Psychic Warrior (20 page)

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’d 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 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 up 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 Dalton 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 unusual 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 have to work on developing our avatars and projecting them into the real world, using their weapons. And we have 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.

*****

Feteror watched the Omon smash the front door in. The house was well built, but the Omon used a shotgun to blast out the locks, then two men swung a battering ram, splintering the wood. Feteror was in the virtual plane, hovering overhead.

The team, led by Deputy Commander Bredond, sprinted through the doorway. Feteror swooped down, passing through the roof flitting from room to room, watching as the Omon did his dirty work.

There were three people in the house: a woman and two children. The Omon had them gagged, hooded, and cuffed; ignoring the woman's screams about who her husband was and how important he was.

The Omon hustled the three out of the house and into one of their cars. Feteror followed overhead as they drove through the streets of Moscow until they arrived at an old warehouse near the rail yard.

Bredond exited the car, dragging the woman with her as two of his men brought the kids. Two armored BMWs waited in the shadows. Four men emerged from the lead one and took custody of the woman and children. They pulled the hood off the woman and checked her photograph against one they had with them. Satisfied, they threw the woman into the trunk of the car, then crammed the two children on top of her and closed the trunk, ignoring the muted cries and jerking of the bound bodies.

As the men started to get back in the still-open doors, Bredond stepped forward. All four men paused, hands hovering near the front of their long black leather coats.

"This is going too far!" Bredond yelled toward the rear BMW.

Overhead, Feteror began forming in the real plane, his clawed hands hooked onto one of the large support beams holding the roof up, his wings folded in tight, unseen and unnoticed by those below.

There was no reply, either from the guards or whoever was seated behind the tinted glass in the second BMW.

Bredond shifted uncomfortably, his three men holding their AK-74s uncertainly.

"Her husband is a GRU general. We were seen picking her and the children up. There will be inquiries. I will have to answer for this."

One of the bodyguards from the lead BMW put a finger to his ear. Feteror could see the thin wire, indicating he had a small receiver there. The man snapped a command and all four slipped inside the car.

Bredond raised his hand. His men pointed their weapons at the two BMWs, blocking the exit

Feteror spread his wings and leaped. He swooped down, both arms out to his side, and went right between two of the Omon, claws ripping throats open in a gush of blood.

Feteror landed as Bredond and the last surviving Omon policeman spun about searching for the cause of the other half of their party's death.

Feteror stepped forward and swung low. The last Omon man caught a glimpse of Feteror's form even as the claws punched through skin, into warm viscera. Feteror felt the man's spine and he gripped it, ripping the man in two in the process. He lifted the man up, then threw him onto the car the Omon had driven.

Bredond stepped back, weapon raised. He could see the intermittent form of some large creature, the two glowing red eyes unmistakable, blood dripping off an almost invisible clawed hand very clear.

Feteror drew in more power and slowly materialized, adding color to his form. His scaled skin was black, his wings streaked with red, his demon features hard and angular.

Bredond's eyes opened wide, the weapon falling from his fingers. He dropped to his knees, hands raised in supplication. "Chyort! Please! Spare me!"

Feteror spun so quickly that those watching from the other cars saw only a blur. He lashed a backhand strike with his right wing, the six-inch claw on his middle finger extended. It sliced through Bredond's neck like a paring knife through bread. Bredond's head tilted back, held in place only by the spinal cord. The body flopped back, blood still pumping from the heart.

Feteror turned to the second BMW. A window slid down and the cracked face of Oma peered out.

"He was useful," she said.

"His usefulness was over." Feteror liked the sound of the avatar voice he’d worked hard on. It was deeper than a human voice, with a rough edge. A true demon's voice. "The Omon's being involved will cause confusion. Their bodies found dead will make even more confusion. It will take the GRU a while to sort through. By then it will be too late."

"Why do we need them?" Oma asked.

Feteror extended the same claw that had almost decapitated Bredond toward the first BMW. "They are important to our plan."

"How?" Oma asked. "I did as you asked but I don't see how a GRU general's wife and children help us."

