Psychic Warrior 01 Psychic Warrior, page 25
Dalton closed his eyes and focused only on Barnes. Dalton felt pain slice into his back. He focused on the isolation tanks in Bright Gate as he took a glance over his shoulder. A form came leaping between him and Chyort. Trilly!
Dalton jumped, Barnes with him.
Feteror hesitated. He looked down at his right hand. The claws had torn into the American’s back, going in over six inches, yet the man had ignored the pain and jumped. The other American who had jumped between them had died with one slice, the head neatly separated. Feteror knew he could follow the Americans into their hole in the Rocky Mountains. He felt he now had the power to break through their psychic fence. Like a wolf among the sheep, he could rip them to shreds.
He turned and looked back toward the east, where the battle had occurred. With regret, Feteror jumped back.
He came into reality on top of the wreckage of the cargo car, scaring the wits out of the men pulling the bombs out.
Leksi yelled, telling the men to keep working, to ignore the demon. Then the naval commando climbed up to face Feteror.
“You were late,” Leksi said. “Who were the others? The ones who fight like you?”
“Americans.” Feteror liked the way his demon voice sounded, like boulders rubbing together, underlaid with the treble of the screams of the damned. “And I was not late. This was your job, not mine.”
“And I will finish it if you would stop frightening my men.” Feteror snapped into the virtual plane.
Barsk kept a safe distance from the men reeling the thick black cables.
“Are you ready yet?” he demanded of the scientist. Vasilev sighed and looked up from the computer terminal he’d been working at for the past hour.
“This program was written for top-of-the-line computers in 1963. Computers have come a long way since then. This was upgraded several years ago but it is still out of date. I am trying to integrate the old software with the new hardware, but it is difficult.”
“I don’t want to hear excuses,” Barsk said.
“I’m not giving you excuses,” Vasilev replied. “I am telling you what is happening.” He ran a trembling hand through his gray hair.
“I can assure you I want this to work more than you do. It will put an end to the nightmare my life has been.”
“Then get it working,” Barsk snapped. “I’m beginning to— “ He halted as he felt a wash of cold through his stomach. He turned.
The Chyort coalesced into being inside the hangar.
“Are you ready yet?” the demon hissed.
“We still have to hook up the power cables,” Barsk said. A long claw pointed toward Vasilev. “Is the program for the phased-displacement generator ready?”
Vasilev shrugged. “I am working on it.” Chyort blinked out of existence and then reappeared, looming over the old man.
“You’re working on it?”
“I am doing my best.” Vasilev took an involuntary step backward, bumping into the computer console. “It has been many years and—
“ He paused as a claw touched his neck, pressing against the pulse that beat on one side.
“There are things worse than death.” Chyort’s words swept over the scientist. “You know that, don’t you?” Vasilev nodded.
“I know you don’t fear death,” Chyort continued.
“But what I will do to you if you fail me will be worse than anything you can imagine. I will— “ The demon paused, the head turned.
Then the creature was gone.
Dalton swam in the pain, his entire body awash in it. He tried to push his mind through the overwhelming tide of agony. He remembered the bayonet; he focused on it, the feeling of ice sliding into his back. Then the butt stroke from the NVA soldier holding the AK-47.
Awakening in the prison. Weak from loss of blood. Reaching, feeling blood still soaking through the dirty rag tied over the wound. Pressing his back against the concrete wall, stopping the bleeding. Holding the position, even when the guards came in and kicked, he pushed against the wall, knowing if he didn’t, he would bleed out.
“ Sergeant Major?”
No, Dalton thought. I’m just a Spec/4. Junior team member.
“ Sergeant Major?”
Dalton tried to open his eyes but there was only darkness. And the pain.
“ Sergeant Major! This is Dr. Hammond.” Hammond? Why was it so dark? Even in the cell there had always been a little light seeping in from the corridor.
A white dot appeared, so tiny and so far away.
“ Focus on the dot.”
Dalton tried to scream, but instead he gagged. Something was in his throat, blocking.
“ We’re bringing you out, but you have to be aware.” The voice was insistent.
Dalton wished the woman would just shut up. He slid down the concrete wall and rolled onto the floor into the fetal position. He was so tired and it hurt so badly.
A new voice ripped into his skull, louder than the other one.
“ Damn it, Sergeant Major! This is Lieutenant Jackson. I’m ordering you toget back here. Don’t you give up!”
Dalton shivered, feeling cold seep into his body, strangely lessening the pain. He saw Marie, the same as when he had first met her, the skin on her face smooth, flawless. She was beckoning to him to go in a different direction. Dalton pushed himself to his hands and knees. He began crawling toward Marie.
“ Come back, Sergeant Major Dalton.” Dalton felt the opposing tugs, Marie and the warmth and comfort of just going to her, and Lieutenant Jackson’s voice grating on his mind, his conscience, his sense of duty. He looked toward Marie and he knew she knew. She smiled sadly and faded from view, mouthing something that he couldn’t make out.
Dalton stared in her direction until there was nothing there. The other voice kept nagging at him. Then he remembered.
