Psychic Warrior pw-1

by Robert Doherty

  “Hammond did this?” Dalton demanded.

  Raisor shook his head. “Her predecessor.” The cold smile crept around his lips. “He is no longer with us.”

  “Who ordered it?”

  “That’s my concern,” Raisor said.

  “It’s mine too,” Dalton said. “It will be my team in the tubes next. I want to know if the son of a bitch who did this to your team can do this to mine.”

  “The source of that decision is not wired into the chain of command for this mission,” Raisor said.

  “So this is why we were brought in?”

  “Replaceable parts in the big machine,” Raisor said. He looked at his watch. “I suggest you get some rest. We go over very shortly.”

  As Dalton walked out of the room, the last thing he saw was Raisor silhouetted against the glow from his sister’s tube.

  * * *

  “Who is that?” Opa asked.

  The sound of General Rurik’s summons echoed across the glade, into the woods and the fields beyond.

  Feteror was seated with his back to one of the trees. He reluctantly stood. “I have to go on a mission,” he said.

  Opa reached out a wrinkled hand and placed it on Feteror’s shoulder. “I enjoyed talking with you.”

  Feteror nodded, not sure what to say.

  “Will you be back?”

  Feteror paused. “I do not know.” He looked at the glade and the area surrounding them. He could hear birds chirping in the trees, the sound of the water rushing by. He could even smell the odor of manure coming from the nearby fields. It felt more real than anything he’d experienced in almost a decade and a half but he knew it wasn’t.

  “I have to go.”

  “Arkady— ” Opa paused.

  “Yes?”

  “There are good things in the world.” Opa spread his hands, taking in the glade. “This is a good place.”

  “This is not real,” Feteror said. He paused, almost adding that the old man he was talking to was not real either.

  “Are you here?” Opa asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you are here, then this is real,” Opa said. “You don’t believe me. You don’t believe that I am here, either, do you?”

  Feteror felt the tug of the plan he had worked so hard to put into effect pulling at him.

  “Hatred is not the way,” Opa said. “I fought for years and I know that.”

  “Do you know what they did to me?” Feteror didn’t wait for an answer. “They cut away my body and kept me in darkness. They took away everything!”

  Opa shook his head sadly, his thick gray beard brushing against his aged chest. “They took much, but not everything, Arkady. Some things you’ve given away and you can get them back.” He reached up with his hand and placed it on Feteror’s chest. “You ’re missing something there. You can get it back.”

  Feteror shrugged the hand off. “I will make them pay.”

  Feteror dissolved from Opa’s view.

  The old man stood alone in the glade. He looked up into the blue sky, a tear slowly making its way down his leathery cheek.

  sFeteror accessed his outside links, forcing himself to block out the image of his grandfather, and focusing on what was to come.

  “Yes?” He could see General Rurik standing at the master console. He was pleased the see the wild look in the other man’s eyes. He had hoped the pig cared for his family.

  “I have a mission of the highest priority for you,” Rurik said.

  Feteror waited.

  “There are two tasks.” Rurik paused, collecting himself, then continued. “The steel cylinder you saw being taken from October Revolution Island— you must find it.” He paused, not speaking.

  “And the second task?” Feteror pressed.

  Rurik’s hands came down on the edge of the table in front of him, the whites of the knuckles clear to Feteror’s cameras. “My wife and children have been abducted. I want you to find them.”

  “Which of the two tasks has the higher priority?” Feteror asked.

  The look in the general’s eyes told Feteror the answer to that, even as the old man lied. “I want you to accomplish both.”

  “You must give me the power and time to accomplish both, then,” Feteror said.

  His electronic eyes could see the anger on Rurik’s face. “You will have all the power we can send you.”

  “I will do as you order.”

  “Do not cross me,” General Rurik said. “I will reward you if you get my family back.”

  What could you possibly offer me? Feteror choked the words back. He focused on the pain he could see on the general’s face, relishing the sight.

  “I’m loading all the data we have on both the phased-displacement generator and my family’s abduction,” Rurik said.

  “Let me get started.”

  The window to the outside world cycled open. Feteror felt a wave of power, more than he’d ever experienced before, shoot through him. He leapt for the window and was out.

  * * *

  Barsk looked out the window as the cargo plane banked. The ground below was snow-covered in places and looked rather bleak. He could see the large dam and the hydroelectric plant behind it in the gorge where a plume of water cascaded down from the overflow spillway.

  To the east, high above the power plant, a landing strip had been laid down years ago, but it looked desolate and empty, with a group of hangars lining the runway. Three sets of power line towers ran by the edge of the airfield after climbing out of the gorge.

  Vasilev had spent the entire flight rocking back and forth in his seat, his eyes unfocused. Barsk had serious doubts about whether the man was going to be of any use once they landed.

  Barsk turned his attention back into the plane as they descended. “There’s one thing I don’t understand.”

  Vasilev, despite being dressed now in a one-piece black jumpsuit borrowed from the mercenaries and despite having been given a good meal on the flight, still looked rough. Barsk slapped him on the shoulder. “Hey!”

