Psychic Warrior pw-1

by Robert Doherty

  Kairns looked down at the chart once more, but Dalton was aware she didn’t need it for the information. She knew, she just didn’t want eye-to-eye contact when she told him. He knew, even before she spoke, that the answer would not be good. The previous doctor had been full of crap, in Dalton’s opinion. Even when Dalton had asked the man to level with him, the doctor had hidden behind a flurry of medical terms, most of which, despite his own medical training, Dalton had had to go to the library and look up. He knew more about aneurysms now than he particularly cared to. As he did about the other afflictions ravaging his wife’s body.

  “There is most likely some permanent damage to the brain. We won’t know exactly how much or what kind until your wife regains consciousness.”

  Dalton could hear the “if” in her voice. He had always been able to read people, and the skill was one he had honed over the years.

  “When do you think that’s likely to occur?” he asked.

  “That’s hard to say.”

  “There’s a possibility she might not regain consciousness at all, isn’t there?” Dalton asked in a quiet voice.

  Kairns leaned back in her seat and looked directly at him. Dalton noted she had soft green eyes, just like Marie’s. He knew his wife would have liked this woman. Marie had always made friends so easily.

  “Yes, that is a possibility.” Kairns cleared her throat.

  “Go ahead,” Dalton said.

  “This setback on top of your wife’s advanced amyotrophic lateral sclerosis…” The doctor paused.

  “Her body has been gone for two years due to ALS,” Dalton said. “All she’s had is her mind and now you’re telling me that’s probably not going to come back?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Dalton tried to keep his voice steady. “She’s not going to regain consciousness, is she?”

  Kairns slowly shook her head. “No, I don’t think she will.”

  Even though he had long expected those words, their impact surprised Dalton.

  “There’s the issue…” Kairns paused again.

  “Go on,” Dalton dully said.

  “There’s the issue of whether you want to continue the life support,” Kairns said.

  Dalton rubbed his chin, feeling the slight stubble there, aware that he would have to shave when he got to work. He felt a rapid beating in his chest. He dipped his head and put his hand on his forehead, hiding his eyes from the doctor. He slowed his heartbeat as he’d been trained, forcing his mind to accept the reality. His hands felt cold and clammy and in a remote part of his mind he knew that the blood vessels were closing, choking the flow of blood, and he knew he could reverse that process, he’d been taught that, but he didn’t care right now. A tear rolled out of his right eye, down his weathered cheek.

  He heard movement, and when he looked up a minute later, he was alone. He looked down the hallway. Kairns was standing twenty feet away, writing something into the chart. Dalton stood and walked over to her.

  “My wife appreciates all you’ve done for her.” Dalton caught the quick quiver of her eyes and said, “I’m not nuts, Major. When you spend thirty years with someone, you know what they would be thinking, so I just thought I’d let you know that. And I certainly appreciate all your efforts.”

  Kairns nodded.

  “There’s nothing you can do?” he asked.

  Kairns let the chart hang at her side and met his gaze. “No. We have to hope the brain can stabilize itself and that can take quite a long time. If there’s a turn for the worse, we might have to go in to reduce pressure, but let’s hope that doesn’t occur. It’s been four months now and things haven’t gotten worse, so in a way, that’s a good sign. I am sorry, Sergeant Major.”

  “Keep her as comfortable as possible,” Dalton said. “I have to think about what to do.”

  “I didn’t mean to pressure you,” Kairns hurriedly said. “There’s certainly no— ”

  Dalton held up his hand. “I know. I’m glad you were frank with me. I appreciate the honesty.”

  Dalton bid the doctor good-bye and walked down the corridor. He paused outside his wife’s room and watched her from the doorway for ten minutes, then reluctantly continued on, his morning visit done.

  Chapter Two

  She was beautiful. Tall, six feet from her bare feet to her shining blond hair. Smooth skin, very pale, except for a red blush on her cheeks. Icy blue eyes that softened as they looked at him. Her body was exquisite, the breasts those of a nubile young girl, the belly flat, the legs those of a trained dancer, the figure barely sheathed in a white flowing gown that was transparent.

  Another figure appeared behind the woman. A dark-haired twin to the first. This one wore only garters and stockings, carrying her body without the slightest hint of modesty.

  The first woman circled to his left, the second to his right. He felt himself pressed between them, the hard and soft of their bodies molding into his, but there was a barrier between, more than the flimsy clothes, like a thin layer of warm air. It felt smooth and caressing, but it wasn’t the same as bare flesh.

  The woman behind him ran her hands over his chest while the one in front reached over his shoulder and kissed the other, before coming back to kiss him.

  Feteror checked the time with irritation as the women continued their caresses. He controlled himself, not allowing his true feelings to surface. He had no choice and it was best to let this event go to its programmed conclusion.

  Finally, the two women faded away, disappearing into a fog, the controllers satisfied that they had satisfied Feteror.

  He felt full power come back on, the charge flowing into him like a cleansing waterfall, filling the pool of his soul.

  “We can change the women.”

  Feteror recognized the invisible voice, even though it came through electronic channels. General Rurik, his captor and commander.

