Psychic Warrior

by Bob Mayer

  He opened his eyes and blinked. It was dark.

  Then he saw the eyes and knew the nightmare was real. The demon came forward once more. Vasilev ran away, so hard that when the chain reached its end, the collar around his neck snapped him back so badly, he tore muscles in his neck and he flopped back onto the concrete like a rag doll.

  "Please, please," Vasilev pleaded as the creature leaned over him. He swore he could smell its fetid breath. "Mercy!" Vasilev begged.

  "You gave no mercy on October Revolution Island," the creature hissed.

  Vasilev's eyes widened in shock. How did this thing know of that? Those thoughts were brutally interrupted as a claw ripped up his right side, parting flesh with one smooth stroke.

  The pain was like acid. He screamed once more.

  "You will not have death until you atone," the creature said.

  "I am sorry!" Vasilev whimpered.

  "Atonement requires action." The creature drew back, leaving Vasilev holding his bleeding side.

  "I am sorry," Vasilev whispered as the demon once more disappeared.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dalton refused the shot from Dr. Hammond. He’d always been able to sleep when he needed to. He’d slept on many an aircraft, fully rigged with 48 pounds of parachute, 140 pounds of rucksack attached to the rig dangling between his knees on the cargo bay floor, helmet pulled down over his eyes, weapon tied off to his right shoulder, while men threw up around him from the turbulence of a low-level-flight infiltration. Sleep when you could was a lesson that had been beaten into him from too many missions when he hadn't been able to.

  "Sergeant Major!"

  Dalton was alert in an instant, rolling to the side away from the voice, hand reaching behind his back, pulling out his nine-millimeter pistol, before his eyes focused on Lieutenant Jackson's face. The RVer looked exhausted.

  Dalton took a deep breath. "What?"

  Jackson looked to her left and right. "I have to talk to you."

  “Talk," Dalton said, lowering the hammer on the gun and putting it back in its holster.

  "I'm Army," Jackson said. "Most of these people are CIA or NSA. But there's a couple of us from the service here. We were part of the original Grill Flame operation. And we were good, so they kept us when they switched over to Bright Gate."

  "What's your point, ma'am?"

  "You can't trust Raisor."

  Dalton leaned back on his bunk "You woke me to tell me that?"

  "Did he tell you what happened to the first team?"

  "The first team?" Dalton swung his feet over to the floor on the same side that Jackson was crouched. "Dr. Hammond said someone died when there was an equipment malfunction. She didn't say anything about a team."

  "Dr. Hammond doesn't know diddly," Jackson said vehemently. "She'll lie when Raisor tells her to, but a lot of the time she talks out her ass because she doesn't understand a lot of what she's working with. Hell, no one does. At least we admit it. She has to act like she knows more than she does because her ego won't allow her to admit her ignorance. They've sold a whole pile of crap to the Oversight Committee and the Pentagon. You don't think they'd be bringing you and your men in unless they were desperate, do you?"

  "I figured that," Dalton said.

  Jackson nodded. "Raisor put together the first Psychic Warrior team using NSA and CIA operatives. They tried to keep us RVers in the dark but since we were both using the same facilities here, it was kind of hard to do. Plus we'd run a lot of the early tests for Psychic Warrior, gathering the data Hammond needed to make the next step. But obviously Raisor wanted to keep it in house, so he brought his own people in to make up the first team."

  Dalton waited. He knew he'd been lied to; now he was beginning to get an idea of the extent. "What happened to the first team? Are they dead?"

  "We don't know," Jackson said.

  Dalton raised his eyebrows. "What do you mean by that?"

  "Their bodies are still in their isolation tanks, in a room off the main experimental chamber. The machines are keeping them in stasis at the reduced-functioning status. So they're alive, I suppose. As alive as any of us when we go into those damn tanks."

  "What happened to them?"

  "No one knows. I don't know exactly, but I have an idea. I told Hammond but she thinks it's bull. I believe she thinks that because what I told her scared her."