  Vasilev slowly rubbed a hand along the gray stubble of his beard. “What?”

  “This Chyort— the demon that is helping my grandmother. Why is he doing it?”

  Vasilev gave a laugh that bothered Barsk. “He is trying to get back at those that use him.”

  “To what end?”

  Vasilev stared down the length of the plane along the gleaming steel tube that filled it. “So we will all go to hell.”

  “One hundred million dollars.”

  Oma steepled her fingers and peered over the top of her reading glasses at the young man sitting across from her who had just spoken. He wore a tailored three-piece suit and his Russian was flawless, without an accent. He was of the new breed of international broker, representing the interests of the United Nations, using economic leverage and payoffs instead of force.

  The young man smiled, revealing very white and straight teeth. “Half now, half upon delivery of the warheads.”

  “I do not have any warheads,” Oma said.

  “Not yet. But I believe you plan to come into ownership of some shortly. I thought coming here before you finalized some other deal to, shall we say, dispose of them, would be best for all involved in case you are successful in your endeavors.”

  “Your NATO already has thousands of nuclear weapons among the various members,” Oma noted.

  “And we prefer not to have to use them,” the young man said. He leaned forward, his false friendliness gone. “Listen. I know who you are. I know what you do. I know you’ve been putting feelers out for buyers of nuclear weapons. That tells me you either have them or are planning to get them shortly. I’ve also heard that you are promising delivery of those weapons anywhere in the world along with detonation. You must be a fool to think you can get away with that. We have dealt with people like you before. We will never let you get a warhead out of the borders of Russia. And we will squash you like an irritating bug.”

&nbs
p; “Then why are you offering me money instead of squashing me?” Oma asked.

  “We are trying to be civilized.”

  “If you are so smart and informed,” Oma continued, “you would know that one hundred million dollars is one tenth of the price I am asking.”

  “You have to be alive to be able to enjoy your money. I’m offering you life and one hundred million. That’s better than lining your coffin with a billion dollars.”

  “I could have you killed for five dollars on the streets,” Oma said. “That would leave me with a considerable profit margin.”

  “I am only a representative,” he answered. “Killing me will not make your problem go away.”

  “Actually,” Oma said, “I believe you are the one with the problem. You came to me.”

  The man said nothing, simply staring across the desk at her.

  Oma waved her hand, signaling the meeting was over. “I will consider your offer.”

  The young man stood. “Do more than consider.” He flicked a card onto the desk. It was blank except for a cell phone number.

  * * *

  Leksi was standing behind the two pilot seats in the MI-8 Hip, watching through the windshield as two of the Hind gunships swept over the field a half a kilometer ahead of them.

  When both gunships turned and commenced to circle, Leksi ordered the pilot of the helicopter to land there. They swept in to a landing in the tall weeds. Leksi could see two fuel trucks in the treeline, exactly as Oma had told him there would be. The FARP, forward arming and refueling point, had cost them over five hundred thousand American dollars to have ready, but it was worth it. All the choppers would be topped off and fully armed, prepared for the upcoming action.

  As the blades of the MI-8 began slowing, Leksi exited the chopper and walked to the side of the clearing. The other MI-8 came in for a landing, followed by the Hind gunships. As the sound of the rotors and engines began winding down, Leksi stretched his back.

  He looked to the west where a range of high hills loomed. On the other side of those hills was a river. And along the thin level space between water and mountains ran a rail line.

  Leksi shivered, not from the damp chill in the air, but from excitement, almost a sexual feeling. His right hand slid down to the butt of the nine-millimeter pistol strapped to his thigh and the fingers flexed around it, feeling the cold plastic and metal. He looked at the watch strapped to his left wrist.

  Two hours.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Colonel Verochka walked quickly from the back ramp of the BMD to the left side door of the MI-14 transport helicopter. As soon as she was inside, the door was swung shut by the loadmaster.

  She checked her watch. It was time. She gave a thumbs-up signal to the loadmaster, who relayed the order through his headset to the cockpit, and the helicopter took off.

  Other than the loadmaster, who sat down across from her, she had the spacious interior of the cargo bay to herself. She set the metal case down between her feet, making sure that the chain wasn’t tangled. She twisted in the seat and looked out one of the small glass portals as they gained altitude. She saw one Havoc gunship about fifty meters away, and she knew the second was on the other side. She also knew that four Mig-24 jet fighters were taking off at this moment and would provide overhead cover.

  She leaned back in her seat and relaxed for the first time since she’d signed for the metal case.

  * * *

  The lights were off, leaving only the dim reflection from the half-open door to illuminate the room. Dalton was sitting on his bunk, back against the cold wall, listening to the nervous rustlings in the room. Some of the men were asleep from sheer exhaustion, but he knew most were awake, unable to sleep. No one had taken Hammond’s sleeping drug, not wanting to have anything in their system that could interfere with their ability to operate. There was slightly under ten minutes before they had to go to the experimental chamber and prepare to launch.

  Dalton turned his head as someone slipped in the door. He recognized the slender figure of Lieutenant Jackson. She wove her way through the bunks until she arrived at his location. Dalton slid over, giving her room to sit at the foot of the bed.

