MindWar (Nick Hall Book 3)

by Douglas E. Richards

  Hall nodded. “You have no idea.”

  “I’m going off on my own too,” said Victor. “I have some guns hidden here and there, and I need to try to recover one of them. You’re Browning’s priority at the moment, so he won’t be paying as much attention to me. But once I rearm, I’ll keep trying to help in any way I can.”

  Hall nodded. “I know you will.”

  “Of course you do,” said Victor with a wry smile. “Good luck,” he added, and Hall read that the man had developed considerable respect for him, which was only partly related to his psionic abilities.

  65

  Megan racked her brain, secure in the knowledge that she was the only player on the stage who could come up with a plan that couldn’t be intercepted.

  Browning was injured, so he probably wasn’t too far from where she had left him. If he was taken out, the balance of power shifted dramatically in favor of the good guys. With him out of the picture, his forces would probably retreat. Even if they didn’t, once Hall was the only mind reader on the field, victory was only a matter of time, no matter how outgunned they were.

  ***

  Hall was Browning’s chief target, so half of Browning’s forces were now assigned to him alone, sending him in constant motion. Hall’s THT colleagues were almost two miles away, and he continued to direct them even farther afield, his connection to them now continuous and his instructions more frequent.

  “There’s too many of them,” he complained through his implants.

  “What’s the current deployment?” said Mike Campbell, out of breath from the most recent Hall-directed sprint to safety they had made.

  “Browning has retreated to a helicopter so he can escape if necessary. He’s kept two of his men back with him. But he’s assigned five men to me, and five to your group. Both sets are getting closer. His ability to keep up with me in the mind-reading department is slipping, which is the only thing keeping us alive.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?” asked Altschuler.

  “Meaning he continues to always know where we are, but not all at once. He can’t be in so many heads at the same time. He has to choose, or rotate through.”

  “And you don’t?” said Altschuler.

  “No, I do also, but I can do it faster and more efficiently. But at some point—soon—he’ll fashion a net that doesn’t have a single hole, and then mind reading won’t do us any good.”

  “Would it help if we all split up?” asked Russell.

  Hall considered. “I don’t think so. They can then pick you off one by one, and I’d be stretched too thin to help each of you effectively. But like I said, he’s juggling a lot of minds right now. And he’s in bad shape. Our best hope is that he continues to weaken.”

  Hall extended his mind and located the players in the ever-constricting mosaic of trained mercenaries closing in from the woods on all sides. He issued additional directions to his four friends, but he was just prolonging the inevitable, and not for very much longer.

  “I have a thought,” said Girdler. “You’re hoping Browning is in such bad shape he’ll soon fall over the edge. But what if we can help push him there?”

  “I don’t follow,” said Hall. Usually he would have just read Girdler’s meaning, but he had to keep his mind open to many other minds at the same time and couldn’t spare a look.

  “We know we’re in Browning’s head,” said Girdler. “But what if we get in his head. The most potent, visceral thoughts hit you like fingernails screeching across a chalkboard, right? Shouldn’t the same apply to him? You told me Kevin Wellman got your attention during the sarin op by focusing on images of Megan being tortured. What if the four of us all do this to Browning. Think about nothing but how we’re going to skin the bastard alive. Really focus on horrible ways for him to die.”

  Hall smiled. “Great idea. Even if he’s reading you now and knows what you plan, it will still work. It should weaken him, give him even more to deal with.”

  The general never failed to impress. It was an idea Hall should have come up with himself, and it really could slow Browning down, cause him to make mistakes, miss openings in his dragnet that Hall could catch.

  “We’ll start now,” said Girdler. “Unleashing our hatred at this prick and visualizing him being dismembered will be one assignment we can really sink our teeth into. If you’re listening out there, asshole!” he added, “brace yourself. We’re going to move so far into your head you’ll need a proctologist to get us out!”

  “What does that mean, exactly?” asked Hall, raising his eyebrows.

  “I’m not really sure,” said Girdler. “But it sounded good when I was saying it.”

  Hall allowed himself the briefest flicker of a smile. “Be sure to visualize him being nailed to a cross,” he said, all traces of humor now gone. “That’ll really mess with his head. Trust me.”

  As his colleagues began their mental assault on Browning, Hall took stock of his own situation. It was rapidly deteriorating. He had mere minutes before the forces around him would close in, and he was all out of ideas.

  ***

  Megan was almost back to the main compound, the gun still ready in her hand. This time she’d be sure to hit Browning where it counted. She wasn’t a killer, but if saving Nick and four others she cared deeply about required her to put a bullet between his eyes, she was prepared to do so without flinching.

  “Megan, dive!” came a telepathic scream. “Behind the tree on your right.”

  She launched herself to the right just as a fusillade of bullets raked across the forest where she had been standing, spitting up bark and pinecone and leaves. Her heart slammed into her ribcage like a runaway train.

  “He’s alone,” Hall informed her. “One of two men protecting Browning.”

  “But now Browning can see me through his eyes.”

  “Yes. But this guy knows you have a gun, so he has to tread lightly. Shoot at him if he gets too close. And hang tight. I’ll come up with something soon.”

