Psychic Warrior (27 page)

"No, I didn't."

"Don't give up now, Sergeant Major. We need you."

*****

Feteror popped into the GRU main conference room and maintained a silent presence for ten minutes. More than enough time to know that the Americans were now putting their cards on the table and talking to his government through the GRU, preparing a conventional response to the bombs being stolen.

Feteror had not expected such a quick reaction, but he also had not expected the assault at the ambush site by the Bright Gate personnel. He saw the Spetsnatz colonel sitting quietly at the conference table, listening to the various reports coming in.

Feteror came closer to the man. He knew him. Years ago, in Afghanistan. Then it had been Captain Mishenka, a ruthless and efficient leader of an elite hunter killer team. A fool to still be sitting here serving a new government when the old one had betrayed his fight in Afghanistan.

Despite Mishenka's presence, Feteror's own government acting alone did not worry him. By the time they discovered where the phased-displacement generator was, it would be too late. And the only way they would find the stolen nuclear weapons was when they exploded at their targets.

But the Americans, that was another story. They had capabilities that could pose a threat either acting on their own or helping the GRU. Feteror slid along the virtual plane, out of the room.

*****

Inside the conference room, Colonel Mishenka shivered, looking up at the ceiling. He'd felt a cold draft down to the very marrow of his bones for just a second. His eyes narrowed, the deep lines etched at the sides indicating the years he’d spent fighting in the brutal elements.

The chill was gone. He returned his focus to the briefer at the front of the room.

*****

In orbit, 285 statute miles above the surface of the earth, thrusters on Warfighter 1 fired, maneuvering the 850-pound satellite toward the target grid area. On board, doors slid open, revealing the hyperspectral imaging equipment. It was the most advanced spy satellite in the American inventory, launched just the previous year and capable of all-weather, all-condition viewing across a large number of frequency bands at extremely high resolution. Some of its imagers could even "see" through ceilings into bunkers and hangars by using certain band lengths.

Just as important as the imaging equipment was the onboard computer that could be programmed to look over wide swaths of terrain for a specific image. The RHC3000, high-density mass-memory command and data handler, was currently being updated with information sent by the Russians regarding the makeup of the phased-displacement generator and with the exact composition of the twenty missing warheads.

It would be in position in six minutes to begin searching outward from the site of the ambush into central Russia.

*****

Feteror had never gone this high. There had never been a need to and it had never occurred to him to try. As he passed out of the atmosphere, he wondered if he could travel far in space, or if his virtual link to Zivon and SD8- FFEU had a limit.

It was dark in this netherworld, not the grayish white of the virtual plane closer to the planet. A dim area, desolate, empty of the whispering of the souls of those close to the surface. Feteror found it quite soothing.

He reached out through the virtual plane with his senses. He picked up the approach of Warfighter 1 as it closed on the ambush site. He vectored on the satellite. It was a spectacular piece of machinery. He noted the imagers pointing earthward out of the bay, the small maneuvering thrusters firing slight puffs, orienting the vehicle.

Feteror slid into the satellite. He became part of it, using its imagers as his own senses. He looked down at the earth, able to see the curving horizon of the planet in all directions. It was so spectacular that he almost forgot his task; but not quite.

He processed a picture through the main camera. Then he accessed the thruster control program.

*****

"Sergeant Major."

Dalton heard the resignation in Hammond's voice before he turned and saw the defeat etched across her face.

"Yes?"

Hammond wordlessly held up a glossy piece of paper.

Dalton took it, Lieutenant Jackson looking over his shoulder. The demon's face was eerily etched against a black background, as horrible as Dalton remembered it.

"Chyort," Dalton said, handing the imagery back. Jackson was nodding, also recognizing their foe from the ambush.

Hammond spoke in a monotone. "He took out the satellite the NSA was sending over to find the generator and the nukes."

"’Took out’," Dalton repeated. "How did he do that?"

"They don't know, but they have no communication with it and the tracking station can't even pick its orbit. It's gone. The Russians . . .” Hammond's voice betrayed her admiration in the face of the disaster. "They must have done something completely different than us to come up with this thing, this Chyort."