  "What about Raisor?"

  "I think Raisor believes me. He's weird."

  "What's your theory?"

  "There are bodies in the isolation tanks, but there are no people in there, if you know what I mean. Heck, Sergeant Major, I went looking for them. I went out on the virtual plane to see if I could find them." She paused, her eyes withdrawing.

  "And?" Dalton prompted.

  "And I think I found the team. What was left of them. Their psyches. Worn out as if they'd died of starvation. They were all dead there."

  "Wait a second." Dalton held up his hand. "You're talking about a thing that's not real in a place that doesn't exist."

  "Oh, you know it exists," Jackson said. "Or you will once Sybyl passes you over. It's as real as this room."

  "If this avatar is a construct, how can remains of the psyche exist? Wouldn't it just disappear?"

  "I don't know," Jackson said. "I'm just telling you what I found. I don't pretend to understand this stuff like Hammond does."

  "But . . . how could their avatars have starved as you put it?"

  "Loss of power from Sybyl. They got cut off."

  "How?"

  "I don't know. Like I said, whenever Psychic Warrior was operating, we were locked down."

  Dalton considered what she had just told him. What mission had the first team been on? Or had they been lost in training and that explained Raisor's reaction to what had happened to Stith?

  "There's something else I think you should know," Jackson said.

  "What?"

  "There's something, or someone, else over there," Jackson said.

  "Who?"

  "Chyort," the lieutenant whispered.

  "What?"

  "The devil. I translated it using Sybyl. Chyort is the Russian word for 'devil.' The CIA picked up reports about such a thing several times but they dismissed it. I don't."

  Dalton bit back his reaction. He could tell the lieutenant wasn't making this up. That she believed what she was saying.

  "Not the devil like most people think of him," Jackson said, then she paused, as if hearing her own words. "Well, maybe I'm wrong there. Maybe it is the devil like most people think of him. But whatever you might think, I'm telling you there is someone else in the virtual world."

  "Any idea who?" Dalton asked.

  "Most likely the Russians," Jackson said. "We know they've been working with remote viewing longer than we have. And I heard rumors when I first got to Grill Flame from some of the old hands that the Russians had gone way beyond what we had been doing. That they had taken psychic warfare very seriously a long time ago and have been putting a lot of resources into it.

  "Also, we get blocked when we try to see into certain places in Russia. It seems pretty logical to me that if the Russians know enough to block us psychically, then they know enough to RV. You can't have an antidote without a poison."

  "So this devil is a Russian avatar?"

  "I think so. I met him earlier today. When I went on the recon to check out the nuke warheads shipment. He was there. In the same room at the railhead. I couldn't see him and I don't think he saw me, but he was there. I felt him. And I know he felt me."

  "Does Raisor know this?"

  "I told him. He didn't seem that interested. The CIA reports are unsubstantiated according to him. And he chooses to disbelieve reports we give him that he doesn't want to hear."

  "But this means the Russians probably know about the planned attack," Dalton said.

  "There's a high probability of that," Jackson said. "I've read numerous unclassified reports of the strong Russian interest in remote viewing an
d psychic phenomena. In fact…" She paused, but Dalton indicated for her to continue. "In fact, there's some evidence that the Russians were trying to tap into psychic weapons a long time ago. In 1958 there was a tremendous explosion of undetermined origins just north of Chelyabinsk in the central Soviet Union that devastated a large amount of countryside. The CIA formally reported it as a nuclear mishap, but there was quite a bit of speculation that it was caused when some sort of psychic weapon misfired.

  "There's a scientist, a Dr. Vasilev, at the Moscow Institute of Physiological Psychology, who has written several papers that, if you read between the lines, indicate strong Russian experimentation in psychic weapons. I think this Chyort, this devil, may be the latest generation of such a weapon."

