Psychic Warrior pw-1

by Robert Doherty

  Something else was being brought into the chamber below. Four soldiers wheeled a platform up to the tube. Two of the men climbed onto the platform, next to a wooden crate. The bottom of the platform scissored, raising it up to a level with the open hatch near the top of the tube. They picked up a round, green-painted shell and carefully slid it into the opening. Reaching in, they attached four leads on the inside of the tube to the shell, then, with great difficulty, they swung shut the thick door and began screwing it into place using long levers on the outside handles.

  “As you may well recognize, that is a nuclear warhead designed for the S-23, 180-millimeter Lowitzer,” Professor Sarovan informed the GRU officers. “Its yield is the smallest possible, just under one kiloton.”

  There was a nervous rustling among the officers.

  “Are we safe?” General Vortol demanded.

  “The tube can contain the explosion if need be, venting it down into the earth,” Sarovan lied to them. “But it will not be a problem. The warhead will not be in there when it explodes.”

  The GRU officers looked at one another, their skepticism quite apparent— both about the explosion being contained and the bomb no longer being in the chamber.

  “Your explanation is not sufficient,” Vortol said. “It seems to be a pile of scientific excrement designed to befuddle the listener.”

  Sarovan shrugged his massive shoulders. “I explained as best we understand, Comrade General. There is much we don’t understand. Could you explain the physics of how one of your tank guns works? Or a jet fighter flying? You cannot, but you do know those weapons work. We know this works.”

  “It did not work the last time you attempted this,” Vortol noted.

  “That was not the last time we tested this. We have run four tests in the past two years, and all have been successful.”

  Vortol’s voice was cold. “Let me correct myself, Comrade Scientist. The last time you used a nuclear warhead, it failed. With terrible consequences.”

  Silence filled the control room. They all had sufficient clearances to know what had happened in late 1958. In fact, both Sarovan and Vasilev had been extremely fortunate to have survived the disaster, mainly because they had manned the remote-viewing site, overseeing where the warhead was supposed to have gone. Those stationed where the warhead was initiated had all perished in a terrific explosion that had devastated a large portion of Russian countryside to the east of the Ural Mountains, just north of the city of Chelyabinsk. The dead had numbered in the thousands. That disaster had led to Department Eight’s exile to this remote site.

  One of the scientists below indicated all was ready. The experimental chamber was evacuated and the doors shut, leaving only the four men in the coffins.

  “We are now seeking to gain a coherent balance in the hyperspatial flux inside and placing the bomb in the virtual field,” Sarovan informed the military men. “Building our virtual wave and containing it before release, so to speak. We must achieve this before proceeding further. That is what those computers”— he pointed to a bank of machines along the back wall of the control center, manned by a dozen white-coated technicians— “are for.”

  Vasilev could sense the growing unease among the soldiers as the minutes passed and nothing apparent happened. A green light flickered on the console in front of Sarovan.

  “We have coherence.” There was a quiver to the scientist’s normally calm voice. “Initiating phase two.”

  Sarovan leaned slightly forward toward a microphone. His voice was low, almost soothing as it spoke to the four subjects. “The target. You must find the target.” He repeated the two sentences for almost a minute, but nothing happened. Still speaking, he gestured with his right hand.

  One of the other scientists turned a knob.

  Sarovan momentarily shut off the microphone to address the GRU officers. “Current is being sent directly into the brain center of each man. To the place that regulates pain. You could not even begin to imagine what they are experiencing right now.”

  “Ahh,” General Vortol said. “Motivation. We have used that direct stimulation technique on prisoners. Most effective torture, with no actual physical harm other than the probe into the brain.”

  “These men are special,” Sarovan said. “They were tested at our Institute along with thousands of others, and these four had the highest rating on our psychic ability scale. We have long known that certain people have an ability to do what we call remote viewing— to ‘see’ places that are physically distant from them, using their minds. That is how these men will find the target for us and ‘aim’— so to speak— the weapon.”