Dalton considered the photo. "He wanted us to know he did it. There's no other reason for him to allow his image to be processed."

"Any more information on who or what Chyort is?" Lieutenant Jackson asked.

"I'm working on getting that, but my best guess is that he's the end result of their version of their Psychic Warrior program."

Jackson gave a derisive laugh. "They've got something going that we don't have a clue about. It's far beyond what we're doing here."

Dalton shook his head. "We don't have time for this." He pointed at the imagery. "Allowing himself to be photographed like that means he's confident that he can accomplish what he wants to and he's not worried about us stopping him." He turned to Hammond, who was still staring at the picture. "I want communication with the National Security Council."

Hammond nodded. "We have a direct link in the control room."

"How can we stop them?" Jackson asked while they walked to the control room.

"I'm an old soldier," Dalton said, "so I say we do it the old-fashioned way. With some new-fashioned help."

Feteror's roar vibrated the metal in the hangar. "How can you not be ready? You have the program!"

Vasilev ignored the demon pacing about. "I’ve done my best. I’m trying to update the language of the program to work on these new computers, but I’m not a computer expert."

A claw flashed out, stopping just short of Vasilev's neck. The old man didn't flinch.

"I thought the program had already been updated when it was switched to the CD-ROM."

"Somewhat, yes," Vasilev agreed. "But that was three years ago and already computers have advanced beyond that."

"How long will it take?"

"Anywhere from a couple of hours to a couple of days."

"We don’t have a couple of days."

"Whether you have the time or not makes no difference in how long updating the programming will take," Vasilev said. "There is also the additional problem of once the base programming is running, having it synched with a psychic projection. We need a way to target the warhead once it is on the virtual plane." He spread his hands. "I don't see that part of the system here."

"I'm that part of the system," Feteror said. "You get it working. I'll take care of the rest."

"I will try."

Feteror shook his wings, sending a breeze through the hangar. “Try is not good enough. The problem is the computer? I will take care of it."

He slid out of the real plane and flowed into the computer Vasilev had been working at. He raced along the electronic pathways. There was much he understood here from his time inside Zivon.

He came to the place where Vasilev had been working. To his virtual eyes, there was a logjam of data, the pieces not fitting, turned the wrong way.

He worked like a madman, twisting the data to fit, putting the pieces in place. He cleared up what he could see, then reversed his path out of the computer, re-forming into the real world in front of the old man.

"Get back to work," Feteror snarled. "It should take you less time now."

Feteror's head twisted on his gnarled shoulders as the sound of inbound helicopters made its way through the metal siding of the hangar. Feteror flashed outside as Leksi's two helicopters landed and the bombs were off-loaded.

All was in place, but they could not act until the advanced computer could process the old program. Feteror would have found it humorous except for the stakes involved.

*****

"Is everyone clear on what they have to do?" Sergeant Major Dalton was dressed in the camouflage fatigues he had worn to Bright Gate. He was striding down the corridor that led to the hangar. Lieutenant Jackson and Dr. Hammond were having to run to keep up with him.

"Clear," Jackson said.

Hammond reluctantly nodded.

Dalton glanced at Jackson. "You remember what you have to do, right?"

She nodded.

"And?" Dalton prompted.

"We don't do anything until you clear the way," Jackson said.

"Roger that" Dalton continued walking. "But the minute I take care of Chyort, you have to move quickly." He glanced at Hammond. "Is everything set to get this started?"

"They're still trying to get through to the Russians."

"What about my ride?"

"It’ll meet you at DIA" Hammond looked troubled. "This is going to cause a hell of a stink."

"The stink has already started," Dalton said. "Let's hope we can keep it at that level. One of those nukes goes off somewhere and everything you're worrying about right now will be insignificant. Any idea where Raisor went?"

"I've had Sybyl scan but no sign."

A technician came running down the hallway. She held a small metal case in her hand. "Here's the SATCOM link you asked for."

Dalton took it. He walked through the door into the hangar. The blades were already turning on the Blackhawk, and the side door was open.

"Good luck!" Jackson said.

"Don't go over until it's clear," Dalton warned her one last time.