Feteror glared at the old woman. He could see the fear in her guards' eyes, the four men having jumped out of the front BMW, weapons at the ready at his appearance. He could not tell her why, because doing so would expose a weakness.

"Do as you are told, old woman."

"You need me," Oma hissed.

Feteror extended his wings, putting the car in the dark shadow they created. "Oh, yes, old woman, I need you."

Feteror leapt up, translating from the real to the virtual plane in an instant and, in doing so, disappearing before the eyes of those watching, leaving behind the bodies he had torn apart as the only evidence that what they had seen had been real.

Dalton looked around. He was in a large open space, the horizon limitless. The ground beneath his feet was flat and a featureless gray. The air was filled with a white fog, making him wonder how far he was really seeing.

"I’m bringing all of you here in your forms in the virtual plane first," Hammond said.

Dalton noticed something above him. He looked up and saw a falcon and two eagles soaring. He immediately knew from Sybyl's input that they were Jackson and the other two RVers, Sergeant Williams and Chief Warrant Officer Auer.

More forms began appearing on the ground around him. Dalton was slightly surprised that he could recognize each of his men, their forms very similar to what they were in reality, even though their facial features were white masks without features. There was enough variance in size and shape to allow him to separate them.

"Your weapons," Hammond announced.

Right arms formed into tubes from the elbow forward. Dalton's tube was about four inches in diameter, tapering to a smooth muzzle about a half-inch wide. Two others were similar to what Dalton carried, two were the "shotguns" he had asked Hammond for, and two were the more powerful, slower-firing tubes.

“What about you?" Dalton projected the question to the RVers circling overhead.

Lieutenant Jackson's voice answered inside of his head.

"We can be your eyes for this mission. If we had weapons, we’d take away power from yours."

"All right."

He saw another figure, Raisor, not far away, blank face watching.

The avatars gathered round. It was eerie to watch the bird forms of the RVers simply come to a halt overhead, wings folded. But Dalton knew that if he tried, he could hover off the floor and hang next to them.

"Agent Raisor has set up a practice scenario for us at Fort Hood, Texas. They've closed off a tank range and put in a bunch of targets, both stationary and moving for us to attack. We have no idea right now what form the Mafia assault on the nuclear weapons train will take, but this is the best we can come up with on short notice."

"Do we fire on full power?" Captain Anderson asked.

"Yes," Dalton said. "We act as if this is the real thing. Dr. Hammond?"

"Yes?"

"Show us the computer mock-up of what's been set up for us at Fort Hood."

A line of old railcars appeared, towed into place on a dusty, scrub-covered range. Several armored vehicles, relics towed off other ranges, were lined around it. Scores of silhouettes, some red, some blue, were spaced all around. The terrain around was the hill country of mid-Texas that Dalton remembered from a tour of duty at Fort Hood.

"The blue are friendly. The red are the enemy," Hammond said.

"All right. Here's what we're going to do." Dalton led his men through his plan for the assault.

*****

Feteror was out of time. The link back to SD8-FFEU was weakening, General Rurik's way of drawing him back. The longest Rurik had ever allowed him to be out on a mission had been six hours in real time. It was another way the general tried to keep a leash on his demon and one that had worked very effectively over the years.

Feteror headed back to SD8-FFEU, sliding down the tunnel, feeling the virtual window shut behind him. He settled in and immediately accessed his inner eyes and ears, somewhat surprised to find them on. There was no sign of General Rurik in the center, which didn't surprise Feteror. He assumed Rurik had had him called back as soon as he got called about his wife and children, and that the general was still trying to find out what had happened.

Feteror paused as he moved through his electronic home. Something was wrong. Like a tracker noting a blade of grass disturbed here, a broken stick there, Feteror did a detailed search of his domain.

His scream of anger echoed along the wires of Zivon as he found that the intruder had tried to get into his memory files.

*****

“Tell me about the phased-displacement generator," Barsk ordered.

The old man was blinking, not used to the light even though the interior of the hangar was dim. Barsk looked past the man toward the runway, where the blades on all six helicopters were turning. The first one, with Leksi on board, lifted and headed south. The others followed.