The team was gone. Massacred. He couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t fight again. The last time, he had left Marie alone for five years. He couldn’t do that to her again. He let go of his grip, sliding toward where Marie had been.
He saw her once more.
“Why did you summon me?” After the glorious feeling of power during the battle with the Americans, being contained inside Zivon was unbearable to Feteror.
“Because the situation has changed,” General Rurik said.
“Twenty nuclear warheads have been stolen.”
“You have already tasked me to accomplish two missions. Yet you bring me back here to inform me of this?”
“Did you find the phased-displacement generator?” General Rurik demanded.
“No.”
Rurik stepped closer to the speaker. “Did you find my family?”
“I have a lead that I was tracking down when you called me back.”
“Give me the lead,” Rurik ordered.
“I am forwarding the information through Zivon,” Feteror said.
“But it would be best if you allowed me to continue on the mission.”
“I do not trust you,” Rurik said. “You are up to something. You will wait while I verify what you have learned.”
Feteror remained silent, itching to get away. He forwarded information through the electronic channels of Zivon. He watched as General Rurik took it off the computer screen and then grabbed a phone, calling Moscow, shutting down the psychic wall for a moment.
A spear of pain slammed into Dalton’s chest. It felt like his lungs were getting ripped out through his throat.
“Goddamn it, Sergeant Major, you’ve got to hold on.” The words were coming from outside, from a great distance, but the fact that they were external was so novel to Dalton, he marveled at it for a few moments. So much had been inside his head for so long now. Another voice— it was Hammond’s, a part of his mind recognized— spoke:
“He’s in arrest. Stand clear.” Dalton screamed as a jolt of electricity through the microprobe lanced his chest. The pain was bad, but the real hurt was seeing Marie fade again with each pulse of his heart in response to the electric shock.
“No!” Dalton yelled, the word garbled by embryonic fluid sputtering out of his mouth. He rolled to his side vomiting, knocking away Hammond, who was getting ready to shock him again.
“He’s got a pulse,” Hammond announced. Dalton pushed away Jackson’s hand as she tried to hold his head.
“Leave me alone,” he whispered. He turned to his other side, his back to those in the room, and kept his eyes closed. He searched for another glimpse of Marie, but there was nothing.
Leksi swung his arm around his head and pointed up. The pilot responded by increasing throttle and pitch on the blades. Laden with ten of the nuclear bombs, the first Hip rose into the air. Leksi ran to the second and jumped on board. It followed the first.
Leksi flipped open his cellular phone and punched in memory one.
“Sergeant Barnes made it back, thanks to you,” Jackson said. Dalton’s hands were cradled around a steaming mug of coffee. He had ladled in several heaping teaspoons of sugar. He took a sip, relishing the burning feeling on his tongue. He was seated at the table in the small conference room off the experimental chamber. He couldn’t bear being in there, looking at the bodies of the rest of his team floating inside their isolation tanks. Jackson was seated next to him. Hammond was on the other side of the table.
“Where is he?” Dalton asked.
“In the dispensary. He’s sleeping, but the doctor gives him a clean bill of health.”
“One out of nine. And the rest of the team?” Dalton asked. Jackson shook her head, not able to answer him.
“Their bodies are still viable in their isolation tanks,” Dr. Hammond said.
“Like the first team?” Dalton said.
“Yes,” Hammond said.
Dalton rubbed his forehead. “So they’re probably dead, as far as they’re concerned, right?”
“We don’t know that for certain,” Jackson said.
“And Raisor?” Dalton knew he had to ask.
“We don’t know,” Hammond said. “His body is also in stasis. I restored his power, but there’s been no contact. I think we might have lost the connection when I diverted all power to your team.”
“Where did he go?” Dalton demanded.
“We don’t know,” Hammond said, “but we have a larger problem on our hands. I just got a call from Washington. Your mission failed. The nuclear warheads have been stolen. Combining that with the information you brought back about the phased-displacement generator, we have the biggest danger this country has faced since the Cuban Missile Crisis. The National Security Council is very concerned. They are considering their options.”
Dalton looked up at the doctor, recognizing the panic in the clipped sentences. “Very concerned? Is that what you call it? They should be crapping in their pants. Options? What options?
What are they going to do?”
Dalton took a deep drink of coffee, feeling the burning liquid hit his bruised throat. He relished the pain because it sharpened his mind, brought it out of the fog of near death and despair. The issue of Raisor’s disappearance bothered him, but it was a msytery that wasn’t a priority right now.
“For starters, they can now work with the Russians, given that the warheads have been stolen,” Hammond said.
“That’s like reuniting the Three Stooges,” Dalton said.
“The Russians had to have known about— “ He paused, realization hitting him like a punch in the gut.
“What is it?” Lieutenant Jackson asked.
“Something’s not right about all this,” Dalton said.
“What do you mean?” Jackson asked.
“This Russian avatar, Chyort, it’s not right.” Dalton’s mind was racing as he considered all he had experienced. “Chyort attacked us, not the mercenaries taking down the train.”
“Maybe he thought you were the greater threat?” Dr. Hammond suggested.