"I won't."

Dalton climbed on board the chopper. As he slid the door shut, the platform began sliding out of the side of the mountain. The last thing he saw as they lifted off was Lieutenant Jackson, standing alone, watching him fly away.

*****

Oma stared at her computer screen. Two deposits of four hundred million were sitting side by side in their separate accounts. Her husband had always told her to keep her options open, to never play her hand until the last minute.

She leaned back in her chair and looked at the clock. There was still time to play this just right.

Sergeant Major Dalton woke as the Blackhawk settled down onto the grass next to the longest runway at Denver International Airport. Several phone calls from the National Security Council had shut down the runway twenty minutes ago. Police cars, lights flashing, were parked near the end of the runway.

"Your ride is about two minutes out," the pilot informed Dalton through the headset.

Dalton opened the side door and stepped off the chopper, carrying the com link. He could see the white-capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains to the west. The white peaks of the uniquely designed terminal were about two miles away, but Dalton had no intention of going there.

He scanned the sky and was rewarded when he spotted a small dot rapidly approaching from over the mountains. It closed swiftly, the shape not that of a normal plane, but more a solid V-form without wings.

As it got closer and slowed on its approach, Dalton could make out details. It was over 250 feet long and a hundred feet from tip to tip at the widest. The best Dalton could describe the aircraft was that it was shaped like a stretched-out B-2 bomber.

Nose up, it came down toward the far end of the runway from Dalton. Those in the terminal and waiting planes were getting the first public glimpse of one of the most classified projects in the Black Budget, but apparently the decision makers on the National Security Council felt that was a small price to pay for the mission he had to accomplish. Besides, a toy manufacturer had already designed and was selling a model that looked very similar to what was landing; they even had the name right: the SR-75 Penetrator, developed under the project code name Aurora.

The wheels touched down and the plane decelerated. Dalton could see smoke coming from the tires as they slowed the forward momentum. He knew about the plane from classified briefings he’d attended while assigned to a top secret antiterrorist task force. At its home base at Groom Lake in Nevada, near Nellis Air Force Base and the infamous Area 51, the plane used a the longest runway in the world-over seven miles long to take off and land. It was straining to stop on DIA's longest main runway.

But the pilots accomplished the task, slowing to a roll about five hundred yards from Dalton's location, then bringing the plane toward him. The skin of the craft was a dull black, the small windows in the front hard to spot. The design lines were smooth and sleek.

The plane halted and a hatch opened in the belly between the two large sets of landing gear. Dalton started forward as a ladder extended down. He grabbed the bottom rung and climbed on board.

The man who greeted him was wearing a high-pressure suit, the mask on his helmet swung open. "I'm Major Orrick, recon officer. I don't know who the hell you are, but you sure got some pull to get us out in public like this."

Dalton shook the man's hand, introducing himself. They were standing in a small space, another ladder leading out of it. Orrick pulled the bottom ladder in and sealed the hatch. He pointed up. "Follow me."

Dalton climbed behind him into a room crowded with electrical gear and computer screens. There was barely room for both of them to fit.

"This is my area," Orrick said. He handed Dalton a pressure suit and helmet. "One size fits all when the size is extra large." He jerked a thumb toward a four-foot-high opening in the front of the compartment. "Cockpit is that way. Better get that on and get up there. The pilot would really like to know what he's doing and where we're going."

The entire plane was vibrating from the engines. Dalton could feel the small movements indicating it was taxiing. He quickly stepped into the pressure suit and pulled it up. He crouched down and made his way down the tight corridor. There were dim red lamps lighting it and the glow of daylight about twenty-five feet ahead.

The pilot and copilot were strapped tightly into their form-fitting crash seats, half reclining back, the seats canted up so they could see out the four small windows. The rest of the front was taken up with instrumentation.

The man in the right seat turned his head slightly, seeing movement out of the corner of his eye.

"You Dalton?"

"Yes."

"I'm Colonel Searl. World War III starting or something?"

"It could," Dalton said.

Both men twisted in their seats to get a better look. "What the hell does that mean?" Searl said.