  “Hurry!”

  ***

  Hall’s mind raced and he completely ignored the net that was now closing in on him. Not that any of this would matter. Even if he were to save Megan now, the end looked preordained.

  They only had a single hope, that Browning’s injuries, blood loss, and psionic strain would soon prove too much for him. Hall had hundreds of times more experience using his abilities for intense, extended periods, and even his mind was beginning to grow fatigued—at a faster rate than ever.

  The merc approaching Megan was doing so cautiously, but she’d have no chance if Hall didn’t come up with a plan immediately. Even if he did, Browning would soon discover what it was, although given the man’s deteriorating state, Hall guessed he’d have a small window to carry it out.

  If only he had an idea. If ever he needed to dial up inspiration on demand, this was the time.

  His eyes widened as the inspiration he was seeking struck him with all the force of a lightning bolt delivered by God.

  “Megan, pay close attention,” he sent urgently. “I can buy you an opportunity. You’ll know it when you see it. The guy after you is wearing a vest, so when opportunity knocks, you’ll have to aim for his head. But no hesitation. You’ll only have a few seconds.”

  “Got it,” replied Megan.

  Even before she sent her reply Hall dived into Browning’s head and fished out the frequency he was using to communicate with his men. He then used his implants to immediately send a message to the soldier stalking Megan, instructing the software to mimic Browning’s voice.

  “Vladimir! Behind you!” the voice screamed into the merc’s ear. “Get down, get down, get down!”

  The man hit the ground and rolled, coming up on his stomach with his rifle pointed in the direction opposite of where Megan had been huddled behind a tree.

  “Go!” shouted Hall telepathically, but Megan was already on the move, sprinting toward a soldier who was frantically searching for hostiles that weren’t
there. By the time the real Browning had warned his man, who began to turn around once again, it was too late. Megan shot at his head three times in quick succession, and one of the shots found its mark, killing him instantly.

  She raced back to the cover of trees. “He’s dead Nick,” she broadcast, and the tenor of her telepathic tone left no doubt just how traumatized she was by what she had done. It wasn’t fair that such a kind and gentle soul was being forced to commit such violent acts.

  “How did you do that?” she asked.

  “I sent a message to his comm, pretending to be Browning. But he’ll make sure this ploy won’t work again.”

  “That’s okay, as long as it worked the first time. Brilliant, Nick. Saved my life for sure.”

  Suddenly Hall became aware of another mind, this one belonging to a soldier who was now fifteen yards away from him and pointing an automatic rifle. The man had a bead on him and was about to press down on the trigger, spraying a wall of death.

  Hall had been so intent on saving Megan he had let his own guard down, had failed to keep monitoring his own vicinity with the necessary vigilance.

  Hall closed his eyes and waited for death.

  A single shot rang out, but Hall didn’t feel any pain. Had it missed him?

  He opened both his mind and his eyes once more.

  The hostile was on the ground, dead.

  Hall had missed a second important element. He needed to be in so many minds at once he had been forced to prioritize, and had chosen to ignore Victor. But the tech merchant had rearmed and returned, saving Hall’s life. And by taking this man out, he had created a hole in the net that Hall could use to buy himself another five or ten minutes of life.

  Hall sprinted in the direction of the fallen soldier, reading Victor’s mind to get the information he needed to send him a virtual telepathic message. “Thanks,” he said simply. “I really needed that. But aren’t you afraid of what this will do to your reputation?” he added wryly.

  Victor smiled. “I changed the deal, so I’m just helping an ally, as promised. My reputation is intact.” He paused. “I have to go use one of my escapes now. I’m hoping Browning’s hands are too full to divert someone to stop me.”

  Hall didn’t have time to respond. Megan was frantically sending telepathic shouts his way, fearful that something bad had happened to him when he hadn’t replied to her repeated calls.

  “I’m okay,” he broadcast. “Sorry. Just had something I needed to do. But back to you. Based on your location, I assume you’re trying to kill Browning. It won’t work. He’s retreated to the safety of a helo in a clearing. He had the guy you just killed patrolling, but the other is with him. He’s a pilot and isn’t going anywhere. You may be invisible to their minds, but their eyes will see you coming a long way off.”

  “My chances are still better than zero.”

  “Please don’t try this,” broadcast Hall. “I’m begging you. Instead, find a way to come up with another decisive move. Somehow. Things aren’t going well. I continue to move our pieces, but I’m just about out of options. If this were chess, I’d be tipping my own king over in defeat.”

  “Don’t you dare think like that!” she shouted into his mind. “It’s your turn to hang in there. I promise you, I’ll think of something.”

  “I know you will Megan,” he replied, trying to fake belief.

  66

  Justin Girdler knew that Hall was doing everything he could to keep them hidden from the soldiers hunting them, despite Browning’s insider information. Hall had confirmed that their strategy of getting in Browning’s head was working, allowing Hall to read holes and move his pieces—in this case, them—more adroitly than his adversary could do.

