Psychic Warrior pw-1

by Robert Doherty

  “A CD-ROM with the programming for the phased-displacement generator was stolen from GRU records last week.”

  Mishenka shook his head in disgust at the information. “I was informed of that attack, but I was not told what was taken. I cannot operate efficiently if I am kept in the dark.” He leaned forward. “The attack was most brutal. From what I understand, one of your GRU agents was ripped in half. How could this happen?”

  “We don’t know,” the briefer said.

  “How could the Mafia have found out about this weapon? About the CD-ROM?” Mishenka asked.

  “We don’t know that also.”

  “There has to be a leak inside your organization,” Mishenka said.

  Any comment on that was forestalled when the door opened and an enlisted man walked in, handing the briefer a piece of paper.

  The briefer quickly scanned the message and said,

  “We’ve just received word that General Rurik’s wife and children have been kidnapped. They were picked up by a squad of Omon, but the bodies of those men were found in a warehouse in the river district. There are no further clues.” The briefer glanced up. “The injuries to the bodies are similar to those we found at the site in Kiev.”

  “Who’s General Rurik?” Colonel Mishenka asked. “And what does he have to do with this generator?”

  “Rurik is the head of SD8,” General Bolodenka said. “That is the department that was in charge of the generator.”

  “ ‘Was’?” Mishenka asked. “What does SD8 do now?”

  “It runs the successor to the phased-displacement generator program,” Bolodenka said.

  “Which is?” Mishenka pressed.

  “That, Colonel”— General Bolodenka’s voice had turned chilly— “is none of your concern.”

  “I disagree, General,” Mishenka said. “I do not think this kidnapping can be a coincidence. All of this information is most definitely connected. Anything you withhold from me will hinder any action I take.”

  “Let us deal with one problem at a time,” Bolodenka said.

  “What do you want me here for, then?” Mishenka asked.

  “When we find the generator, your men will go in and secure it,” Bolodenka said. “You will also neutralize all those involved with extreme vigor.”

  ‘Just say ‘kill,’ ” Mishenka said. “It does not bother me to deal in the truth.”

  “Kill, then,” Bolodenka said.

  “And how do you propose to find the generator?” Mishenka asked.

  “That is not your concern.” Bolodenka smiled, revealing expensive capped teeth. “But rest assured we will.”

  “I need to know what is going on,” Mishenka said. “Or I will not accept this assignment.”

  Bolodenka stood. “Alert your men, Colonel Mishenka. Be ready to move at a moment’s notice.” The general walked toward the door and paused. “Contact my scientific adviser. He will update you on SD8’s current status.” Bolodenka went out of the room, the others following.

  Mishenka pulled a cell phone out of his breast pocket.

  “Can you get that phone’s number?” Dalton asked Jackson.

  “Yes.”

  “Do it,” Dalton ordered.

  She coalesced into the glowing ball and slid over Mishenka’s hand. In a moment she was back at Dalton’s side.

  “Let’s go, ” Jackson said.

  Dalton followed her out of the room, into the featureless virtual plane. They paused as they both considered what they had learned.

  “You really believe the Russians destroyed one of our subs in 1963 with this thing?” Dalton asked.

  “It’s long been an unsubstantiated rumor that the Thresher, an attack submarine, was destroyed by some sort of psychic force,” Jackson said.

  Dalton was concerned with something else. “Do you think this Chyort is the successor to the generator?”

  “Yes, ” Jackson said.

  “So the Chyort is an avatar, just like us?”

  “Like us,” Jackson acknowledged, “but more powerful. They’ve done something different than Psychic Warrior.”

  “What the hell is going on?” Dalton wondered. “This doesn’t make much sense. If all this is true, and you met the Chyort in the railyard, then the GRU should know that the Mafia plans to take down the nuke train. But those guys in there acted like they didn’t have a clue.”

  “Maybe the information is compartmentalized?” Jackson suggested.

  “That was the head of the GRU in there. If he doesn ’t know, who does? Hell, Chyort, whoever the hell he is, should be stopping all this.”