  The lieutenant shivered and Dalton put an arm on her shoulder. He could feel the shaking, something he’d felt before from soldiers who had been pushed too far and couldn't handle it anymore. Combat stress.

  Jackson leaned her head into his arm, her voice no longer that of the woman, but the girl who’d been scared. "I don't know what this thing is. I met the devil today and now he knows me. And he'll get me next time I go over there."

  "Listen to me," Dalton said in a low voice. "Listen to me. I know you're afraid and it's okay to be afraid. Because you got something to be afraid of and you just had something real bad happen.

  "When I was—“ Dalton paused—“let’s just say in a very bad place, being held captive. They brought in another prisoner one afternoon. They carried him down the corridor past my cell, and I could see that he was in bad shape. Been beaten pretty badly by the villagers."

  Dalton heard Jackson sniffle. He kept speaking.

  "They put him in the cell next to me. I heard him crying that night. Hell, I remember crying my first night after I came to."

  Jackson looked up at the sergeant major in surprise.

  Dalton smiled. "Anyone who wasn't scared or didn't feel afraid in such a situation would have to be nuts. I've met a few guys who weren't afraid in combat, who actually enjoyed it. They were sociopaths. And those guys scared the piss out of me.

  "Anyway, I reached through the bars and called to him. I got him to put his hand out and I held it. All night long. Because the thing we're afraid of more than anything else is being alone."

  Jackson pulled back slightly and Dalton took his arm off her shoulders. "This devil doesn't scare you as much as the thought of facing him alone. But that isn't going to happen. Next time you meet this Chyort, this devil, you won't be alone. We'll be there with you."

  Jackson stood up.

  "Okay?" Dalton asked.

  Jackson nodded, her eyes red.

  "Get some rest," Dalton said. "I'd take one of Hammond's shots if I was you."

  Dalton watched her walk away. Jackson reminded him in a way of Marie. He tried to pinpoint what the semblance was, then realized there was nothing in particular except that Jackson had needed him.

  He sat in the dark of the bunkroom, his mind not on the upcoming mission, but on the past. The first time he had been under fire. The day that had torn him away from Marie for five long months.

  *****

  "He must keep this bandage on for three days."

  Master Sergeant Jimmy Dalton listened as the interpreter relayed his instructions to the mother. Dalton spoke some Pashtun, not fluently, but well enough so that he could have given the information himself, but he’d learned that it went over better coming from the interpreter. It was scary enough for these people to come with their medical problems. The concept of one of the foreigners speaking their language was something that took a while for most to assimilate and accept, and Dalton's priority was his patient's health, not immediate cultural acceptance. He knew the latter would require time and patience, and he was going to be here for a year, so he was prepared to take it slow.

  Dalton was in full battle dress, encumbered by body armor. He was leading a MEDCAP team to this small village near the Pakistan border, trying to wins hearts and minds while the Taliban were more than willing to lop off heads to control their bodies. He had three other SF soldiers and a half-dozen Afghani militia in his small patrol.

  "You should all leave," the woman told the interpreter as she bundled her son up.

  The interpreter glanced at Dalton, knowing he had heard. "Why is that?"

  The woman swept her hand at the steep mountainside. "Many, many from the south. They will kill all of you."

  “Tell her she's welcome and thanks,” Dalton told the interpreter. He circled his fist over his head. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Dalton sent out flankers and the patrol quickly hit the trail leaving the village nestled in an isolated village. He didn’t like the tactical scenario, with steep, high ground to either side, but he hadn’t picked the mission, which was a soldier’s bane.

  As they entered the narrow canyon that was the only means of ingress or egress to the village, Dalton held up a fist, halting the small patrol. His back felt like there was an army of small ants climbing up it, and he reached back to brush them off, when he realized that the feeling was inside his head, not actually on his skin.

  The first RPG hit ten meters to his left.

  “Cover, contact right!” Dalton shouted.

