Psychic Warrior pw-1 Page 19

  “Sometimes?” Dalton asked. He saw the white cross of the Mount of the Holy Cross. “We ’re not exactly sure how it works,” Hammond admitted. “Great.”

  Dalton turned his face to the east. He pictured where he wanted to be and dove in that direction. There was a bright flash of light and then he was over the Plains to the east of the Rockies. Banking, he turned and could see Pikes Peak to the west, Cheyenne Mountain to the left.

  Dalton headed down toward a large building. “What about walls?”

  “From what RVers have reported, it will be disconcerting but you can pass right through walls on the virtual plane.”

  Despite that assurance, Dalton flinched as the outside wall of the building rushed up. There was a moment of blackness, a feeling of hitting something not quite solid, passing through, and then he was inside. He hit the floor of a hallway and was halfway into it before he stopped and drew himself up.

  He floated down until he found the right room. He slid in, then paused. There was someone else inside. Dr. Kairns was standing there, staring at Marie. She straightened for a second, as if sensing his presence. Kairns reached down and gently moved a stray lock of gray hair off Marie’s face, then turned to walk out of the room. She hesitated at the door, looking back into the room, then left.

  Dalton looked down at Marie. What he saw wasn’t the person in the bed, but the young woman he had met thirty-four years ago. The woman who had been waiting for him after five years of separation, standing on the tarmac as he got off the plane bringing him back with the other POWs. Who had withstood his long absences and always been there when he came back. And now he was gone when she needed him the most. He couldn’t hide from his responsibility any longer.

  Dalton looked at his wife and concentrated. Then he really did see her, standing over the body in the bed. As she had been, her long blond hair flowing over her shoulders, her face smooth and unwrinkled, her green eyes bright and happy. She was as Dalton had always seen her in his cell, in his memory.

  “Treasure?” Dalton projected the word toward the vision.

  She turned. “Jimmy?” A broad smile lit up her face. “Oh, Jimmy, it’s been so long this time.”

  “I know.”

  Marie frowned. “But I’m the one who’s been away, haven’t I?”

  Dalton nodded. He was afraid to get closer to her, afraid her form, which he could see through, would break apart and float away like a mist before a strong wind.

  Before his eyes the young woman aged, lines that Dalton knew his army career had contributed to greatly began to materialize, flowing across her, giving her an imprint of the years she had lived, producing in Dalton a deep sense of sadness.

  Marie smiled again, this time with sadness resonating through. “I’m hurt too bad to come back Jimmy.”

  Dalton nodded once more, not trusting even his mental voice.

  “Is it all right if I go? It feels so much better like this, being free, rather than trapped like I’ve been.”

  She had always been there for him, but she had always done what she wanted also. The question was the courtesy the two had always given each other over the years.

  “I think it’s fine if you go, Treasure.”

  “You look like an angel,” Marie said. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Dalton said. He reached his hand up. The image of Marie did the same. The two hands flowed into each other. Dalton felt an electric shock run up his arm/wing.

  “You’ve always been my Treasure,” Dalton said.

  “I know,” Marie said, “and you ’ve been mine.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Feteror dumped the data he’d stolen out of the GRU mainframe into one of his memory cells inside Zivon. He found it ironic that the code for the encrypted information he had was also most likely inside of Zivon, but inaccessible to him, even though the scientists considered him part of the computer. He activated a decoding program and the mechanical part of Zivon went to work on the data while Feteror waited.

  It didn’t take long.

  Feteror was impressed. The GRU was taking no chances with the arming codes for the nuclear weapons. They were shipping them via military helicopter direct from Kazakhstan to Moscow. There would be a four-fighter escort. Feteror noted the time of departure and the proposed flight route. And the name of the officer who would have the codes: Colonel Verochka.

  Now he only had one problem— being on the outside during the flight— but the other data he had stolen would help with that.

  A bright light flashed. Feteror would have smiled if he could— Rurik wanted him.

  Feteror accessed his outside links.

  “Yes?”

  Rurik wasted no time. “We need you to find something.”

  “What?”

  “I’m having the data loaded.”

  Feteror was not surprised to note the physical description for the phased-displacement generator entered into his data banks.

  “What is this thing?” he asked.

  “A weapon.”

  “What kind of weapon?”

  “That is not your concern,” Rurik snapped. “Just find it. As you reported, it was stolen from the site you just checked. So find the men you saw there and you will find the weapon.”

  “That will be very difficult,” Feteror lied. “Practically impossible.”

  “Do it!” General Rurik yelled.

  “I will try.” The tunnel opened and he was gone.

  In the chamber the red light began flashing. General Rurik stared at it for a few moments, then turned to his senior technician.

  “What was Feteror doing before I summoned him?”

  The technician typed into his keyboard. “He was working within the hardware, running a program.”

  “What kind of program?”

  The technician didn’t answer right away, checking the machine. “A decryption program.”

  Rurik leaned forward. “What is he trying to decrypt?”

