Psychic Warrior

by Bob Mayer

  Feteror raced northwest, following the bomb's path. He jumped, saw the bomb, projected the second and final jump point, and the bomb was gone.

  Feteror jumped again. He was exactly where he wanted to be. The bomb appeared right in front of him in the virtual plane. He reached out and wrapped his claws around it. He moved in three smaller jumps to the exact position, high over a tall roof with the X of a helipad directly below.

  The target. The bomb slid through the wall between the virtual and real. The timer clicked to nine.

  Feteror jumped twenty kilometers away to the south. He slid into the real plane, hovering in the air a thousand feet above the ground, and looked back in the direction he’d come from.

  A tremendous flash lit up the early morning sky.

  GRU headquarters was nothing but a smoking hole in the earth: ground zero.

  *****

  Colonel Mishenka was only twelve kilometers from the epicenter; the helicopter he was on was in final approach to land at the military airfield. He heard the startled yells of the pilots and caught the flash as it washed over the helicopter.

  The fireball and shock wave were next, rolling out from ground zero. The pilots were shouting, stunned by the sudden loss of all electrical equipment on board the aircraft, flying by the seats of their pants, bringing the chopper down as quickly as they dared, seeing the wave of fire that was coming toward them.

  Mishenka watched the approaching wave dispassionately through the Plexiglas window on the side of the cargo bay. It would either dissipate or kill them.

  The chopper slammed into the edge of the runway, the shocks on the wheels absorbing only part of the impact. Mishenka was thrown against his seatbelt, which he rapidly unbuckled. He threw open the side door and stepped outside, facing directly into the wave.

  But he already knew it was losing power. He'd seen films of nuclear blasts before, and this one wasn't big. Somewhere under five kilotons, his mind calculated. By the time the wave hit him, it was like a strong, warm wind.

  Mishenka also knew with that wind was a very unhealthy dosage of strontium 90, cesium 137, iodine 131, and carbon 14, the makeup of a nuclear weapon's fallout having been drummed into him during the many training sessions he had gone through. He also knew that the pills in his antiradiadon kit were placebos, designed to allow the soldier to keep fighting until he became incapacitated.

  He looked at the runway. A Mig-1.42, the cutting edge of Russian aerospace technology, was waiting as he had ordered. It was shaped like a dart, with two large engines, each below a tall vertical tail. The cockpit was open and the pilot was yelling at a ground crew man. Colonel Mishenka walked across the concrete runway to the plane.

  The pilot looked down. "We cannot fly! No circuits. No radio. Nothing."

  "Do the engines work?" Mishenka asked.

  The pilot stared at him. "Yes, but-"

  "If the engines work, you can fly, correct?"

  "But I will have no instrumentation. Colonel!"

  "Your compass works, correct?"

  "My ball compass, yes, but my navigational computer is completely fried."

  Mishenka held up his briefcase. "I have a map. We can fly low and navigate by watching the ground beneath us. I also have a shielded satellite phone in here, so we will have communications."

  The pilot shook his head. "Flying low. It will be very dangerous, Colonel. Perhaps we should wait until-" He stopped as Mishenka laughed. "What is it?"

  "Dangerous?" Mishenka spread his arms wide. "Did you see that nuclear explosion?"

  “Yes."

  "Don't you understand?" Mishenka didn't wait for an answer. "We’re all dead if we stay here. It’ll just take a day or two. So I would much rather die flying into a mountain than wasting away." He pointed at the small packet on the man's right shoulder. "Have you taken your pill?"

  The pilot was still struggling to understand the impact of what he had just been told. He could only shake his head.

  “Take your pill," Mishenka said. "You'll feel better and you'll be all right as long as we get out of here in time."

  The pilot ripped open the packet and pulled out the pill, gulping it down without the benefit of water. He grabbed the inset ladder and flipped it down. "Let's be on our way."