The SR-75 was pointing down the main runway, holding. "Maybe we ought to get airborne, then I'll fill you in."

"Where are we going?" Colonel Searl asked.

"That's something else I've got to find out once we get airborne. All I can tell you right now is, we're heading for someplace in Russia." He held up the case holding the SATCOM. "I need to hook into your commo system to find out exactly where we're going."

Searl returned his attention to the front "You better get settled in. We'll be airborne in less than a minute. We'll head for the polar route; it's the quickest way to Russia, but you need to give us a more specific location pretty quick because Russia is a damn big country."

Dalton returned down the corridor to the recon officer's space. Orrick had folded down a small seat and he helped Dalton settle onto it buckling him into it just as the plane began moving.

Colonel Searl rolled up the throttle on the plane's conventional turbojet engine, and the large plane began accelerating down the runway. It took the plane over two and a half miles, just about to the end of the runway, before the delta wings produced enough lift for the wheels to separate from the ground.

With the turbojet engine at max thrust the pilot continued to gain altitude and speed. Dalton was slammed back into the seat, the straps holding him cutting into his suit. He could feel the strong vibration of the engines.

"We're passing through Mach two now," Orrick informed Dalton. "We're already over the Colorado-Wyoming border."

It had been less than five minutes since takeoff. Dalton opened up the SATCOM and tossed one end of the cable to Orrick.

"We're going high," Orrick continued as he plugged in the cable. He looked down at his console. "We're passing through fifty thousand feet. When we get close to sixty thousand, the pilots switch over to the PDWE. Pulsed-detonation-wave engine," he clarified. "It's pretty simple. We've got a bunch of high-strength compression chambers in the back. We pump a special mixture into them, they explode in sequence, forming a high-pressure pulse, and they’re guided into a combustion chamber which channels it out the rear."

Dalton checked the small board on the SATCOM. It was functioning and he had a link back to Bright Gate. "How fast can you go?" he asked. That was something that had been left out of the briefing he had been given on the plane, the aircraft's top speed simply listed as being something over Mach 5.

"Mach seven," Orrick said proudly. "Over five thousand miles an hour."

Dalton hoped that would be fast enough. He put the small headset on. "Dr. Hammond?"

"Here."

"Do you have the link into the Russian secure military network?"

"Yes. The GRU just authorized it."

"Lieutenant Jackson there?"

"Right here."

"You got a cell phone number when we went to Moscow. For a Colonel Mishenka?"

"I have it," Jackson said.

"Can you punch it up?"

"Wait," she said.

There was a hiss of static, then Dalton heard a buzz. A voice answered in Russian.

"Do you speak English?" Dalton asked.

"Who is this?"

"Is this Colonel Mishenka?"

"You called me. You know who I am," Mishenka said. "I want to know who you are. This is a classified Spetsnatz line."

"My name is Sergeant Major Dalton, U.S. Army Special Forces."

There was just the sound of the static for a few seconds.

"Very interesting," Mishenka said. "People here are talking to the Americans. Most worried. Quite a bit of excitement. To what do I owe the honor of your call, Sergeant Major?"

"I believe we have a common problem," Dalton said.

"We do?"

“Twenty nuclear warheads," Dalton said succinctly. He saw Orrick's head snap up across the small compartment.

"I'm not-" Mishenka began, but Dalton cut him off

"I don't have time to argue or play games. I’m heading toward Russia right now."

"We don’t need your help," Mishenka said. "The situation is under control."

"No, it isn't. I also know about the phased-displacement generator. You don't have a handle on either the bombs or the generator, do you?"

Dalton felt the plane seem to stutter, then he was slammed back in his seat.

"P-D-W-E," Orrick mouthed the letters to Dalton with a thumbs-up.

Dalton nodded.

"Sergeant Major, you are speaking about things which-"

"Don't lie to me or waste my time," Dalton snapped. "This is our mutual problem. And it's worse than you know."

"The official word here is that we do not need your help," Colonel Mishenka said. "This is an internal problem that will be dealt with using our own resources."

"The phased-displacement generator makes it our problem," Dalton said. "And if you’re counting on S-D eight's secret weapon to find the bombs or the generator, you are very badly mistaken."