The old man gulped down the water one of Barsk's bodyguards handed him, finishing the canteen in one long swallow. Barsk waited.

The old man put the empty canteen down and squinted in Barsk's direction. Getting out of the hole seemed to have bolstered the man's confidence somewhat. Or, Barsk thought he had simply given up. He’d seen both reactions over the years among those who knew the end was near.

"Who are you?"

"I ask the questions, old man," Barsk reminded him. "What is this phased-displacement generator? How does it work?"

Vasilev worked his tongue around his mouth. "It is a weapon."

"What kind of weapon?"

"It can take a physical object and move it into the virtual plane and then bring it out of the virtual plane."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Vasilev, despite his condition, drew himself up. "I would have to teach you four years of graduate physics for you to grasp the basics, and then I would have to be honest and tell you I do not know exactly how it works."

"How do you know it works at all, then?"

"We tested it a long time ago."

"At October Revolution Island?"

Vasilev nodded, his eyes distant.

Barsk remembered the bodies in the cavern. "What happened?"

"We succeeded and we failed," Vasilev said.

"I don't have time for word games," Barsk warned.

"We sank an American submarine in the Atlantic Ocean with a nuclear warhead."

Barsk looked at his bodyguards and signaled for them to back up, out of earshot. "If this generator is so effective, why was it abandoned?"

"Because…" Vasilev paused, then continued, "Because, as I said, we also failed. Part of the system, shall we say, malfunctioned, and all those involved were killed."

"The bodies in the coffins. They were mutilated. Were they the cause of the malfunction?"

Vasilev raised an eyebrow. "Yes."

Barsk sat back, considering the old man. "Can you make it work now?"

"Not without-" He paused.

"Without what?"

"The remote viewers to fix the target."

Barsk assumed Oma had thought of that. "If you have that part can you do it?"

"With the proper computers, enough power, the generator, the proper program, I suppose-"

"You had better do better than suppose," Barsk warned.

“You are working with the demon?" Vasilev asked.

Barsk leaned forward. "What do you know of this demon?"

"He visited me there." Vasilev pointed at the pit.

"Who exactly is the demon?"

"It is more a question of
what
is this demon," Vasilev said. "I suspect he is a creature that exists on the psychic plane."

"Explain as much as you know to me," Barsk ordered.

Vasilev gave a weak laugh. "That won't take long."

*****

"Go!" Dalton ordered.

The three RVers unfurled their wings and took off Dalton watched them until they suddenly disappeared from view.

"Hammond?" Dalton checked.

“Here."

“Can you have Sybyl relay information from Lieutenant Jackson and the others?"

"Yes."

Dalton shook his head. This was all happening too fast. He had little idea what their capabilities and limitations were. But Raisor and Hammond had little idea also. Dalton had to consider so many factors that he knew he was missing some important aspects. He also knew from his combat experience that it was the details that were overlooked that got people killed. And whatever could screw up was going to. Murphy's law had been a maxim of military operations since the first man had clubbed a guy over the head in the next cave.

Dalton broke his seven-man team into two three-man fire teams. He put Captain Anderson in charge of one. Each fire team had one fast firer, one shot-gunner, and one heavy firer.

The plan was as simple as Dalton could make it. He had to guess what the Mafia's plan would be, but they had to have military men working for them and thus he felt reasonably sure about what would happen. The Mafia force would set up what was called an ORP, objective rally point, near the attack site, but out of direct line of sight. They would launch their attack from there. Dalton's plan was to use Captain Anderson's fire team to attack the ORP while his team assaulted the attacking force. That would force the Mafia to fight on three fronts: the Russian troops guarding the train in front of them, Anderson's team from behind, and Dalton's team right among them.

“We're closing on Fort Hood.” Jackson's voice was inside his head, as loud and clear as Hammond's, startling him out of his military speculating.

"Entering the real plane, "Jackson said.

Dalton waited.

