Psychic Warrior (3 page)

On the surface, Vasilev spun about as the massive elevator doors buckled as if a huge hand had punched them from the inside. The earth beneath his feet trembled violently, and he fell to his knees on the icy runway.

Wires and tubes crisscrossed on the bed, and Sergeant Major Jimmy Dalton carefully scooted them aside as he gingerly sat on the edge. With a callused hand he tenderly brushed a stray lock of gray hair off the face of the woman lying there.

He could feel the press of her thin thigh against his hip, and he stared at her face, letting his hand lightly trace over every wrinkle and line etched there by the years, lingering on the closed eyelids. He let out a deep breath and took her hand in his, careful not to disturb the IV line in the back of it. He leaned over, his lips close to her ear. His voice was a low, gravelly one, one that gave an immediate sense of confidence to the listener.

"Well, my Treasure, another great day in airborne country. The colonel gives his regards. He was by last night. Lots of people are worried, but I know you're going to be all right.

"The Christmas formal is only six weeks away and, well, I was wondering if you might want to escort this old soldier there." Dalton waited, head cocked as if listening to an answer, before speaking again.

"You've been away from home for four months now. I think it's time to be coming back. I miss you."

Dalton felt her skin under his fingers. He remembered the long years when he had so yearned for just this sensation, to be able to feel her once more. He leaned close and put his lips to her ear. "You waited for me when I was deployed all those times, I'll wait forever for you. So we can be together once more."

"Sergeant Major Dalton?"

Dalton slowly straightened and looked over his shoulder at the door. A young woman, at least by his standards young, somewhere in her thirties, stood there. She held a metal clipboard in her hand. "I'm sorry to disturb you. I'm Dr. Kairns. I was assigned yesterday to take care of your wife. I assume you know that the doctor who was caring for your wife was transferred."

Dalton slid off the bed, his highly polished boots making contact with the tile floor. Dalton was a little less than average height, five feet nine inches tall, and had a stocky, well-muscled build. His face was dark and well-tanned, cut with deep lines, his hair heavily peppered with gray and shorn very short. He walked across and held out his hand. Kairns, after a moment of surprise, took it

"Thank you for taking care of Marie, ma'am," Dalton said.

"Well, you're welcome, but I haven't really done anything yet." She held up the chart "I have-"

Dalton took her elbow. "Perhaps we should talk outside."

Kairns looked over at the bed. She knew the woman could not hear them, but she allowed herself to be escorted out of the room. They walked down the hallway to an empty waiting room. Large windows revealed Cheyenne Mountain to the west, the sides covered in snow. Between the window and the mountain lay rows and rows of barracks, motor pools, and housing areas, all comprising Fort Carson, home to the 4th Infantry Division and the 10th Special Forces Group. Behind and to the right of Cheyenne Mountain, and barely visible, was the bright white top of Pikes Peak, catching the first rays of the rising sun coming over the Great Plains of Colorado from the east.

Kairns flipped open the chart once more. "We took another MRI and there's no doubt your wife suffered an aneurysm in the anterior portion of the frontal lobe." Kairns looked up at the sergeant major. He nodded, indicating he knew what an aneurysm was.

Kairns showed him the MRI. "It happened here. Fortunately, there wasn't too much bleeding or swelling of the brain, but I have to warn you it could happen at any moment even though she's been in here a while. The brain is very strange. Very delicate at times, very tough at others, and there's much we don't know about it."

"Why is she unconscious?" Dalton asked. Ever since being admitted four months ago, his wife had been in a coma.

"In effect, she also suffered a stroke. I thought Dr. Inhout would have explained all that."

"He did, but I'd like to know what you think the situation is, given that you’re the one who’s going to be caring for her."

"Even if your wife regains consciousness, there is a high likelihood of some brain damage. The blood that came from the burst blood vessel, well, that flow was interrupted, obviously, and the part of the brain that blood vessel feeds didn’t get enough oxygen for an extended period of time."

Dalton walked over to a hard plastic seat and sank down in it. He wore heavily starched camouflage fatigues that were covered with insignia: The Combat Infantry badge with two stars and the Master Parachutist badge were sewn above his name tag. Below it was sewn the small dive-mask badge indicating Dalton was scuba qualified. On his left shoulder was a Special Forces patch, of subdued green and black to match the fatigues. Above it was a Ranger tab and a Special Forces tab. He wore an identical Special Forces patch on his right shoulder, indicating combat service in the unit. The patch was in the shape of an arrowhead, homage to the stealth and craftiness of Indian warriors. An upright dagger was in the center, to indicate the covert way Special Forces operated. Three lightning bolts ripped across the dagger, representing the three means by which Special Forces soldiers infiltrated their objective: by air, sea, and land. The patch, and the Green Beret that went along with it, were the insignia of the elite of the United States Army. Sergeant Major Dalton had served thirty years in the unit. Mornings like this he felt the cumulative effect of those thirty years.

Kairns grabbed another seat and pulled it nearby.

"What's the prognosis, ma'am?" Kairns had an oak leaf on her white collar, and despite the twenty-year age difference between them, she held the higher rank. Other than her rank the only other insignia she wore was the abacus of the Medical Corps. On his collar, Dalton had pinned the three chevrons and three rockers, with a star circled by a wreath in the center, indicating he was a sergeant major, the highest enlisted rank in the Army.

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. 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 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.

Kairns leaned back in her seat and looked directly at him. Dalton noted she had soft green eyes, just like Marie's. 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.

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 apparently satisfied Feteror.

He felt full power come bade 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. 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 change it in order 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 international 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.