  “Let’s get home,” Jackson said. “I’m tired and this doesn’t change anything. In fact, it makes it all the more critical that we stop the nuke hijacking, now that we know that the Mafia will have a means of projecting those warheads anywhere on the globe.”

  * * *

  “One billion dollars. U.S. currency, of course.” Oma lit a foul-smelling Russian cigarette and watched the two men across the expanse of her desk. There was no external response on their part to her quoted price or the odor she blew across the desk.

  “I will be most reasonable about payment,” Oma said. “One hundred million due in the next twenty-four hours to insure targeting. The balance to be paid on completion of the task.”

  “For one nuclear bomb?” the head of the delegation asked.

  “For one nuclear bomb placed anywhere you want it on the face of the planet and detonated there, Mr. Abd al-Bari,” Oma clarified. “You want the bomb inside of Israel’s secret nuclear weapon storage facility in the Negev Desert? I will put it there and detonate it.” Oma’s steel teeth shone as she smiled. “The world will think it an accident. The Israelis will have to go public and admit what they have so fervently denied for so long. Their nuclear arsenal will be destroyed. The military forces based nearby will also be destroyed. A rather spectacular coup, and there is no way they can trace it to you.”

  “No one can get inside Negev,” the younger of the two men protested, before he was shushed by Abd al-Bari.

  “I can put the weapon anywhere you want and detonate it,” Oma repeated. “That is why the price is set as it is.”

  “Still rather high for one weapon,” Abd al-Bari said.

  “How much do you spend on your military each year?” Oma didn’t wait for an answer. “Buy a few less fighter jets and you won’t even tweak your budget.”

  “The money is not the critical factor,” Abd al-Bari said. “I want to know how you can do this.”

  “That is not part of the deal,” Oma said.

  Abd al-Bari laughed. “Then there is no deal.” He stood. “I have listened to many fools make many outrageous promises over the years. I do not need to waste any more time.”

  Oma spread her hands out on her desktop. “You fail to understand the true nature of what we are discussing. I am trying to be courteous. To give you something for your money.”

  “I do not need to listen to your blustering.” Abd al-Bari turned for the door.

  “I understand you enjoy gambling,” Oma said.

  Abd al-Bari paused.

  “According to my sources, you play the cards,” Oma continued. “That means you understand the difference between a bluff and someone holding a strong hand.”

  “I am very good at everything I do,” al-Bari said.

  “If you have the imagination, I would suggest you turn this all around and picture my deal for one billion dollars per bomb as a winning hand.” Oma smiled once more. “I do not wish to offend you, but please, understand that I can put those nuclear bombs anywhere, including the center of your largest oil field. There are some who would pay the money I am asking for that to happen. Of course, I have not contacted them yet. If I am bluffing, then no harm done if you walk out that door. But if I truly hold the cards I am telling you I hold— ”

  Abd al-Bari’s skin flushed a shade darker. “Do not threaten me.”

  “I am trying to be reasonable,” Oma said. �
�I would like to continue to be reasonable. But I thought it best that all the possibilities be put on the table, so to speak, so that we have complete understanding.”

  Abd al-Bari said, “And if you fail? If you do not do what you say you can after I have paid you the money you ask for down payment?”

  Oma spread her hands wide, taking in her office and the building. “Then you know where to find me and you can play your winning hand. I understand you have those in your organization who are most willing to die for your cause. I have no doubt that if you wanted me dead, one of those people would find a way to accomplish that.”

  “I have to confer with others,” Abd al-Bari said.

  “Please do.” Oma’s voice chilled the room. “But I need an answer in twenty-four hours.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  A dreary rain was falling, turning the ground around the railhead into mud. Colonel Verochka, head of nuclear security for the GRU, watched from the interior of the BMD armored vehicle through a bullet-proof portal on the side. Led by two T-72 tanks, four BMDs rolled through the mud, their treads giving firm traction. The armored personnel carriers were followed by two more T-72s. Overhead, above the sound of the rain falling on the metal and the roars of the armored vehicles, Verochka could hear the sound of helicopter blades. She knew that four MI-28 Havoc gunships, the most advanced helicopter in the Russian inventory, were flying cover.

