A hundred fell, most dead, the wounded screaming in agony. Warriors waded among them and slit the throats of those that cried out.

  “We are enemies now, aren’t we?”

  “Those are not my people,” the woman said. “They till the land in the valley far below. Why kill them? They are not your enemy either.”

  Khan looked about. “I don’t see your people.”

  She waved her hand once more. “They are all around you. They watched you come up the valley.”

  “We saw no one other than these.”

  She rested a hand on her chest. “Of course not. You see of us only what we allow you to see.”

  “You know me, old lady. Who are you?”

  “You may call me Kirati.”

  Khan got off his horse, his squat, bowlegged form wiry and used to the harsh life in the field. “What are your people called?”

  “We are the spirits who ride the wind.”

  Khan could sense the uneasy rustling among his men clo
se enough to hear. He gestured with his left hand, indicating for his guards to move back out of earshot. His mother had told him tales of the wind spirits, the souls of those who had died, who flew over the steppes. But the old woman looked very much alive to him.

  “You are the dead?”

  The old woman smiled. “No. We came here to the high country long before your ancestors first rode the great grasslands that you call home, and we will be here long after your name is legend. We came here to be left alone. To be away from men’s wars.”

  Khan squatted, running the strands of a leather lariat through his callused hands. “Where there are men, there are wars. It cannot be avoided. It is our nature.”

  “We know,” Kirati said. “That is why there are few men with us. We came to this place, far away from all others, to dwell. We lived in this village for many years beyond counting. Then we fought among ourselves. Some left and became the wanderers who told you of this place. Others, most of the men, they went far to the west. And we went higher into the mountains where no one can dwell.”

  Khan ran a hand through his dark beard. No men to fight, no wealth to steal, no city to destroy. Just an old woman in a chair.

  “If no one can dwell in the high mountains, then how can you?”

  “I told you, we are the spirits who ride the wind. We have no desire to leave the mountains,” Kirati continued, “so we are not a threat to you and there is nothing here that you would want. There is no way through the mountains to the land of the Sultan of Delphi far to the south.” She pointed at the highest mountain. “The great Chomolunga guards the way. You must go around the mountains with your army if you wish to conquer there.”

  “I will conquer that land and many others. But as far as riches hidden in these mountains, your words are not what I have been told,” Khan said. “I have heard there is great wealth hidden here.”

  “You hear this from those who wander.” It was not a question, nor did Kirati wait for a reply. “As I said, they who told you this were once our people and lived here also. They choose a different path and now must wander the world. They will never have a home. I am afraid, Great Khan, that they lied to you in order to have you wreak their vengeance on us for past angers and to keep you from destroying them.”

  “Maybe you are the one who lies.”

  Kirati sighed and seemed to grow older. “There is great wealth. But not in the manner you think of wealth.” She tapped the side of her head. “Our wealth is here. You cannot use it.”

  “If I cannot use it, then I will destroy it.” Khan stood and turned for his horse.

  “Great Khan!” Kirati’s voice had changed timbre, a vibration of power in it. “Listen to me.”

  Khan turned. The old woman got off her chair and walked to the Mongol leader, hands out from her side. When she was close enough to touch him, she spoke in a low, powerful voice. “I will tell you who has more wealth-in the way you view such a thing-than you could imagine.

  “We do have enemies and they are very rich and very powerful; worthy adversaries even for you. Far to the west. Past the kingdom of the Persians and the Greeks. South of the Russians, across the Volga River. They hide in secret places among the peoples there, but if threatened they will come out of their holes. They rule in the shadows, pulling strings that make others jump. They are like you-they enjoy war, and they enjoy wealth-but unlike you, they get others to do it for them.”

  “Whom do you speak of?”

  “Search for those called the Priory.”

  “The pope in Rome? I have heard of him.”

  “Not the pope. He too is just a lackey for the Priory.”

  “How will I find these people who hide in the shadows?”

  “They will find you if you threaten the world they have built to protect them.”

  The old woman reached forward, and to the shock of the Mongol warriors watching, her hand went into Khan’s chest as if it were made of nothing but air. Her other hand reached up to his head, the tips of the fingers passing through his helmet, into his head. Several warriors cried out in alarm, but Khan signaled for them to be still with a slow gesture of his right hand, his entire being focused on the old woman before him.

  Kirati smiled. Her eyes pierced into Khan’s as she spoke in a low voice, the power in it growing stronger, echoing inside Khan’s head, beating in rhythm with his heart. “Our spirits are joined now. You will leave here and go no further into the mountains. It is dangerous and there is nothing here that you want. What you want is the Priory. They are your enemy. Your people’s enemy. The enemy of all. Destroy them. If not you, then your son. And your son’s son. As long as the Mongols ride. The Priory are the enemy of your people.”

