by Bob Mayer
"Like you said, Opa, the generals don't care about the common man. They use us like a sponge until we’re soiled and dirty and can work no longer, then they throw us away. They have betrayed the entire country. I gave everything, everything, for Mother Russia, and she kicked me in the face. You gave everything. Millions gave everything. And now criminals and bootlickers run the country. I’m going to end that and make them all pay."
Opa looked at him. "How can you do that if we’re not real? Is this a dream? I don’t understand."
Feteror shook his head, knowing there was no way he could explain this to his grandfather. '”Trust me, Opa. I will do all that I say."
Opa frowned. "But why? I fought in the Great Patriotic War. I came home to you and my daughter, your mother. I raised you. I didn’t seek vengeance. What was done in the war was done for necessity. I still had my life to live."
"I don't have mine!" Feteror exploded.
Opa waved his hands around the glade. "But you have this!"
"It isn't real!" Feteror screamed.
Opa reached out and touched Feteror's arm. "There is good in everyone, grandson. You must-" Opa began, but he was interrupted by the bright flash of General Rurik's summons.
Despite his anxiety to get going, Feteror paused. He put a hand on his grandfather's shoulder. "Opa, I have to go now. We will not meet like this again."
Opa smiled, revealing his yellowed and stained teeth. "I don’t understand what this place is or why I’m here. I don't understand why you feel you must do what you feel you must, but you are my grandson, so I will be with you in spirit. Good luck, Arkady. Godspeed."
Feteror nodded, then flashed through the circuits to access his line to General Rurik. As he did so, his grandfather's last words echoed in his mind. God? There was no God as far as Feteror was concerned. No God would allow what had been done to him to happen.
He spoke into his circuits. "Yes, General?"
"We found my youngest son, exactly where you said he would be."
Feteror waited.
"Find my wife and other son," Rurik ordered.
"I will."
The door opened and Feteror was free. As he raced out the window into the virtual plane, he realized that if all went well, this would be the last time.
*****
"We can't beat Chyort in the virtual plane." Dalton's voice was firm.
"That makes Psychic Warrior worthless." Hammond was shaking her head. "The whole purpose of this program was-"
Dalton slapped his hand in the tabletop. "Look in the chambers. My people and yours are just empty shells, and the essence of those people is dead!"
Dalton watched the doctor with no sympathy. Her little world, her pet project, had fallen apart and failed. A black mark on her efficiency report. Dalton was more concerned with the bodies in the tanks and the twenty nuclear weapons heading toward the phased-displacement generator. And Chyort.
"As I said, I've already been in contact with the National Security Council," Hammond said. "They're using a satellite to search for the phased-displacement generator and to track down the nukes. They are also opening contact with the Russian government to offer support."
"It won't be that easy," Dalton said. "Things are as screwed up on their end as they are on ours. The clock is ticking and by the time the official world reacts, it’ll be too late."
"They'll contact us as soon as they discover anything," Hammond said.
Dalton stood. "Find where Raisor went. And where he is now." He walked out without another word. He went to the dispensary and looked in on Barnes. The sergeant was sleeping, his body wrapped in blankets.
Dalton reached up and unpinned his own sergeant major's insignia from his collar and put it on the small stand to the left of the bed. Then Dalton pulled his wedding band off his ring finger. He looked at the inscription on the inside for several seconds, then placed it next to the rank.
Dalton left the dispensary and went to the main chamber and to the closest isolation tank. Captain Anderson's body floated listlessly inside. The breathing fluid was moving slowly through the clear tubes, and the monitor said that the machine was keeping his heart going. But staring at the body inside the tube, the head covered with the TACPAD, Dalton felt little hope. Even if their psyches were recoverable, he knew that Chyort still waited on the virtual plane, ready to stop him from succeeding in any attempt to recover them.
Dalton stood for a long time, staring and thinking.
"I have a question."
The voice startled Dalton out of his morbid reverie.
Lieutenant Jackson had come up behind him unheard and unnoticed. She looked past him at Captain Anderson's body.
"What's your question?" Dalton asked.
"The story you told me about the guy who was brought in wounded while you were a POW and how you stayed up with him all night?"
"Yes?"
"What happened to him?"
Dalton sighed. "He died within a week. He just gave up."
"But you didn't, right?"
"No, I didn't."
"Don't give up now, Sergeant Major. We need you."
*****
Feteror popped into the GRU main conference room and maintained a silent presence for ten minutes. More than enough time to know that the Americans were now putting their cards on the table and talking to his government through the GRU, preparing a conventional response to the bombs being stolen.
Feteror had not expected such a quick reaction, but he also had not expected the assault at the ambush site by the Bright Gate personnel. He saw the Spetsnatz colonel sitting quietly at the conference table, listening to the various reports coming in.