  Sarovan turned the mike back on. “The target. You must find the target.” He repeated that several times.

  “We have a lock,” one of the scientists announced from his desk, watching a panel.

  “Show me the target,” Sarovan said into the microphone. “Show me the target.”

  Above the tube, something flickered. A long black object appeared, the image hazy and unclear, floating in the middle of the experimental chamber, slowly gaining more form and substance.

  One of the GRU officers swore under his breath as the forty-foot-long image became clear: a submarine. They could even see the propellers moving in the air. It was an exact copy of the picture on the machine: the USS Thresher. The image was not totally solid, as they could faintly make out the other side of the cavern through it. It was nose down, diving.

  “That is the Thresher as it is operating right now in the Atlantic Ocean,” Sarovan told the officers. His knuckles were white as they gripped the edge of his desk. “Center the target,” he whispered into the mike, then cut it off.

  “Arm the warhead,” he ordered the man next to him, who threw a switch and flipped open a cover, revealing a red button underneath. The GRU officers all unconsciously took a step back from the window. Vasilev’s hand hovered over a button on his console, the neutralizer switch, his eyes focused on the chamber below.

  “Center the target,” Sarovan repeated to the four men below.

  Slowly the image descended, until the tube was centered in the middle of the image.

  “Initiate ten-second countdown on warhead detonation,” Sarovan ordered. The man next to him slammed his fist down on the red button.

  When the countdown hit five, Sarovan leaned forward to the mike. “Project!” he yelled. “Project!”

  There was a bright flash of light.

  The image faded.

  One of the scientists monitoring a panel spun about. “The warhead is gone!”

  That was confirmed as the countdown passed through zero and nothing happened in the chamber.

  Sarovan’s broad smile showed his exultation. “The wave carried the warhead to the target. We have succeeded!”

  Vasilev realized he had stopped breathing and had gone completely rigid, waiting for the explosion in the chamber. He untensed his muscles, taking a deep breath.

  “That is it?” General Vortol asked suspiciously.

  Sarovan pointed at a radio. “Call your plane monitoring the area.”

  * * *

  Alarms rang on the Skylark. The Thresher had been at depth for fifteen minutes without a problem, but now garbled reports were coming of electrical trouble. Then suddenly the communication was gone. The sonar men on the Skylark threw down their headsets as a tremendous explosion roared into their ears.

  The captain of the Skylark ran to the side of his bridge.

  He staggered back as the surface of the ocean erupted in a massive mound of white water two kilometers off his starboard bow. The fountain went up two hundred feet, then slowly subsided. The large wave hit the Skylark, rolling it thirty degrees over, and then passed.

  “Get me contact with Thresher!” the captain yelled as he ran back into the bridge. The sonar men put their headsets back on, but all they heard were noises that everyone associated with submarines prayed they’d never hear: the sound, like popcorn popping in the depths, of bulkheads givi
ng way, and the high-pressure noise of air escaping into the ocean.

  That noise meant that what remained of the Thresher was headed for the bottom and 129 men had just died.

  Far overhead, circling to the east, a Soviet TU-20 Bear-D reconnaissance plane noted what had happened.

  * * *

  General Vortol put the radiophone down. A broad smile crossed his face. “They saw the explosion reach the surface!” He grabbed Professor Sarovan by the shoulders and gave him a vigorous hug. “You did it!”

  The doors in the chamber below opened, and soldiers and scientists walked in. At the other end of the control center, Vasilev slowly relaxed. He walked over to the computers and pulled the tapes off, putting them back in their case. He turned and walked to the elevator, knowing he was done here. He stepped in as the sounds of the celebration behind him rose. The doors swung shut and blocked out the noise. With a jolt, the elevator began going up.

  In the control room, Sarovan pulled a bottle of vodka out of a drawer, and drinks were poured all around. What no one remembered in the excitement was that power was still being fed to the four men through the leads to their heads.