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Dalton received word of the nuclear explosion outside of Moscow as the SR-75 crossed the North Pole. He leaned back, uncomfortable in the hard jump seat, and closed his eyes. Lieutenant Jackson was tapped into the secure intelligence network, and the extent of the devastation was still being assessed, but thousands were dead.

  "Jackson?"

  "Yes?"

  "Where is GRU headquarters in relation to the blast site?"

  "Seismic readers have fixed the epicenter," Jackson said. "GRU headquarters would be right where they’ve triangulated the center of the blast."

  “Try to get in contact with Colonel Mishenka."

  "I’ve been trying to. There’s no answer."

  Dalton ran a hand across his forehead. "Great."

  *****

  Oma listened to the sirens racing to the southwest. The mushroom cloud had loomed high in the sky for minutes after the explosion, then slowly dissipated. She had stared out her armored windows at it, before finally picking up the phone. She tried Barsk's cell phone but she got no reply. She called on the secure fax line, overriding the fax signal when it came on, until someone on the other end picked it up. She told the man to get her grandson.

  "Barsk!" she yelled when he finally answered.

  "Yes, Oma? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, but my phone has not been working. I think-"

  Oma cut him off. "What the hell have you done?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "A nuclear weapon just exploded outside Moscow!"

  There was no immediate answer.

  "Did you use the generator? Did you fire a nuclear weapon?"

  "It was Chyort, Oma. He said he had to take care of something. Test the weapon."

  "You let him activate the generator?"

  "Let him! How could I stop him?"

  Oma realized the futility of the conversation. "Put Leksi on."

  There was a short pause, then a gruff, "Yes?"

  "Do you have control of the situation?"

  "No. Barsk is letting this monster run crazy."

  Oma rubbed her forehead. "All right. Listen to me. I’m sending you a target list by the secure fax. I want you to make sure Vasilev targets all the sites listed in order. Is that clear?"

  "Clear."

  "Put Barsk back on."

  “Yes?" Her grandson's voice was petulant. Oma was tempted to simply hang up, but she knew she could not do that.

  "Barsk, listen very carefully. I’m sending a target list to Leksi. He’ll insure that it’s carried out. I want you to leave there. Get as far away as possible as quickly as you can and meet me at my lake house."

  "But Oma!" Barsk protested. "This is my responsibility. I’m in charge. If you don’t trust me to accomplish this, then what-"

  "Shut up!" Oma yelled into the phone. "Do what I say or I wipe my hands of you."

  "Yes, Oma."

  She turned the phone off. Then she went to her desk and picked up the list Abd al-Bari had sent her. She went back to the fax and punched in the number for the hangar. When the tone screeched, she fed the target list in.

  She watched as it disappeared into the machine, then reappeared in the feed tray. She took it back to her desk and sat down. She fed the list into the shredder.

  Then she picked up the phone and punched in the number for the NATO representative.

  *****

  Colonel Mishenka finally got the satellite radio working ten minutes after they were airborne. It took him another five minutes to punch through the jumbled calls of the Russian military reacting in shock to the nuclear detonation. The fact that since the breakup of the Soviet Union and the attempted coup against the President, the GRU had increased its strangleh
old on the control of intelligence and the communications capability of the entire military meant that destruction of GRU headquarters virtually decapitated the Russian military's ability to act.

  Listening to the confused chatter, Mishenka was aware that there were many officers who were convinced the nuclear attack had been a surgical strike by the Americans; a prelude to an all-out attack. Missile forces were going on alert and the strategic bomber forces were opening their hangars and unlocking the vaults on nuclear weapons that had been mothballed years ago.

  The old ways died hard, and the only ones—other than the President's office—who had known about SD8, Chyort, and the American cooperation in tracking down the twenty nuclear weapons, were all glowing ash in the Moscow countryside.

  Mishenka punched in the number he had been given by the American. It was answered immediately.

  "Dalton here."

  "This is Colonel Mishenka."