"Okay, we're here." There was a difference to Jackson's voice. As if she were in a large, empty space, her voice echoing. "It's like the mock-up but there's also some more armor in the ORP area. About fifty 'men' in the ORP. Another force of about a hundred stretched out between the ORP and the train. Hold on, I'll show it to you."

Dalton blinked as an image flickered across his vision, momentarily blocking out the featureless area of virtual space around him. He focused and he could see the range target area as Jackson, circling overhead, saw it.

"All right," Dalton said. "Captain Anderson, designate targets for your men."

"Roger that," Anderson answered.

Dalton did the same, able to use the views forwarded from Lieutenant Jackson and the two other RVers to give each of his men specific targets. As he did this, Dalton started feeling more confident. He'd been on many military operations in his time in the Army, but this one, while undoubtedly the strangest, was also presenting him with advantages he hadn't even dreamed of. Being able to see the target like this and then being able to mentally communicate with each of his men, letting them know his plan by seeing it instead of just telling them what he wanted, was something every military commander would give anything for.

"Are we ready?"

He received an affirmative from each man.

"Sybyl, give us the visual checkpoints," Dalton ordered.

It was a technique the RVers had perfected. Sybyl could access the NSA's satellite imagery database and pick easily identifiable spots on the earth's surface between their present location and the target. They could then project themselves through virtual space from checkpoint to checkpoint by imaging the picture.

"Let's do it."

The Special Forces men's avatars lost their weapons as their arms shifted into wings. They entered the virtual plane and headed south. Dalton found himself alone once more, moving through the virtual plane with his virtual wings. He hit the first checkpoint and spotted two other of his men passing through. He kept going, until he was at the last checkpoint less than a kilometer from the target. At that point he pulled in power from Sybyl and materialized on a hillside, the bulk of the mountain between him and the target. He watched as the other men showed up within a couple of minutes of each other.

"Hell of a way to infiltrate a target area," Captain Anderson noted as he gained his feet and took a few tentative steps, re-familiarizing himself with operating in the real world with his avatar.

"Any change in the target?" Dalton asked Jackson.

"Negative, "Jackson responded. "Here's the current image."

Dalton checked it. "All right," he said to the men of his fire team: Trilly, Egan, and Barnes. “We’ll go back into the virtual plane from here and I want us to come out into the real world right here." He picked a spot on the image. It was about a hundred meters from the railcar, in the midst of numerous red silhouettes indicating the attacking force.

"When you come out, come out blasting" Dalton said. "Ready, Captain Anderson?"

"Ready."

"Let's go on one. Three. Two. One."

Dalton released his hold on the real world and dematerialized. He focused on the image of the spot he had picked. And then he was there. He materialized, the power tube flowing out of his right arm as he flickered into existence in the real world.

He fired at the closest red silhouette.

*****

On a hill to the south a wide-angle video camera had been set up on orders from the CIA to send an image back to Bright Gate. The range area was supposed to be completely evacuated, but two officers from Fort Hood had stayed in the observation post, curious to see what the results of all the strange, high-level orders they had received would be. They had expected to see parachutes come out of the sky, perhaps carrying members of a Ranger battalion practicing a train takedown.

They were stunned when strange men appeared out of nothingness, firing with what looked like tubes in place of forearms and hands. Silhouettes splintered as small fireballs hit them.

Through his binoculars, one of the officers watched as a derelict tank was hit by a larger fireball that smashed through the front armor and exploded inside.

"Who the hell are these guys?" the officer asked his partner.

"
What
the hell are they?" the other officer asked in return as he focused in on one of the forms, seeing that the face was a featureless white mask.

*****

It was going very well. Of course, Dalton reflected as he moved and fired, the silhouettes weren't shooting back. That was the biggest concern he had. Despite Dr. Hammond's assurances, he wasn't confident that the avatars could sustain much damage or that they could be reconstituted as easily as she imagined. There was the issue of what had happened to Stith lurking in the back of his mind.

He did a forward roll behind a berm and fired, slicing a red silhouette in half "Anderson?" he asked through Sybyl.

"We've wiped the O-R out. No problem!" Anderson's voice was excited, like a kid who had just won a big ball game.