  “You okay?” he asked in a low voice.

  “No.”

  Dalton smiled in the dark. “Me neither.”

  Jackson’s head came up. “But you’ve been in combat. Don’t you get used to it?”

  “You never get used to it,” Dalton said. “Plus, this is different than anything else I’ve ever done. One time I sat down and figured it out. I’ve fought on every continent except Australia and Antarctica. I guess I should be grateful there’s no native population in Antarctica and we haven’t gone to war with the Aussies, or I’d be seven for seven. Vietnam. El Salvador. Lebanon. Somalia. Panama. Antiterrorist work in Berlin. Other places. Other times. Each one a little different, each one pretty much the same.

  “I’ve jumped in, walked in, been flown in, swum in, ridden in— you name it— I’ve gone into combat every way I thought was possible. And now here’s a new way.”

  “I’ve never fired a shot in anger,” Jackson said.

  Dalton chuckled. “Hell, neither have I. I’ve fired a heck of a lot in fear, though.” He stretched his legs out. “It feels strange to be this close to infiltration— I guess we can call it infiltration— and not be doing something. Usually we would be cleaning our weapons, loading magazines, sharpening knives, memorizing call signs and frequencies and doing radio checks. But we’re just sitting here waiting.”

  Dalton knew some of the men were listening in. He also knew there wasn’t much he could say to make them feel better. In his experience, he never knew how someone was going to react in combat until they were there. Training helped, but no training could prepare someone for the ultimate test. He’d seen men he’d thought he could count on flake out and others he hadn’t thought much of do the most incredible feats of arms.

  His watch began beeping. Dalton stood. “Rise and shine. Another great day in airborne country.”

  The members of the team got out of their bunks.

  “Let’s do it.” Dalton headed for the door.

  * * *

  Feteror looked down on the rail line. The armored train was twenty minutes from the border checkpoint between Kazakhstan and Russia. He noted the Havoc helicopters flying cover, and on the train the number of guards and their weapons.

  Then he swept north searching, doing quick jumps through the virtual plane, peeking into the real. After six tries, he spotted the MI-14 helicopter with its fighter and gunship escort, heading northwest, toward Russia. The aerial convoy would cross the border in six minutes, but he knew its destination and it had another hour and twelve minutes of flight time. More than enough, Feteror knew.

  He jumped, through the virtual plane, and poked into the real above the FARP. He could see the men preparing their weapons, the helicopters warmed up. Leksi was yelling orders, getting everyone moving.

  Feteror settled down on a mountain peak, between the FARP and the rail line. He slowly materialized into the real world, keeping his form colorless so he couldn’t be spotted. He felt the spatter of the light rain on his wings.

  Like a huge vulture perched on the rocky crag, he waited.

  * * *

  Oma turned the card the NATO representative had given her over and over in her liver-spotted hands.

  The phone rang and she put the card down and picked the receiver up.

  “Yes?”

  “We accept.”

  She recognized Abd al-Bari’s accent.

  “In fact,” the voice continued, “we would like delivery of four packages.”

  Oma closed her eyes. She had dealt with large sums of money, but the thought of four billion dollars staggered even her.

  “The money?” she asked.

  “The first payment has been transferred to the account you indicated. As we discussed, the balance will be paid upon our satisfaction that you have completed your te
rms of the agreement.”

  With her free hand, Oma began typing into her computer, accessing her Swiss account. She knew al-Bari was not lying, but she had to see the numbers for herself.

  “Where do you want the packages delivered?” she asked as her fingers worked.

  “That data is being transmitted via encrypted fax as we speak.”

  Oma looked up as the bulky secure fax machine she had appropriated from the defunct KGB buzzed, then hummed, spilling out a piece of paper.

  “We will be waiting,” al-Bari said, then the phone went dead.

  Oma looked at her computer screen. Four hundred million dollars was credited to her account. She slowly walked across the room to the fax and picked up the paper.

  You will destroy the following targets:

  1. Washington, D.C., the Capitol Building zero point

  2. Inside the Israeli Negev Desert nuclear weapon storage facility

  3. The Pentagon

  4. New York City, the United Nations zero point

  Oma’s hand shook as she read the list and realized the implications of the targets and the order of destruction. One word sprang to mind as she carried the paper back to her desk: jihad. Abd al-Bari’s people were preparing for the Holy War they had always dreamed of, crippling the abilities of the Americans and Israelis to fight against the storm of fanaticism they hoped would arise.

  She placed the target list on the desktop next to the card. She looked once more at the computer screen and the flashing dollar figure there.

  She opened a drawer and pulled out a cellular phone. She punched in memory one. It was answered on the second ring.

  “Yes?”

  “Barsk, are you ready?”

  “We have off-loaded the weapon and Vasilev is setting it up, hooking it into the computers you had waiting here. I have men working now on splicing into the power lines.”

  “Good. Wait until you hear from me again.” Oma cut the connection and put the phone on the desk in between the card and the target list. Then she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.