  "I was afraid you'd been caught in the explosion," Dalton said.

  "The stakes have been raised," Mishenka said. "Not only has GRU headquarters been taken out, but S-D eight is totally isolated now."

  "Our enemy is very smart," Dalton said.

  "I know who it is, or who it was, and he is indeed very smart. And ruthless."

  “Taking out a couple of square miles of Moscow goes beyond ruthless."

  "Let us hope that’s the limit this goes to."

  "What do you mean?" Dalton asked.

  Mishenka quickly filled him in on the reaction of the Russian military.

  "We have to secure the nuclear weapons and this phased-displacement generator," Mishenka finished with. "Who knows where the next target will be?"

  "As I told you," Dalton said, "we have to destroy Chyort in order to be able to find and then get to the generator and bombs."

  "What’s your plan?"

  "Are your men moving?"

  "I have a company of Spetsnatz at the closest airfield to S-D eight. My time to that location is twenty-five minutes."

  "I'm forty-five minutes out," Dalton said.

  "I'll alert them that you're coming," Mishenka said. "And once we’re there?"

  "We go in and take the station out."

  "Hell of a plan," Mishenka said. "I have the defense setup for the station and it won’t be that easy."

  "I didn't say it was going to be easy," Dalton said. "I said we were going to do it."

  Mishenka smiled inside his oxygen mask "Very good. I will see you shortly."

  *****

  "As you now know, what I told you was true," Oma said.

  "I grant that you have proved you have the nuclear warheads," Abd al-Bari said matter-of-factly, "but you have not proved your capability to put them anywhere. You could have driven that one in a truck to Moscow."

  "I just want to insure that you’ll pay the balance," Oma said. "I’m putting everything on the line."

  "You do what we agreed, the balance will be there," Abd al-Bari said.

  "Good." Oma put the phone down. She stood and looked about her office. She knew it was the last time she would be here. There was nothing in it she wanted. She had prepared long for this moment. She went to the door and walked out without a backward glance.

  *****

  "Where is Barsk?" Feteror hissed at Leksi.

  The navy commando shrugged. He could care less where the boy was.

  "Let me see that," Feteror demanded.

  Leksi stared at the demon for a few seconds before holding the fax out.

  Feteror leaned over, blood-red eyes close to the writing. He laughed as he saw the targets, the sound causing those in the hangar to wince. "Beautiful! The beginning of the end for everyone."

  He pointed a claw at the generator. "Load another warhead. We have some other business to take care of before we proceed with your master's list."

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Lieutenant Jackson and Dr. Hammond were alone in the control chamber, other than the bodies in the isolation tubes. Hammond was having Sybyl run through various projections about a possible connection to the lost psyches; if they still existed on the virtual plane. So far they’d come up with nothing. She was also continuing the search for Raisor.

  Jackson was monitoring communications between Sybyl and Sergeant Major Dalton while keeping an eye on the small television set to the side of the master control panel. CNN was broadcasting the first reports of the nuclear explosion outside of Moscow. Confusion seemed to be the common denominator in all the reports, with the source of the bomb being the most speculated-upon aspect.

  "That's strange," Dr. Hammond suddenly said.

  "What is?" Jackson asked.

  "I'm picking up something through Sybyl. Something on the virtual-" She paused, staring at her readouts.

  A loud screech ripped through the room, echoing off the walls, the sound piling on top of itself. Red warning lights flashed, pulsing, adding to the confusion. Jackson looked up in shock as in the center of the room, above the isolation tanks, a small black sphere appeared, the surface pulsating, glistening, straining to expand.

  Hammond's panicked voice punched through the noise.

  "The psychic wall has been breached. I'm reverting all power to interior containment."