Feteror came closer to the man. He knew him. Years ago, in Afghanistan. Then it had been Captain Mishenka, a ruthless and efficient leader of an elite hunter killer team. A fool to still be sitting here serving a new government when the old one had betrayed his fight in Afghanistan.
Despite Mishenka's presence, Feteror's own government acting alone did not worry him. By the time they discovered where the phased-displacement generator was, it would be too late. And the only way they would find the stolen nuclear weapons was when they exploded at their targets.
But the Americans, that was another story. They had capabilities that could pose a threat either acting on their own or helping the GRU. Feteror slid along the virtual plane, out of the room.
*****
Inside the conference room, Colonel Mishenka shivered, looking up at the ceiling. He'd felt a cold draft down to the very marrow of his bones for just a second. His eyes narrowed, the deep lines etched at the sides indicating the years he’d spent fighting in the brutal elements.
The chill was gone. He returned his focus to the briefer at the front of the room.
*****
In orbit, 285 statute miles above the surface of the earth, thrusters on Warfighter 1 fired, maneuvering the 850-pound satellite toward the target grid area. On board, doors slid open, revealing the hyperspectral imaging equipment. It was the most advanced spy satellite in the American inventory, launched just the previous year and capable of all-weather, all-condition viewing across a large number of frequency bands at extremely high resolution. Some of its imagers could even "see" through ceilings into bunkers and hangars by using certain band lengths.
Just as important as the imaging equipment was the onboard computer that could be programmed to look over wide swaths of terrain for a specific image. The RHC3000, high-density mass-memory command and data handler, was currently being updated with information sent by the Russians regarding the makeup of the phased-displacement generator and with the exact composition of the twenty missing warheads.
It would be in position in six minutes to begin searching outward from the site of the ambush into central Russia.
*****
Feteror had never gone this high. There had never been a need to and it had never occurred to him to try. As he passed out of the atmosphere, he wondered if he could travel far in
space, or if his virtual link to Zivon and SD8- FFEU had a limit.
It was dark in this netherworld, not the grayish white of the virtual plane closer to the planet. A dim area, desolate, empty of the whispering of the souls of those close to the surface. Feteror found it quite soothing.
He reached out through the virtual plane with his senses. He picked up the approach of Warfighter 1 as it closed on the ambush site. He vectored on the satellite. It was a spectacular piece of machinery. He noted the imagers pointing earthward out of the bay, the small maneuvering thrusters firing slight puffs, orienting the vehicle.
Feteror slid into the satellite. He became part of it, using its imagers as his own senses. He looked down at the earth, able to see the curving horizon of the planet in all directions. It was so spectacular that he almost forgot his task; but not quite.
He processed a picture through the main camera. Then he accessed the thruster control program.
*****
"Sergeant Major."
Dalton heard the resignation in Hammond's voice before he turned and saw the defeat etched across her face.
"Yes?"
Hammond wordlessly held up a glossy piece of paper.
Dalton took it, Lieutenant Jackson looking over his shoulder. The demon's face was eerily etched against a black background, as horrible as Dalton remembered it.
"Chyort," Dalton said, handing the imagery back. Jackson was nodding, also recognizing their foe from the ambush.
Hammond spoke in a monotone. "He took out the satellite the NSA was sending over to find the generator and the nukes."
"’Took out’," Dalton repeated. "How did he do that?"
"They don't know, but they have no communication with it and the tracking station can't even pick its orbit. It's gone. The Russians . . .” Hammond's voice betrayed her admiration in the face of the disaster. "They must have done something completely different than us to come up with this thing, this Chyort."
Dalton considered the photo. "He wanted us to know he did it. There's no other reason for him to allow his image to be processed."
"Any more information on who or what Chyort is?" Lieutenant Jackson asked.
"I'm working on getting that, but my best guess is that he's the end result of their version of their Psychic Warrior program."
Jackson gave a derisive laugh. "They've got something going that we don't have a clue about. It's far beyond what we're doing here."
Dalton shook his head. "We don't have time for this." He pointed at the imagery. "Allowing himself to be photographed like that means he's confident that he can accomplish what he wants to and he's not worried about us stopping him." He turned to Hammond, who was still staring at the picture. "I want communication with the National Security Council."
Hammond nodded. "We have a direct link in the control room."
"How can we stop them?" Jackson asked while they walked to the control room.
"I'm an old soldier," Dalton said, "so I say we do it the old-fashioned way. With some new-fashioned help."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Feteror's roar vibrated the metal in the hangar. "How can you not be ready? You have the program!"
Vasilev ignored the demon pacing about. "I’ve done my best. I’m trying to update the language of the program to work on these new computers, but I’m not a computer expert."
A claw flashed out, stopping just short of Vasilev's neck. The old man didn't flinch.
"I thought the program had already been updated when it was switched to the CD-ROM."
"Somewhat, yes," Vasilev agreed. "But that was three years ago and already computers have advanced beyond that."
"How long will it take?"
"Anywhere from a couple of hours to a couple of days."