  The expert shook his head. “We don’t know. It’s inside his memory database section.”

  “Can we access his memory section?”

  The technician shook his head. “He has cyber-locked and encrypted all that data.”

  “We can’t access our own damn computer?”

  The technician backtracked. “We can access it, but I don’t think we can get the data stored there out in legible form. Also, the way I am reading what Feteror has done, it would cause some permanent damage to Zivon for us to do that.”

  The technician saw the look on the general’s face and hurriedly continued, “For security reasons, Feteror only has access to certain parts of Zivon. We have, in effect, put a wall up to keep him from having free access. But you must remember, General, that when you build a wall, it blocks traffic both ways. That wall also keeps us from freely going into his part of Zivon.”

  Rurik looked at the steel cylinder. “He’s up to something,” he whispered.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  Rurik spoke in a louder voice. “I want you to find out what Feteror has stored. In a way that can’t be detected and will cause no damage to Zivon. I want to know what is happening on Feteror’s side of the wall.”

  The technician opened his mouth to say something, but his teeth snapped shut as he saw the expression on his superior’s face. He nodded and turned to his computer console.

  * * *

  “You’re down to six,” Raisor said accusingly.

  Dalton wiped the embryonic fluid off his face and threw the towel to the floor. He felt a chill spasm through his body and he shivered uncontrollably for a few seconds. He felt an empty space in his chest, a sick feeling.

  “Six what?” His mind was elsewhere, Raisor’s words registering distantly on his conscious mind.

  “Six men,” Raisor said. “One of your so-called special men has flaked out on us.”

  “You talked to Trilly?” Dalton asked dully. He could still see Marie fading away, her spirit disappearing, growing ev
er fainter until there was nothing there. He’d stayed in the room as the medical alarms had gone off and Dr. Kairns had rushed in. He was grateful the doctor had obeyed his written wishes that Marie not be resuscitated. He had finally left when Kairns had tenderly pulled the sheet over Marie’s body.

  “He came to me,” Raisor replied. “Said he had talked to you and told you he wasn’t going in the tank again.”

  “That’s not his decision,” Dalton said.

  “If he’s not willing, there’s not— ”

  “It’s also not your place to talk to my men,” Dalton said, cutting the CIA man off.

  Raisor shook his head. “I’m in charge here, Sergeant Major, not you. You may be in command of your men, but I’m in charge of you. So in effect, I’m in charge of your men too.”

  Dalton jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the isolation tank he had just come out of. “Fine. Then you go in there and lead the team.”

  “I just might do that,” Raisor said.

  Dalton realized Raisor would take over. “Let me lead my team,” Dalton said.

  “You go over one more time for practice,” Raisor said, “then it’s for real.”

  “Fine,” Dalton said. He didn’t particularly care one way or the other at the moment.

  “Can you do it with six?” Raisor asked.

  “I didn’t think we could do it with eight,” Dalton said. “But we’ll have seven. Orders are not optional. Trilly’s going with us.”

  “I’ll supplement your team with some of the RVers,” Raisor said.

  “I thought the reason we’re here is because they couldn’t do the mission,” Dalton said.

  “They can’t— by themselves. But three of them are military and have had basic military training. I’m sure with your leadership, they’ll be of help.” Raisor’s cold smile matched his tone. “And they have experience in the virtual plane.”

  “They’re more likely to get in the way,” Dalton said.

  “You can’t have it both ways,” Raisor said. “Do you want the help or not?”

  “We’ll take them.”

  “Be ready to go in two hours,” Raisor said. “We’ve set up the practice range as you requested.”

  “Fine.” Dalton was tired. He wanted the blessed relief of sleep.

  He turned to Dr. Hammond, who was at her master control station. She looked exhausted, her face drawn, dark rings under her eyes. She’d been on duty practically nonstop since the team had arrived.

  “I’d like for all of us to go over at the same time in the next practice,” Dalton told her.

  Hammond nodded. “I’m bringing the rest back. We’ll shut down for a couple of hours, then send you all over together with your advanced avatars to practice your weaponry skills and your team coordination.”

  “Fine,” Dalton said. Despite his exhaustion, he went to the communications room. He dialed on the secure line.

  “Colonel Metter.”

  “Sir, it’s Dalton.”

  There was a short pause. “Jimmy, I’ve got some bad news. I was trying to get through to you but— ”

  “Sir, I know about Marie.”

  There was an even longer pause before Metter spoke again. “But it just happened thirty minutes ago. How— ”

  “Sir, how is not important. I need you to take care of the arrangements. I had everything ready, you just need to check on it all.”

  “I can get you back from there,” Metter said.

  “No, sir, I don’t think you can,” Dalton said. “And I can’t come back anyway. I’m needed here. Marie understood.” Dalton leaned against the wall. “I have to go, sir.”

  “Jimmy, I’m sorry about Marie.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Take care of the team, Jimmy.”