  “We have a new programmer,” Rurik continued. “He is most skilled. He assures me he can design whatever you desire.” Rurik laughed. “Or perhaps you would like a man? That just occurred to me. You Spetsnatz warriors are a strange breed. Fancy yourself Spartans. But Spartans had no time for women, only each other. This is something perhaps we should consider?”

  Feteror’s “eyes” clicked on. He could see Rurik now, standing at the main control console. The general was tall and distinguished looking, with white hair combed straight back. His chest was covered in medals and he walked with a slight limp.

  “I am satisfied,” Feteror said. He could hear the echo of his own voice, tinny and raspy, coming out of the speaker. He knew that Rurik could change the voice, make it more realistic, more human, but he also knew the general didn’t to taunt him, to keep an edge.

  “Satisfied?” Rurik laughed once more. “You had better be. The good doctor says it is important that you have everything as a normal person should. To keep your sanity, but I doubt if you have ever been sane.” Rurik paused. “Tell me, Feteror. Do you dream? The doctor tells me he puts you to sleep, that you must sleep for your sanity. That you must dream. But if you dream, what do you dream? Of the body that was once yours?”

  Feteror heard Rurik but his concentration was on his status. Power was at 94 percent. Good enough. All systems were functioning. He checked the backup programs.

  General Rurik’s voice intruded once more. “We need more information. The Ministry is concerned about your previous intelligence report regarding the treaty exchange with Kazakhstan.”

  “Concerned?” Feteror would have laughed but there was no laughter configured for his voice program.

  “You will do your duty for the State,” Rurik said. “You can access the tasking now.”

  The State. What was the State? Feteror wondered. The one that had sent him to Afghanistan years ago and cost him everything? But that State no longer existed. The farce that had replaced it? A husk of the empire he had served so proudly? Where criminals were now more powerful than the government? That was an impotent bear on the internat
ional scene?

  He accessed the tasking that had been put into his database. As expected, he was to surveil the Mafia and find whether they planned to intercept a shipment of nuclear weapons that Kazakhstan was required to send back to Russia as part of the internal strategic arms agreement between the various states that had once comprised the Soviet Union. In return, Kazakhstan would get several ships of the Baltic fleet.

  “There is something else.” General Rurik walked in front of the camera that was hooked to what remained of Feteror. The general’s left hand was on his right wrist, lightly touching a metal band. There was a small green light steadily blinking on the band. That band was Feteror’s leash. On the ring finger of that hand was a thick gold band set with several diamonds.

  “One of our undercover men has picked up a report that a Mafia gang is making some inquiries about old research programs.”

  Feteror waited.

  “We don’t have much information other than that there has been a contact made with a ranking officer in GRU research files. We are a bit concerned and I want you to check this out also.”

  “I need more information than that,” Feteror said. “Do you know which Mafia gang it is? My database indicates several operate in Moscow.”

  “Yes, the group run by someone with the rather interesting title of ‘Oma,’ ” Rurik said.

  “Do you have the name of the GRU officer who has been contacted?”

  “No. We are, of course, investigating.”

  “Do you know the nature of the research they are inquiring into?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know about the Mafia group, then, or that there was a contact, if you didn’t get it from your end?” Feteror asked.

  “We have an agent inside this Oma group. A man posing as a bodyguard. He knows only that there is a meeting set with the GRU traitor. He doesn’t know where the meeting will occur, but it is to happen shortly. I want the name of the traitor.”

  “I will investigate,” Feteror said.

  “You may go now,” Rurik said. He signaled to one of the technicians.

  A circle of light appeared, a long white tunnel beckoning. Feteror gathered himself then leapt for the circle.

  * * *

  The old man had fouled himself hours ago. There was a steel collar around his neck, attached to an iron chain, welded to a pin set in the center of the concrete floor. He had determined all that by feel, as he was in complete darkness and had been so ever since being thrown into this pit. He had no idea how long he had been here. He estimated about two days, but he was aware that he was very disoriented. His last memory before this hole was of walking down the stairs to the subway in Moscow, going to work at the Institute. Hands grabbed him from behind, something was pressed over his mouth, and then he awoke here in the darkness.

  There was a bucket of stale water that he had drunk from carefully, not sure when it would be refilled. No food and no sign of his captors either.

  He was naked and cold. The concrete was damp, and there was a dripping noise in one direction, but the chain wouldn’t allow him to reach any wall. Just twenty feet of rough concrete floor in every direction.

  He sensed something change. A presence. He looked about but he could see nothing.

  He started when the voice came out of the darkness. “Professor Vasilev.”

  The old man spun about but could see nothing.

  “Professor Vasilev.” The voice was deep, deeper than any voice Vasilev had ever heard, with a rough edge to it that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

  The old man wet his lips with a swollen tongue. “Yes?” His voice was weak, quavering, bouncing into the walls and being absorbed. His heart rate increased dramatically as two red objects appeared, about seven feet above the floor, glowing like coals in the darkness. Eyes.

  “Who are you?” Vasilev whispered.