  General Vortol was beside himself. “We cannot be defeated now! We have the ultimate weapon! We do not need Cuba to base our missiles. We can strike anywhere in the world from right here.”

  On the surface, Vasilev stepped out of the elevator, the heavy doors sliding shut behind him. The bitter arctic wind cut into the exposed skin on his face.

  Inside the experimental chamber, the scientist closest to one of the coffins reached forward to open the lid, when his right hand suddenly jerked upward. The scientist didn’t have time to ponder this strange development for long, because the arm snapped like a twig, bone protruding from the forearm. He screamed, staggering back.

  At another coffin, one of the other scientists jerked backward, his hands going to his eyes, tearing at them. Fingers came forth dripping blood, holding two eyeballs, the occipital nerves still dangling.

  There was a moment of shock in the control room, then Sarovan dropped the bottle and sprinted to the panel Vasilev had been at. He slammed his fist down on the button Vasilev had watched over. Canisters exploded, pouring gas into the chamber. The surviving scientists and soldiers in the experimental chamber turned and ran for the door, but it slid shut in their face, locking them in.

  Sarovan watched as the scientists at the last two coffins grabbed each other around the throat. The gas was now rising inside the chamber. It was fast acting and Sarovan almost regretted having to use it, but there would always be other bodies to use now that they had had this success. The men trying to get out slumped to the floor, bodies twitching as the gas tore into their nervous system.

  “What is happening?” Vortol demanded.

  “Everything is under control,” Sarovan said. He pointed at the coffinlike objects in the chamber. “They will be dead in twenty seconds. The— ” Sarovan’s jaw dropped open in shock as the heavy lids to all four coffins flew off, spinning through the air and crashing down. The four men inside all sat bolt upright, their heads turned in his direction, eyeless sockets fixing him with their dead gaze through the gas swirling about them. The wires still dangled from the sockets in their heads. Something formed in the air above the men— a black vortex, five feet in diameter. Sarovan had never seen anything as dark, as if the universe had opened up and was showing him its deepest depth.

  Sarovan stepped back from the blast glass, hands raised in futile defense. Lightning crackled around the vortex, arcing outward. Then the vortex exploded and all was consumed.

  On the surface, Vasilev spun about as the massive elevator doors buckled as if a huge hand had punched them from the inside. The earth beneath his feet trembled violently, and he fell to his knees on the icy runway.

  Chapter One

  The Present

  Wires and tubes crisscrossed on the bed, and Sergeant Major Jimmy Dalton carefully scooted them aside as he gingerly sat on the edge. With a callused hand he tenderly brushed a stray lock of gray hair off the face of the woman lying there.

  He could feel the press of her thin thigh against his hip, and he stared at her face, letting his hand lightly trace over every wrinkle and line etched there by the years, lingering on the closed eyelids. He let out a deep breath and took her hand in his, careful not to disturb the IV line in the back of it. He leaned over, his lips close to her ear. His voice was a low, gravelly one, one that gave an immediate sense of confidence to the listener.

  “Well, my Treasure, another great day in airborne country. The colonel gives his regards. He was by last night. Lots of people are worried, but I know you’re going to be all right.

  “The Christmas formal is only six weeks away and, well, I was wondering if you might want to escort this old soldier there.” Dalton waited, head cocked as if listening to an answer, before speaking again.

  “You’ve been away from home for four months now. I think it’s time to be coming back. I miss you.”

  Dalton felt her skin under his fingers. He remembered the long years when he had so yearned for just this sensation, to be able to feel her once more. He leaned close and put his lips to her ear. “You waited for me for five years when I was a POW, I’ll wait forever for you. So we can be together once more.”

  “Sergeant Major Dalton?”