"We don’t have a couple of days."
"Whether you have the time or not makes no difference in how long updating the programming will take," Vasilev said. "There is also the additional problem of once the base programming is running, having it synched with a psychic projection. We need a way to target the warhead once it is on the virtual plane." He spread his hands. "I don't see that part of the system here."
"I'm that part of the system," Feteror said. "You get it working. I'll take care of the rest."
"I will try."
Feteror shook his wings, sending a breeze through the hangar. “Try is not good enough. The problem is the computer? I will take care of it."
He slid out of the real plane and flowed into the computer Vasilev had been working at. He raced along the electronic pathways. There was much he understood here from his time inside Zivon.
He came to the place where Vasilev had been working. To his virtual eyes, there was a logjam of data, the pieces not fitting, turned the wrong way.
He worked like a madman, twisting the data to fit, putting the pieces in place. He cleared up what he could see, then reversed his path out of the computer, re-forming into the real world in front of the old man.
"Get back to work," Feteror snarled. "It should take you less time now."
Feteror's head twisted on his gnarled shoulders as the sound of inbound helicopters made its way through the metal siding of the hangar. Feteror flashed outside as Leksi's two helicopters landed and the bombs were off-loaded.
All was in place, but they could not act until the advanced computer could process the old program. Feteror would have found it humorous except for the stakes involved.
*****
"Is everyone clear on what they have to do?" Sergeant Major Dalton was dressed in the camouflage fatigues he had worn to Bright Gate. He was striding down the corridor that led to the hangar. Lieutenant Jackson and Dr. Hammond were having to run to keep up with him.
"Clear," Jackson said.
Hammond reluctantly nodded.
Dalton glanced at Jackson. "You remember what you have to do, right?"
She nodded.
"And?" Dalton prompted.
"We don't do anything until you clear the way," Jackson said.
"Roger that" Dalton continued walking. "But the minute I take care of Chyort, you have to move quickly." He glanced at Hammond. "Is everything set to get this started?"
"They're still trying to get through to the Russians."
"What about my ride?"
"It’ll meet you at DIA" Hammond looked troubled. "This is going to cause a hell of a stink."
"The stink has already started," Dalton said. "Let's hope we can keep it at that level. One of those nukes goes off somewhere and everything you're worrying about right now will be insignificant. Any idea where Raisor went?"
"I've had Sybyl scan but no sign."
A technician came running down the hallway. She held a small metal case in her hand. "Here's the SATCOM link you asked for."
Dalton took it. He walked through the door into the hangar. The blades were already turning on the Blackhawk, and the side door was open.
"Good luck!" Jackson said.
"Don't go over until it's clear," Dalton warned her one last time.
"I won't."
Dalton climbed on board the chopper. As he slid the door shut, the platform began sliding out of the side of the mountain. The last thing he saw as they lifted off was Lieutenant Jackson, standing alone, watching him fly away.
*****
Oma stared at her computer screen. Two deposits of four hundred million were sitting side by side in their separate accounts. Her husband had always told her to keep her options open, to never play her hand until the last minute.
She leaned back in her chair and looked at the clock. There was still time to play this just right.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sergeant Major Dalton woke as the Blackhawk settled down onto the grass next to the longest runway at Denver International Airport. Several phone calls from the National Security Council had shut down the runway twenty minutes ago. Police cars, lights flashing, were parked near the end of the runway.
"Your ride is about two minutes out," th
e pilot informed Dalton through the headset.
Dalton opened the side door and stepped off the chopper, carrying the com link. He could see the white-capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains to the west. The white peaks of the uniquely designed terminal were about two miles away, but Dalton had no intention of going there.
He scanned the sky and was rewarded when he spotted a small dot rapidly approaching from over the mountains. It closed swiftly, the shape not that of a normal plane, but more a solid V-form without wings.
As it got closer and slowed on its approach, Dalton could make out details. It was over 250 feet long and a hundred feet from tip to tip at the widest. The best Dalton could describe the aircraft was that it was shaped like a stretched-out B-2 bomber.
Nose up, it came down toward the far end of the runway from Dalton. Those in the terminal and waiting planes were getting the first public glimpse of one of the most classified projects in the Black Budget, but apparently the decision makers on the National Security Council felt that was a small price to pay for the mission he had to accomplish. Besides, a toy manufacturer had already designed and was selling a model that looked very similar to what was landing; they even had the name right: the SR-75 Penetrator, developed under the project code name Aurora.
The wheels touched down and the plane decelerated. Dalton could see smoke coming from the tires as they slowed the forward momentum. He knew about the plane from classified briefings he’d attended while assigned to a top secret antiterrorist task force. At its home base at Groom Lake in Nevada, near Nellis Air Force Base and the infamous Area 51, the plane used a the longest runway in the world-over seven miles long to take off and land. It was straining to stop on DIA's longest main runway.