  The four BMDs slid next to a heavily armored railcar hooked to two oil-burning engines. As dozens of infantrymen, weapons at the ready, spread out around the train, the back doors on the lead BMD swung open. Two men carried a plastic container out, up a concrete ramp and in through the heavy metal doors on the side of the car. Four more bombs were off-loaded, then the next BMD moved up and the process was repeated.

  Colonel Verochka waited until all twenty warheads were loaded and the train was secured. Then she ordered the driver of the BMD to head to the nearby airfield. She sat down in one of the web chairs along the inner wall of the APC. Between her knees a metal briefcase was secured.

  A steel chain ran from the case to a titanium cuff around her left wrist.

  Overhead, two of the Havocs flew cover as they approached the airfield.

  * * *

  “Goddamn those Russian sons of bitches!” Raisor exclaimed. “We thought they might have had something to do with the Thresher going down!”

  “We?” Dalton was bone-tired, and there was less than four hours before they had to go. But Raisor had demanded a complete report on what they had discovered on their reconnaissance mission. “You weren’t even born when the Thresher sunk.”

  “The CIA suspected Soviet involvement in the sinking at the time,” Raisor said.

  “That really doesn’t matter right now,” Dalton said. “The important thing is we now know there’s more to this theft of nuclear weapons than it appeared. If these Mafia people have the phased-displacement generator, and they have Vasilev, and the programming code, and they can get the bombs, we’ve got a big problem on our hands.”

  “They still need remote viewers to aim the weapon,” Jackson noted.

  “If they’re gathering all the other pieces,” Dalton said, “I’m sure they have a handle on that too.”

  Raisor checked the digital clock overhanging the room. “We don’t have much time.”

  “If you can get an idea where Vasilev is or what happened to this generator,” Dalton said to Raisor, “it would help.”

  ‘Just concern yourself with your mission,” Raisor said.

  “I’m trying to do that,” Dalton said, “but nobody seems to have a clue what is really happening.”

  “We know the warheads are going to get stolen in four hours,” Raisor said. “That’s all we need to know.”

  “Dr. Hammond,” Dalton said, giving up on the CIA man.

  Hammond had a cup of coffee in her hand. “Yes?”

  Dalton noted that the hand holding the cup was shaking very slightly. “What if you wanted to destroy an avatar? How would you do it?”

  “On the virtual plane or in the real?” Hammond asked.

  “Either one.”

  Hammond took a deep drink from her mug, then put it down. “I’ve thought about it and I’ve had Sybyl put some time into it. But I really can’t tell you. The key thing to remember is that the avatar is a projection. Even when it coalesces into the real world and transfers power into matter, it is still a projection. So what you want to know is sort of like asking how one would destroy an image on screen in a movie.”

  “Where am I then, when I’m on the other side?” Dalton asked.

  Hammond looked at him quizzically for a few seconds, then realized what he meant. “We have to assume that despite traveling on the virtual plane, the essence of who you are remains with the body.”

  “I don’t buy that,” Dalton said. “When I’ve been out there, I’ve been out there.”

  “You’re asking where the mind exists,” Hammond said, “and that’s something that’s more philosophical than— ”

  Dalton cut her off. “I’m asking where the soul exists,” he said, slamming his fist into his own chest. Then he pointed at his head. “This only takes you so far, then something else takes over. I want to know if we’re putting that something else out there.”

  “I don’t know,” Hammond said. “I don’t think so, but…”

  “What do we do if we come up against an enemy avatar during our mission.”

  “What enemy avatar?” Raisor asked. He gave a hard look to Jackson. “Has she been filling your head about her devil?”