  “I am Chyort,” the voice rasped. “The devil.”

  Vasilev’s gaze was focused on those red dots staring at him. “What do you want?”

  “Where are the computer tapes from October Revolution Island?”

  Vasilev swallowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “The tapes for the phased-displacement generator you took with you when you left.”

  “There is— ”

  “Do not lie to me,” the voice warned. “There are many things worse than dying, and I am intimate with all of them. Where are the tapes?”

  Vasilev closed his eyes. “They were updated and transferred onto floppy first, then CD-ROM three years ago.”

  “Where is the CD stored?”

  “With everything else. GRU records.”

  “Is the program current?”

  Vasilev frowned. “Current?”

  “Has it been updated to run with current operating systems in modern computers?”

  Vasilev sighed. “As of a few years ago, yes, but I don’t know if it is current with today’s operating systems.” He looked up at the two inhuman eyes. “Where am I? Why am I here?”

  “This is hell,” the voice said. “And you are here to pay retribution for your sins.”

  As the rough, evil voice faded, so did the two coals, and Vasilev was left in darkness once more.

  Chapter Three

  The walls of the conference room were covered with plaques and photos from Special Operations units all over the world. From the Royal Danish Navy’s Fromandskorp-set, to the now defunct Canadian Parachute Regiment, to the Norwegian Jaegers, the plaques were tokens of goodwill to the men of the 2nd Battalion, 10th Special Forces Group (Airborne) for various training and operational missions conducted with those elite units.

  Dalton knew that each of those plaques represented a lot of sweat and time, and in some cases blood. He knew that because he’d been to every country represented on the wall and had taken part in practically every type of exercise with the A-Teams of 10th Group. What he also knew was that there were plenty of exercises and deployments that would never have a plaque to commemorate because they were too classified to be acknowledged.

  Dalton had been in 10th Group, off and on, for twenty years, with some other assignments sprinkled in over the years. He considered the unit to be his home in the Army, although he had served in it at four different places. Fort Carson, Colorado, was a new posting for 10th Group, the unit being transferred there in the mid-nineties during a round of base closures that had shut down its longtime home at Fort Devens, Massachusetts. The 1st Battalion of the 10th Group had been staged forward in Germany since the unit had come into existence in the late fifties. First at

  Bad Tolz, a former SS training barracks, where Dalton had done two tours, then, more recently, when Bad Tolz was given back to the Germans, at Stuttgart.

  If there was one constant in Dalton’s military life, it was change, and this morning he was ready for whatever was going to be laid on the table. As soon as he’d come to work, he’d been grabbed by the battalion adjutant and told that there was an important meeting in five minutes in the conference room and the colonel wanted him to sit in on it.

  Since the briefing hadn’t yet started, he had no idea what this was about, but he had a bad feeling, mainly due to the glimpse he’d had of the two people in the colonel’s office, which adjoined his. The man wore civilian clothes— a black turtleneck under an expensive blazer— but it was more than just the usual military distrust of those not in uniform that generated Dalton’s negative feelings. Dalton had been in Special Operations for over thirty years now, and he could read Agency in a man as easily as if he had the letters of his organization imprinted on his forehead with a bright red tattoo. The man was either CIA, DIA, or NSA. The other person in the colonel’s office was a woman, dressed in a tailored suit, her blond hair drawn tight. Dalton hadn’t been able to get a read on her.

  When Dalton had walked into the conference room, he’d noted there were two other people already there: Captain Anderson and Master Sergeant Trilly, a combination that Dalton fou
nd strange. Anderson was the battalion assistant operations officer. Trilly was the team sergeant for ODA 054. Dalton had greeted them both, then taken his usual seat next to the head of the table.

  ODA stood for Operational Detachment Alpha and was the official designation for the basic organizational element of Special Forces, more commonly called an A-Team. The company headquarters, one hierarchical level below Dalton but one above the ODA, was the ODB, or B-Team, each of which commanded five ODAs. Dalton was the sergeant major of the battalion, or ODC, which had three ODBs in it, and fifteen ODAs. Anderson was the man who helped plan the missions all those teams went on.

  What set the Special Forces units apart from the rest of the Army was that SF troopers rarely operated tactically at any higher level than the A-Team. The B and C teams existed mainly for command and support purposes. This placed a great deal of responsibility on those at the lowest levels and was the major reason Special Forces looked for very mature soldiers to fill its ranks.

  Dalton had a lot of respect for Captain Anderson, who had commanded a team for two years before being brought up to battalion for the past year, but not as much for Trilly. Anderson was a West Pointer who had commanded a company in the Infantry before going through Special Forces training. He was six feet tall and in great shape, able to keep up with the physical demands of the training a team went through. He had dark hair cut tight against his skull, flecks of gray already appearing along the sides. The most important traits Anderson had, in Dalton’s opinion, were the ability to know what he could do and what he couldn’t and his willingness to trust his men to do their jobs. Too many officers that Dalton had served with over the years had held back their implicit trust from those they commanded, and in a self-fulfilling prophecy, that lack had eaten away at the integrity of the unit.