  Dalton slowly straightened and looked over his shoulder at the door. A young woman, at least by his standards young, somewhere in her thirties, stood there. She held a metal clipboard in her hand. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m Dr. Kairns. I was assigned yesterday to take care of your wife. I assume you know that Dr. Inhout, who was caring for your wife, was transferred.”

  Dalton slid off the bed, his highly polished boots making contact with the tile floor. Dalton was a little less than average height, five foot nine inches tall, and had a stocky, well-muscled build. His face was dark and well tanned, cut with deep lines, his hair heavily peppered with gray and cut very short. He walked across and held out his hand. Kairns, after a moment of surprise, took it.

  “Thank you for taking care of Marie, ma’am,” Dalton said.

  “Well, you’re welcome, but I haven’t really done anything yet.” She held up the chart. “I have— ”

  Dalton took her elbow. “Perhaps we should talk outside.”

  Kairns looked over at the bed. She knew the woman could not hear them, but she allowed herself to be escorted out of the room. They walked down the hallway to an empty waiting room. Large windows revealed Cheyenne Mountain to the west, the sides covered in snow. Between the window and the mountain lay rows and rows of barracks, motor pools, and housing areas, all comprising Fort Carson, home to the 4th Infantry Division and the 10th Special Forces Group. Behind and to the right of Cheyenne Mountain, and barely visible, was the bright white top of

  Pikes Peak, catching the first rays of the rising sun coming over the Great Plains of Colorado from the east.

  Kairns flipped open the chart once more. “We took another MRI and there’s no doubt your wife suffered an aneurysm in the anterior portion of the frontal lobe.” Kairns looked up at the sergeant major. He nodded, indicating he knew what an aneurysm was.

  Kairns showed him the MRI. “It happened here. Fortunately, there wasn’t too much bleeding or swelling of the brain, but I have to warn you it could happen at any moment even though she’s been in here a while. The brain is very strange. Very delicate at times, very tough at others, and there’s much we don’t know about it.”

  “Why is she unconscious?” Dalton asked. Ever since being admitted four months ago, his wife had been in a coma.

  “In effect, she also suffered a stroke. I thought Dr. Inhout would have explained all that.”

  “He did, but I’d like to know what you think the situation is, given that you are the one who is going to be caring for her.”

  Kairns said, “Even if your wife regains consciousness, there is a high likelihood of some brain damage. The blood th
at came from the burst blood vessel, well, that flow was interrupted, obviously, and the part of the brain that blood vessel feeds did not get enough oxygen for an extended period of time.”

  Dalton nodded to indicate he understood. He walked over to a hard plastic seat and sank down in it. He wore heavily starched camouflage fatigues that were covered with insignia: The Combat Infantry badge with two stars and the Master Parachutist badge were sewn above his name tag. Below it was sewn the small dive-mask badge indicating Dalton was scuba qualified. On his left shoulder was a Special Forces patch, of subdued green and black to match the fatigues. Above it was a Ranger tab and a Special Forces tab. He wore an identical Special Forces patch on his right shoulder, indicating combat service in the unit.

  The patch was in the shape of an arrowhead, homage to the stealthiness and craftiness of Indian warriors. An upright dagger was in the center, to indicate the covert way Special Forces operated. Three lightning bolts ripped across the dagger, representing the three means by which Special Forces soldiers infiltrated their objective: by air, sea, and land. The patch, and the green beret that went along with it, were the insignia of the elite of the United States Army. Sergeant Major Dalton had served thirty years in the unit, one of the very few left on active service who had served in Vietnam. Mornings like this he felt the cumulative effect of those thirty years.

  Kairns grabbed another seat and pulled it nearby.

  “What’s the prognosis, ma’am?” Kairns had an oak leaf on her white collar, and despite the twenty-year age difference between them, she held the higher rank. Other than her rank, the only other insignia she wore was the abacus of the Medical Corps. On his collar, Dalton had pinned the three chevrons and three rockers, with a star circled by a wreath in the center, indicating he was a sergeant major, the highest enlisted rank in the Army.