  "Oh my God!" Jackson whispered as she checked the infrared scanner. It showed a nuclear bomb hanging in the center of the room in the virtual plane. She looked up. A square inch of the top tip of the bomb appeared in the real plane. Then another inch.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  "Sybyl's holding it, but I don't know how long she can keep it contained." Lieutenant Jackson's voice was on the edge of hysteria, but her training and discipline were holding. Dalton had heard radio calls like this before: from the trapped Delta Force soldiers in Mogadishu; from pilots shot down in the Gulf War calling for rescue as Iraqis closed in; from other patrols ambushed in Afghanistan.

  "But Sybyl is holding, right?"

  "If she wasn't, we wouldn't be talking. The bomb must be on some sort of timer that is on hold until it clears into real space."

  "Can you get out of there?" Dalton asked.

  Jackson gave a wild laugh. “To go out we'd have to shut down the psychic wall. If Sybyl turns off the wall, we'd be destroyed instantly. We're caught between two walls. The bomb is inside the outer wall, but Sybyl used the backup containment program to stop it before it came into the real plane inside. The psychic wall and the containment program work off the same system. Turn one off, you turn the other off."

  Dalton looked at Major Orrick. "How long?" he mouthed.

  Orrick flicked his ten fingers at Dalton. Ten minutes.

  "How long can the wall hold?" Dalton asked.

  "Dr. Hammond is putting every bit of power she can into the computer. But we have no idea. Every time Sybyl ups the containment, it seems like the other side ups too. Geez, Sergeant Major, the damn nuke is just hanging there above our heads, slowly coming into reality. It's about a fifth in now. It comes all the way in, we're done for. I don't want to put any extra pressure on you or anything, Sergeant Major, but could you hurry the hell up!"

  *****

  Feteror had put the bomb into Bright Gate without much trouble. The outer virtual wall had been relatively easy to pierce. But that damn computer had reacted with startling speed. The bomb had been caught in a virtual containment field.

  He'd left the bomb there, operating off the program from the phased-displacement generator. It was going into the real world, much slower than Feteror would have liked, but it would get there eventually.

  *****

  “Two minutes out," Colonel Searl announced over the intercom. "Slowing to recon speed."

  "Extending surveillance pod," Major Orrick said. He looked up at Dalton. "We have to slow down or else we'd rip the surveillance pod right off. We've slowed to about two thousand miles an hour." He leaned forward and placed his eyes into a set of eyepieces that had cycled up from the console. "We'll get a good shot across the spectrum. Someone's farti
ng down there, we'll pick it up."

  Dalton waited. He looked down, noted that his left foot was tapping impatiently against the wall of the recon room and forced it to stop.

  "Missile launch." Orrick mentioned it as if he were saying the sun had come up in the morning.

  "We're tracking red," Colonel Searl acknowledged.

  Orrick hit a button. "Pod in. Clear to boogie." He smiled at Dalton as they were both slammed back in the seat. "We're faster than any missile made."

  “Tracking green," Searl announced. "We're all clear. Entering approach to destination airfield." He laughed. "Damn Russkies are gonna be surprised to see this baby land."

  Dalton clicked on the SATCOM link "Jackson?"

  There was no reply.

  "Jackson, I don't want to take anything from what you're doing, but if you can answer me, let me know."

  "I can talk," Jackson said.

  "How's the wall holding?" Dalton asked.

  "It's a losing battle. The bomb is sliding from virtual to real at the rate of three percent per minute. At this rate, it will completely be in the real plane in twenty-two more minutes."

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  "Sergeant Major." Colonel Mishenka snapped a salute, which Dalton automatically returned.

  "Colonel Mishenka."

  Mishenka unrolled a blueprint and put it on the hood of the four-by-four he'd driven to the SR-75's taxi point "This is Special Department Number Eight's Far-Field Experimental Unit." His finger touched several points. "Surface-to-air missiles that fire automatically if the airspace is encroached upon."

  "We already had one of those fired at us as we came in." Dalton put the imagery the SR-75 had taken next to the blueprint. He checked his watch: twenty minutes.