Dalton shook his head. “No.” He turned to Jackson.
“Chyort was in the railmaster’s shack the same time you were, right?”
Jackson nodded.
“So he knew about the change in the timing of shipment. Yet the Russian guards weren’t ready. They ran right into the ambush. And Chyort attacked us, not the ambushers.
“He’s with them. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, given that this Chyort is supposed to be part of the GRU, but he is with the Mafia, helping them. And we aren’t going to recover those bombs or stop the phased-displacement generator from being used, until we stop Chyort.”
Dalton turned to Dr. Hammond. “If you had to destroy your own project— stop Psychic Warrior— and you couldn’t defeat it on the psychic plane, how would you do it?”
Hammond spread her hands, taking in the complex. “To make sure I succeeded, I’d take out Bright Gate.”
“Which leaves you with the opposite situation from what we have right now,” Dalton said. “What happens to me if I’m on the virtual plane and my body here is destroyed? Or Sybyl is taken off-line?”
“I don’t know for sure what happens to your psyche if your body is killed, although I assume it would also be killed,” Hammond said. “But if Sybyl is taken off-line, then you will lose all the power and support you get from the computer. Your psyche might still be floating around out there, but it won’t be able to do much.” Dalton nodded. “All right, then. That’s what we’ll do.” Oma put the phone down. They had the bombs. They had the phased-displacement generator. But it had almost been a disaster. She thought about Leksi’s account of the strange beings that had attacked him— Americans, working in the same manner as Chyort. Yes, Chyort had won, but... Oma knew the playing field had changed, she just wasn’t sure yet what the changes meant. She looked at the computer screen on which she had left the information from her Swiss bank account. Four hundred million dollars. With 360 billion pending.
Her gaze shifted to the desktop, on which two things sat: the target list and the card from the NATO
representative.
The phone rang. She grabbed it. “Speak.”
“We have dropped the child off as instructed,” the voice on the other end informed her.
“Very good.” Oma held the receiver in her hand as the other end went dead. Another piece in the puzzle that she didn’t quite understand. She’d assumed that Chyort had had her kidnap General Rurik’s wife and children for revenge. But if so, why had he told her to free one of the children in a place where the GRU would find him quickly?
She pushed down on the receiver button and got a dial tone. She punched in the number off the card. It was answered on the first ring.
“Yes?”
“Do you give this number to everyone or do you know who I am?” Oma asked.
“I know who you are,” the NATO representative replied.
“Are you calling to chat about the weather or do you accept my offer?”
“You know about the warheads?”
“You have many people’s attention now,” the man acknowledged.
“You might not enjoy the heat of the spotlight that is now shining in your direction. In fact, I’m not sure I can keep my offer on the table much longer.”
“I have four hundred million in an account already,” Oma said.
“An advance against four billion. Do you understand my situation?” There was a brief silence before the man spoke again.
“We can match the four hundred now that you have the bombs. But we also want the name of the original bidder and all other information you can give us.”
“I cannot do— “ Oma began.
“I would think that would be in your best interest,” the NATO
representative interrupted. “Even if you give back the advance, they— whoever they are— will not be happy about your reneging on a deal. Give us the name and perhaps we can clip their wings so they don’t come after you.” Oma knew that NATO was willing to pay ransom to get the bombs rather than launch a military mission that could easily be as costly in financial terms and more importantly costly in the arena of NATO blood spilled and public image. It was overall cheaper, more direct, and more in line with the realities of the world to pay. It was the way the real world worked.
“Deposit the money and we can discuss this,” Oma said.
“Right now, this is only talk.”
“You are playing a very dangerous game and the clock is ticking. This deal requires all the bombs to be turned over. Every single one. I will have the money in your account inside of the hour. Then we will talk again. It will be the last time we talk, one way or the other.”
“You should learn to relax. To enjoy life.” Feteror stopped his “pacing” and looked at his grandfather’s image in amazement. They were in the clearing near the stream. Feteror was beginning to worry that something had gone wrong. That Rurik would not let him out again. That Oma had the bombs now and had betrayed him.
“This is not life,” Feteror said. Opa raised his bushy gray eyebrows. “What is it then?”
“This”— Feteror waved his hands around the glade—
“is all an illusion. It isn’t real. We are inside a computer.”
“A computer? What is that?”
“ You aren’t even real.” Feteror had no patience for this. He needed to get out, or all that he had worked for would go to naught. He knew he could not trust Oma to keep her end of the bargain without looking over her shoulder. She needed him to operate the phased-displacement generator, but he knew that she might make a deal that didn’t require the generator now that she had the bombs. Of course, he reassured himself she didn’t have the PAL
codes.
Opa didn’t look angry, merely puzzled. “How can I not be real?” He stretched his arms. “I feel real.” Feteror stopped and walked over to his grandfather, who was seated on the tree stump where he had always sat. Feteror thumped his chest. “I am not real either. None of this is. I am a monster. I’m supposed to be dead. You are dead. And I am going to join you soon— and bring those who did this to me on the journey. They will pay for what they inflicted on me. For betraying a loyal soldier.