The tone of Mishenka's voice changed. "Why?"

"Because someone in S-D eight is helping the Mafia."

"How do you know all this?"

"Because I was there when the bombs got stolen," Dalton said. "My team was wiped out and I barely escaped."

"How could you have been there? How do you know all this? We’re getting very confused reports from those who have gone to the train site."

"Listen closely," Dalton said. He quickly told Mishenka about the Bright Gate program, witnessing the briefing inside KGB headquarters, and the battle at the train ambush. He ended with his belief that Chyort was a creation of SD8 and was helping the Mafia.

"Chyort," Mishenka repeated the name. "I have heard of this creature. I thought it only a rumor, a myth."

"Chyort is real," Dalton said. "And you know what it is. I heard General Bolodenka authorize you to be briefed on Department Eight's current operation. It has to be Chyort. And if it is on the other side, any action you take will be thwarted by it. Chyort just took out our Warfighter satellite that was trying to track down the generator and the bombs."

"How could this creature do that?"

"I don't exactly know, but you should be getting a fax into the GRU war room any second now. It shows Chyort just before he destroyed Warfighter. He wanted us to know it was him."

"Wait a second."

Dalton impatiently listened to the hiss.

"Your fax arrived a few seconds ago. What is this thing?" Mishenka asked. "I’ve never seen anything like it."

"A monster your people created and now it's turned against you."

"What is your plan?" Mishenka asked.

"Do you have communications with SD8?"

"I'm not sure."

"We have to take out S-D eight; it’s from that base that Chyort is able to work. We have to destroy its ability to project onto the virtual plane."

"How do you propose to do that?"

"We must attack it at the source. Do you know where that is?"

"Yes."

"Send me the coordinates. I’ll head straight there. Then call whoever you have there and get them to stop this thing."

"I'm having the coordinates of the base sent to you. I’ll be heading that way myself shortly. I’ll try to make contact with Department Eight."

The screen flashed with numbers. "Major Orrick!" Dalton called out.

"Yes."

"Here's our target area." Dalton read off the numbers.

*****

"I have partial system function," Vasilev said.

"What does that mean?" Feteror growled.

"We can try a test run," Vasilev said.

The phased-displacement generator gleamed inside of the hangar, reflecting the glow of the lights set up around it. Leksi had put all the helicopters under cover of the other old hangars. He'd deployed his men in an efficient perimeter, antiair and antitank missiles ringing the airfield. Feteror knew without the help of the Americans, the GRU would never find them in time.

He was also aware, though, that once he started drawing power from the lines, someone at the closest monitoring plant would notice. He was tired of having to worry about all these potential problems. He’d spent years considering all the possibilities, and his plan would take care of that problem.

For a moment he considered running the test against SD8. That would bring it to a conclusion. But his anger forestalled that. There were many who must pay first. He’d been trained always to stick with the plan, and he would do so here. And he needed SD8 a while longer.

"Load the generator," Feteror ordered.

"We must wait until we hear from Oma," Barsk protested.

"We must test the generator," Feteror said. He smiled, noting that Leksi was moving behind the boy, weapon at the ready. As if that could achieve anything.

"I need to call Oma before you do anything," Barsk said.

"Oma and I are partners." Feteror resisted the urge to take the man-child's head off. He also needed these people for a while longer. Instead, he pointed a long claw at the generator. "Do not worry. I plan to run the test in a manner designed to gain us some time. Your Oma would approve."

"I must call Oma." Barsk was sounding like an irritating tape, playing over and over.

"Call her then!" Feteror snapped. "In the meanwhile, load the first warhead in the generator. We don’t have forever. If I know her well, and I believe I do, your Oma will want to know it works before committing to a course of action."

Leksi looked to Barsk who reluctantly nodded. Leksi snapped orders and his men uncrated one warhead.

"What do I have to do, old man?" Feteror leaned close to Vasilev.

"The computer will integrate the physical material inside the generator into the virtual plane. Your job will be to target it. The computer will then fire it across the folded space and into the real. The bomb will be on a timer which I will activate prior to its leaving the generator."