  Khan slowly nodded. “The Priory. I will leave here. I will ride west with my army.”

  Kirati stepped back, her hands coming out of Khan’s body. She seemed to diminish in size as she sat back down. Khan staggered, almost fell, then regained his balance. He shook his head, a quizzical expression on his face for a moment. His thick eyebrows knit together as he stared at Kirati.

  “Go back to your people, old woman. Tell them I will spare them. But they must stay here, in the high country, and never come down to the plains.”

  The old woman inclined her head. “We will do as you say, Great Khan.”

  Khan turned away from Kirati. He ordered his warriors to kill the rest of the hostages, and the ground flowed with their blood, which then seeped into the ice that covered the lake. The woman’s expression did not change during the butchery.

  Then, without another look at her, Khan led his troops back the way they’d come. As the last warrior disappeared down the trail, Kirati raised her arms to the sky and her figure slowly faded from view until only the dead and the abandoned village were left.

  The Banks of the Volga River

  1241 A .D.

  Rows of bloody and dented armor and weapons lined the road that led to the magnificent silken tent. The golden cloth marked the headquarters of Bhatu Khan, grandson of the Great Genghis Khan. The booty had been gathered from the dead who littered the field after the battle at Legnica two days ago, where the Golden Horde had overwhelmed a combined force of Silesians, Poles, and Teutonic knights in a devastating victory. In one dark day, the cream of Eastern European military might had been smashed. It was the latest in a string of victories moving the Mongol forces further west, out of Asia and into Europe, a bloody tide that sent shivers of fear ahead of it to lands that knew of Asia only through rumors. Marco

  Polo, the first European to visit the Mongol court, would not even be born for another thirteen years, and the vast-ness of Asia was a great mystery.

  Five years earlier, in 1236, Bhatu Khan had begun to lead the massive force given him by his grandfather westward, killing millions in the process and leaving a massive swath of destruction across Russia into Europe. Bhatu had crushed the northern Russian armies in the winter of 1237-1238; history would record this action as the only successful winter military campaign against Russia ever, something Napoleon and Hitler would fail to do. In 1240, his army had razed Kiev, massacring every inhabitant. That had scared the other Eastern European empires that lay in the Golden Horde’s path, and a massive army had been raised, old hatreds put aside, all in an effort to stop the Mongols. That army now lay dead on the fields of Legnica or prisoner in the Khan’s camp.

  The way into Europe lay open to the forces of Bhatu Khan and the Golden Horde. It had been his father’s dying command for him to attack to the west, something internal rebellions and other enemies closer to the first Khan had delayed Genghis from doing before his untimely death. What else the Great Khan on his deathbed had passed on to Bhatu remained locked inside the mind of the leader of the Golden Horde. Before heading west, Bhatu had sent scouts and spies ahead, learning much of the lands there. He knew far more about them than they did about him.

  Bhatu was eating a meal laid out on top of a large wooden box. Inside were a trio of Teutonic princes slowly
suffocating to death. Their pleas and moans were music to his ears as he would slide his gold plate over the one tiny airhole, leaving it in place for various lengths of time. As far as Bhatu was concerned, he was showing the princes honor, for Mongols believed that the blood of noblemen captured in battle should not be shed. Suffocation was a sign of respect, although it is doubtful the men inside appreciated the subtlety.

  The curtain to the tent twitched open and Bhatu’s chief adviser slipped in. “A lone emissary from the west has crossed the river and asks for an audience with the Great Bhatu Khan.”

  “With no guards?”

  “No, Khan.”

  Bhatu forgot his meal momentarily. A man who would ride into the camp alone drew his interest. He signaled for the emissary to be allowed in. The man who came through the entrance was richly dressed, cloaked in robes sewn with gold. A thin band of silver encircled the crown of his head, a large gem set in the center. He carried a staff shaped like a tall narrow cross, the gold encrusted with jewels. How could he have gotten through the Mongol lines without being killed and robbed? Bhatu wondered.

  The man bowed slightly at the waist. “Greetings, Great Bhatu Khan, Emperor of the East.”

  The man spoke Mongol, another surprise to Bhatu. “Soon to be Emperor of the West,” he said as he took a piece of meat off his plate and threw it to one of the dogs that lay nearby.

  “It is that issue that brings me here.”

  “Whom do you represent?”

  “The Priory, great lord.”

  Bhatu stood. “Out!” he bellowed, sending lackeys and officers scurrying from his tent. “Everyone out!”

  When the tent was empty of sycophants, Bhatu sat back down. “What are you called?”

  “I am Hieronnymous, lord. You have traveled a long way from your home.”

  “I travel where I wish and kill whom I please.”