  “I will, sir.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Deputy Commander Oskar Bredond slapped the young Chechen with the steel wire butt of his AK-74, ripping four teeth out of the young man’s mouth in the process. The Chechen spit blood at the officer, his arms bound by two sets of handcuffs, ratcheted down so tight on his wrists that his hands were turning blue.

  “Fuck you, pig.”

  Bredond smiled. “No, I think it is you who will get fucked. A nice young piece of meat like you will be received quite nicely in our prison.”

  Bredond wore mottled camouflage fatigues with a thick bulletproof vest buckled over his chest. His men wore the same, along with black Kevlar helmets. They were the elite strike force arm of the Moscow police, known as the Omon, more heavily armed than their western SWAT counterparts and with broader powers of arrest.

  There was another way that the Omon differed greatly from police in the West, and that was that they focused only on certain criminals while ignoring others. Moscow, if one took out Mafia-related crime, was one of the safest cities in the world. But whenever the Mafia was involved, the Omon and the rest of the Moscow police turned a blind eye.

  Bredond, despite being a deputy commander, took home the equivalent of $250 a month. They all supplemented their income with second jobs. Bredond, seeing the writing on the wall, had chosen the most lucrative and easiest way to supplement his income.

  He kicked the Chechen once more. The man was a freelancer. He had come to Moscow from his home state, stolen a vehicle, and driven it home, where he had sold it. Unfortunately for him, the Moscow Mafia was growing weary of freelancers working on their turf. Bredond had been tipped off about this man and his stolen vehicle an hour ago. Bredond, not a stupid man, wondered if the Chechen had been set up.

  The cellular phone in Bredond’s pocket buzzed, halting him in the middle of another kick. He walked away, pulling the phone out.

  “Bredond.”

  “We have a job for you.” The voice on the other end was filled with static. Bredond knew that was because it was sent through several relays and scrambled. Not that the person calling him was concerned about the police, but rather the other Mafia clans listening in.

  “Yes?” Bredond waited.

  “We want you to pick someone up.”

  When Bredond heard the name and address, he gritted his teeth. He knew what that address meant.

  “That will be difficult,” he said. There was no answer. He licked his lips and continued. “There will be strong repercussions if we take action in that neighborhood.”

  “I didn’t ask you to do this,” the voice said. The phone went dead.

  Bredond cursed. He yelled for his men to gear up. They left the Chechen lying in a pool of his own blood, still whispering curses at the Omon as they drove off

  * * *

  At the abandoned airbase, Barsk watched as Leksi’s mercenaries pulled four Hind-D helicopters out of hangars, along with two MI-8 Hips. He was surprised at the number of aircraft, wondering how much his grandmother had paid to obtain them. Even with the glut of military material on the black market, these would still cost quite a few dollars.

  The Hinds were combination attack/transport helicopters. They could carry eight combat-equipped troops in the back, while the pods on either side carried numerous rockets, and a 12.7-millimeter machine gun was mounted in the nose. The Hip helicopters could carry twenty-eight men each, and it looked like Leksi had enough men to fill all six helicopters, judging by the number of black-clad men in the hangar. The pilots began walking around, doing their pre-flight checks, as the men loaded magazines with bullets and sharpened their knives.

  Leksi interrupted Barsk’s musings on the cost of this operation by slapping a map down in front of him. “You will take the cargo plane, the generator, and the old man, and transport all to here.”

  Barsk looked at the map. The location was two hundred miles away from where they were. An airfield next to a large dam.

  “What is this?” Barsk demanded.

  “It is where Oma said for you to take the weapon. We will meet you there.”

  Barsk stabbed a finger down at the map. “But there is a town nearby. The authorities will be notified.”


  Leksi shrugged. “It is what Oma has ordered.”

  * * *

  Dalton looked over the other six Special Forces men. They were all wearing the black one-piece suit that fit them like a second skin. Trilly looked like a dog that had been kicked once too often, but Dalton didn’t have time to soothe the sergeant’s feelings. He’d told him to suit and brooked no resistance.

  A door on the side of the room opened and three more people walked in, two men and Lieutenant Jackson, the fillers promised by Raisor. The CIA man followed them, also in the black suit.

  Eleven altogether. Captain Anderson had ceded command of the team to him without outright saying so. Not out of lack of leadership, but more out of recognition of Dalton’s combat experience and natural authority. It was the strongest and smartest leadership decision the captain could make under these circumstances.

  “All right,” Dalton said, now that his entire team was gathered together. “We need to accomplish two things and we don’t have much time to do it. We need to work on developing our avatars and projecting them into the real world, using their weapons. And we need to work on our teamwork.”

  He looked at Lieutenant Jackson and the other two RVers. “You have experience in the former and we have the experience in the latter. So let’s all contribute and work together. We only have one shot at getting our act together before we go for real, so let’s not waste any time.” He turned to Raisor. “Where do you want to be?”

  “I’ll be overseeing the operation; don’t concern yourself with me.”

  “Let’s load,” Dr. Hammond called out from her console.

  The Psychic Warriors headed for their isolation tanks.

  * * *