  Girdler wasn’t sure that coming up with a strategy of directing vitriolic, gory images of torture to a man while running and hiding was something he’d be putting on his resumé, but he’d try anything that might help, and it did have the distinction of being the most unique defensive strategy in the history of warfare.

  Still, their time had all but run out. Browning had originally ordered his team to capture them as Hall-bait, but this order had changed to kill-on-sight five minutes later. And their group was drained, exhausted. When Hall told them to move, he meant move.

  They had been sprinting between trees and over small streams and hither and yon like players in a bloody game of hide-and-seek, or perhaps competitors in a real-life Hunger Games. Despite the chilly air they were sweating profusely, and rarely had enough time to catch their breath before Hall’s grandmasterly hand reached down to move them yet again.

  Time seemed both compressed and stretched, depending on the situation. Hard to believe they had only been playing this deadly game of cat and mouse for twenty minutes now. Rescue was still fifteen to twenty minutes away. Hall had been right. The would-be rescuers would find nothing in the forest but their warm corpses.

  Hall reported on the ever-moving positions of the five men who were attempting to corral them, and that he was all out of moves. The game was up, and everyone knew it. They had waged a heroic effort, especially Hall, who had to be the most depleted of them all.

  Mike Campbell burst forward through the trees, leaving his comrades well behind him. He carried a sturdy tree limb with him, one he had picked up earlier. A wood club against automatic weapons.

  Girdler called him on his comm but he didn’t respond.

  Hall broke in on all of their comms. “Mike’s taking the offense,” he explained, his voice hollow. “Going on the attack. With Browning out there he has almost no chance of success, but he’s trying to create enough of a diversion for me to direct you through the minefield again.”

  “It’s suicide!” said Girdler in horror.

  “Mike knows that, General,” said Hall sadly. “And you can’t change his mind.”

  Girdler’s eyes moistened. He had long loved Mike Campbell like a son. He was irreplaceable. But if he had to die, he had chosen well, going down fighting like a man, sacrificing himself so that his team might live. The general was devastated, but also proud.

  “Mike, I know you can hear me,” he said. “Thank you for this heroic effort. You know you’ve been like a son to me. It has been the honor of my life to serve with you.”

  “Likewise, General,” replied Campbell, preparing to wield his makeshift club, with no ability to surprise. “You’re a great man, and you’ve been a great mentor. As for the others on the team, it’s been a true joy working with you and calling you friends.”

  He paused, ready for his final charge. “Now stop thinking about me and use the time I’m buying you.”

  Hall had been in a trance but this last had broken him out of it. “General,” he said quickly, “two of Browning’s men have been forced to move over to cut Mike off. Double-time it due north. There’s a seam if you’re fast enough.”

  As the three remaining members of the group began to sprint northward they heard an extended burst of machine gun fire. No one needed Hall to know that Mike Campbell was gone.

  The general clenched his teeth, as if to prevent his pain and emotions from spilling out along with his tears. What Campbell had done was an extraordinary act of heroism, but it had only bought them a few minutes when they needed twenty. Girdler knew they would be joining their fallen comrade very soon. Perhaps this was only fitting.

  They were able to just beat one of Browning’s men to the seam and slip outside the cordon again, but Browning was already moving his pieces to compensate, and there was now a natural barrier—a cliff formation—blocking their path to the east, making it even easier for their adversary.

  Girdler’s thoughts had turned back to his fallen friend when he received a call on his personal frequency. “General, it’s President Cochran,” said the caller, speaking quickly. “There’s a swarm of military helos as thick as locusts ninety seconds from your position, coming from the north. Over eighty commandos will be rappelling into the forest to join you. Anything that isn’t you or y
our team will be cut down like weeds.”

  “Outstanding!” said Girdler. “I thought you couldn’t get them here this fast.”

  “I lied about the ETA when we spoke,” said Cochran. “I knew a mind reader was listening in, so I thought it would be better to mislead him.”

  “Thank God!” said Girdler. “Talk about perfect timing,” he added, but even as he did a stab of pain hit him in the gut.

  Almost perfect. Five minutes earlier would have saved Mike Campbell’s life.

  67

  Troy Browning couldn’t believe it! God dammit!

  He had suffered more pain in less than an hour than he had in the rest of his life combined. Every breath was an ice pick to his chest. And he was mentally fried at a level he hadn’t thought could even exist, his mind screaming for rest, even as he was forced to endure brutal images of his own gory death being hammered at him by his adversaries.

  And he had been winning, despite all this. Granted, his players were all heavily armed and outnumbered Hall’s, but still. He had finally outmaneuvered his rival on the field, had been on the cusp of absolute victory.

  And now this. The president himself had found a way to deceive him.

  The forecast had called for clear skies, but now it appeared that a storm of commandos was about to rain from above, just a minute or two away.

  Shit!

  Had all the fortune that had smiled on him previously turned against him in a single day?

  “Abort mission!” he ordered his forces. “Retreat back to the nearest helo and take off to the south as soon as possible. US military approaching with overwhelming force,” he added, proud of himself for trying to save his men. They had little hope, but he had tried, demonstrating a generosity of spirit worthy of a savior, even if only to benefit men whose souls were as black as coal.