  The next RPG came two seconds later. From above and to the left. Dalton had a moment’s awareness of the deadliness of the trap they’d sprung when the rocket propelled grenade exploded on the very boulder he’d been heading for to take cover behind.

  That was the last memory he had until he woke up in the cave. Rusting bars kept him corralled along one side of the cavern. There were a half dozen such cages lining the wall. All the others were empty which told Dalton either the rest of his patrol had made it out safely or they were all dead. His gear was gone, leaving only his fatigue pants, minus belt, and his t-shirt.

  It was dark, barely enough light coming the entrance to see.

  A Taliban sat five feet in front of the cage, slowly sharpening a scimitar. When he saw Dalton was awake, he smiled.

  *****

  Dalton looked down. His hands were clenching the edge of the bed, his knuckles white. He forced his fingers to let go. Slowly he let go of the memories of Afghanistan. He cleared his mind and passed into an uneasy slumber.

  *****

  Feteror's demon avatar slowly materialized as he stalked down the empty corridor. The dull glow of the dim night lighting in the building rippled through his form, the sound of his claws on the tile floor a low clicking noise echoing into silence. He paused at a door. He reached down. It was locked.

  His form disappeared as he reentered the virtual plane and flowed through the thick steel, coming out the other side and reforming on the real plane. The room was lit with the glow of a dozen screensaver programs. Feteror went to the center console. He reached out a long claw and carefully tapped on the keyboard, accessing the program he wanted.

  It had taken him two months to get the code word he needed to enter the GRU classified database. Two months of hovering unseen on the virtual plane in the background at various GRU sites, waiting for someone to log on in front of him.

  The screen cleared and the main menu came up. Feteror's right arm dematerialized as he reached forward, sliding it through the screen and directly into the computer. He could sense the inner workings and tapped directly into the mainframe. Suddenly his entire form disappeared and he flowed into the computer. He raced through the inner workings, a shadow passing on the border between the real world and virtual until he found what he was looking for. He absorbed the information, imprinting a copy into his own psyche. The data was encrypted, but that wasn't a problem—he could always get Zivon to help break the code.

  There was one more thing. When the maintenance workers had accidentally allowed him access to the security cameras inside SD8-FFEU, Feteror had taken full advantage of the opportunity. He’d accessed the small camera inside of General Rurik's quarters; no one was exempt from security's eye in the GRU-and scanned it.
He had zoomed in on the photo next to the army bed: a woman with two children. The woman whose ring Rurik wore.

  Feteror scanned through GRU personnel files until he found the information he needed.

  Satisfied, Feteror headed back out of the computer and headed for SD8-FFEU.

  *****

  "Sergeant Major, I can't do it."

  Dalton rubbed his eyes. First Jackson waking him, now this. Sergeant Trilly was standing in front of him, head down. Dalton finished zipping up his black isolation tank suit. He had five minutes before his next session. He could see a couple of the other bunks were now occupied by men who had finished their second training session.

  "Can't do what, Trilly?" Dalton knew the answer, but he was also aware he had to play this out.

  "I can't go in there again," Trilly said, his voice quavering. "I can't breathe that shit they put in your lungs. I can't get shut off like a light switch and frozen. I just can't do it!"

  Dalton looked the sergeant over. He was shivering, a blanket about his shoulders. His hair still wet, his skin covered in goosebumps. He remembered how Trilly had missed most of the Trojan Warrior training after getting his collarbone broken during the aikido training.

  "You don't have any choice," Dalton said. "You're the team sergeant. Your team goes on a mission in thirty-six hours. Can't is not an option."

  Trilly made a choked sound. "I can't go in there again, Sergeant Major. I can't. I know I can't. You can order me and make me put that stuff on, but I can't do it."

  Dalton felt the soreness in his throat where the tube had twice gone down. His body was covered with small welts, from what he had no idea. He had just noticed them when getting dressed.

  Dalton stepped close to the other man and kept his voice very low and level. "Get some sleep, Master Sergeant Trilly. You'll feel better."