  “It’s a possibility,” Dalton said. “General Bolodenka said that SD8, which deals with the same thing you at Bright Gate deal with, has come up with a new-generation weapon, something beyond the phased-displacement generator. I think they may have developed a similar ability to Psychic Warrior, and I think we need to be as prepared as we can be for the possibility we might run into something.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” Hammond said. “We really have no experience in this area.”

  A thought occurred to Dalton. “What if something happens to Sybyl while we’re out in the virtual plane?”

  “We have a backup computer that we can put on-line,” Hammond said.

  “And while you’re waiting to go on-line, what happens to us?” Dalton demanded.

  “The switchover is automatic.”

  “But if there is a time gap?”

  Hammond put her hands in the air, more from frustration than anything else. “I don’t know.”

  “Why are you so worried?” Raisor asked.

  “Because we think this Russian avatar, Chyort, knows about the nuke takedown. And we might trip over each other trying to stop it.”

  “If your goals are the same, then there shouldn’t be a problem,” Raisor said.

  “But if they aren’t?” Dalton didn’t wait for an answer. “Remember, this Chyort probably works for the agency that killed every man on board the Thresher. Even if our goals are the same, we’re still on opposite sides, as you pointed out to me when you justified not giving the Russians your intelligence about the takedown.”

  “Why not focus on your mission, Sergeant Major?” Raisor suggested.

  “What about the first Psychic Warrior team?” Dalton asked. “Are they dead?”

  Silence filled the room. Finally Raisor stood up. “Come with me, Sergeant Major. I want to show you something.”

  “Agent Raisor— ” Hammond began, but the look he gave her froze the next words in her mouth.

  Dalton followed as Raisor headed to the side of the control room, to a door that Dalton had never seen opened yet. Raisor punched in a code on the small pad next to it and the metal slid to the side.

  “Come on,” Raisor said, waving Dalton in.

  The door slid shut behind them. The room was almost a duplicate of the control room, full of ten tubes. And inside nine of them were bodies, floating in the green fluid. Six men, three women.

/>   “That’s the first Psychic Warrior team,” Raisor said. “My team.”

  “Are they alive?” Dalton could see small placards on the front of each tube listing the name of the occupant.

  “The bodies are,” Raisor said. “The minds, or soul, or whatever you want to call the essence of a person, that we don’t know about. Hammond thinks they’re dead. The government thinks they’re dead. We were supposed to pull the plug on the bodies a week and a half ago.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “We were betrayed,” Raisor said. “I’ve seen your classified file, Dalton. You fought in Vietnam, were captured and held prisoner. You know about being betrayed, don’t you? About being given a mission and then having the plug pulled? Well, that’s what happened here, literally. They were on a mission and my superior had Sybyl shut down while they were still out. I was in DC, playing politics with the Select Committee on Intelligence, trying to keep our funding flowing. And I came back to this.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s a complicated story which you don’t have the clearance for,” Raisor said.

  Dalton had seen it before— personnel abandoned because some bureaucrat or politician thousands of miles away and safe behind their desk made a decision. In Vietnam they’d sent teams of indigenous infiltrators into the north, and when Nixon had halted the bombing campaign, all air traffic over the north was grounded, including the resupply and exfiltration flight for those men. They all died. And life in Washington went on. The Marines in Beirut who’d been placed in an untenable position with unclear guidance. And thus they died. Delta Force in Mogadishu. The SEALs in Panama.

  Dalton stopped in front of one of the tubes. A dark-haired woman floated inside, fluid slowly flowing through the tubes. The name on the placard was Kathryn Raisor. Dalton turned toward the CIA man. “Is this your wife?”

  “My sister.” Raisor held up his left hand. “This is her ring from the Air Force Academy. She went from the Air Force to the NSA. We were both pegged for this program because we maxed out the psych tests when they were screening for personnel for this program. We were good psychic ability candidates. It must be genetic, don’t you think? Hammond and the other brains think so.” Raisor was standing next to his sister’s tube, looking up at her, his voice low, as if he were in a trance. “Oh yes, that’s what they think.”