Psychic Warrior (9 page)

"Really?" Oma said. There was a rumbling sound that she supposed was the creature's laughter. It caused even her hardened stomach to feel queasy.

"Ah, so maybe it was not such a mistake? Wheels within wheels perhaps?"

"What I do with my personnel is none of your business," Oma said.

"It is if it threatens this operation."

"I felt confident you could deal with it if there was a problem" Oma said. "And you did. So shall we move on?" There was a pause. She felt the red eyes burning into her.

"So perhaps you are bluffing. Maybe you didn't know about Dmitri. Maybe I’m working with the wrong people."

"You're working with me," Oma said, "because I’m the most powerful and because you know that we can achieve our goals together."

"Remember, old hag, that my goals are the only ones I care about"

"I assumed that long ago," Oma replied. "My main concern is who else you are working for. Who made you what you are? The KGB? The GRU?"

"Perhaps I am from the devil."

Oma shook her head. "I know there is no God and I need no Satan to accept the evil that men do. I saw enough horror in the Great Patriotic War to convince me of both of those things. When I saw what the Nazis did to my parents, my village, I knew that man could make greater evil than anything written in the Bible. Men made you, of that I am sure."

The shadow seemed to grow behind the monster. "Keep in mind that I know what you fear. Everyone has something that controls them. A chain in their own mind that if someone yanks, they can make you do what they will. I know what controls you inside your own head."

Oma stared at him. "If you knew such a thing, I think we would be talking differently."

The creature moved, shadows shifting in the corner. Oma had never really been sure of the form other than it had two arms and two legs. Occasionally she thought she could make out claws at the end of the huge hands, and a ridged spine on the back flaring into two large, leathery wings, but it was like trying to watch the water come in with a wave, always changing a little bit, nothing of permanence.

"The Americans are aware that there is a plot."

She clenched her steel teeth together. "Was there a leak from my organization?"

"If there was, I wouldn’t be here right now," Chyort said. "They found out from the same source that led to them stopping the beryllium shipment in Vilnius last year. The Americans put a very high priority on maintaining an eye on nuclear material. They don’t trust our government. Should we be surprised by that? They know how incompetent those fools truly are."

"Do the Americans know of Phase Two?" she asked.

"Not yet."

Oma considered the way that answer had been phrased. "I will move up the timetable."

"That would be prudent."

She stared at the demon. "Was Dmitri really working for the GRU? I suspected, but I had no proof."

"Is proof necessary? But, yes, he was turned by the GRU. Your grandson needed a lesson, one that the death of Seogky was not enough for. Also, it reduces his power, does it not? Which keeps your hand strong, does it not?"

"This is my organization," Oma said, surprised at the demon's insight. "I have run it for over forty years. I do not need your help."

"I care nothing for your organization. Only that you keep it together long enough for me to accomplish my goal. The target will be at the location I gave you at oh eight hundred local time two days from now."

“Two days? You told me it would be seven!"

Chyort moved again. Oma swore she could hear the click of claws on the hardwood floor. A scaly hand with three-inch claws came into the light and picked up a Faberge egg that rested on the desk. She could see the egg through the claw. It took all her willpower to not move her chair back.

"The GRU is not as stupid as you’d like to think," Chyort said. "They’ve moved up the timetable while keeping a train on the original schedule as a decoy. They hope to move the bombs before anyone can plan anything. I suggest you call that big Navy ape of yours."

"I can handle it."

"You have the papers on the weapon's location?"

"Yes."

"And the computer program to run the weapon?"

"Yes."

The egg dropped back into its holder. The room seemed to expand again to normal size as the shadow disappeared. Oma's anger at being told what to do had never even had a chance to get started. She was simply grateful the demon was gone.

Oma sat still for several moments, reflecting on the conversation. It was something her husband had taught her how to do many years ago. To always go over every encounter or conversation immediately, to sift through and find the hidden meanings, the things said that had not been meant to be said. And what had not been said.

She didn't know who the creature was. For all she knew, he was Chyort, the devil, but as she'd told him, she didn't believe in such things. The first time he’d appeared in her office, three months ago, it had taken all her considerable willpower to control her fear. Chyort was the name he had given himself or someone had given him. She had had some of her people make inquiries, and they had learned of a myth in the army, a myth about a creature with such a name that dated back to the war in Afghanistan. But there was nothing more than those vague rumors. She had them checking further, trying to uncover the truth behind the myth.

The only thing she held on to was that Chyort wanted something. And he needed her help to achieve his goal. That told her his power was limited. She’d long ago learned that every relationship, whether personal or business, was a rope that pulled both ways. So far, Chyort had done all the pulling, but in doing so he had firmly handed her the other end of the rope. Oma smiled. She would wait and pull when it was most opportune for her own goals.

She didn't know exactly what Chyort's objective was, but each encounter they had she learned something more. Another thing he’d said today that she found curious was the comment about the "Navy ape." That meant he knew about Leksi, which was not surprising; everyone knew Leksi worked for her; what was more interesting was the way he had said it. She had picked up a note of derision. She considered that. Afghanistan and a dislike of the Navy. That pointed to an army man, someone who was in an elite unit and thus able to sneer at Leksi's naval commando background. That meant Spetsnatz, the Russian version of the American Special Forces. Oma mentally marked that tidbit for further investigation.

She hit a number on her phone and it summoned who she needed. Then she leaned back in the comfort of her chair, feeling the ache in her spine as she continued to consider what she had learned in this latest encounter. She was still pondering that when a green light flashed on the edge of her desk. She pushed a button and the wood-paneled steel door slid open.

The man who walked in drew attention wherever he went. He was just shy of seven feet tall, and his head was completely shaved, revealing a jagged scar running from the crown down the left side, disappearing inside the black turtleneck he wore. He was not only tall, he was wide, his broad chest and thick arms indicating extreme strength. He walked to the front of her desk and halted, waiting, his manner indicating his military training.

"We must move up our timetable," Oma said.

Leksi waited.

Oma's left hand moved, writing the information Chyort had given her onto a piece of paper. She slid it across the desk. One of Leksi's massive hands reached down and carefully picked it up. He peered at the Cyrillic writing, read it a second time, then handed it back to her. She tossed it in an opening on the left side of her desk and there was a flash, destroying the paper.

"I know it’s not much time, but the window of opportunity grows tighter. You must accompany Barsk on Phase Two first. Then you must immediately return and complete Phase One."

Leksi still had not said a word, a trait that Oma valued. He was a former naval commando, an expert in weapons and martial arts. But more importantly, he would do whatever she asked, without the slightest hesitation. He was not particularly imaginative but he was thorough. She’d already gone over the plan for this operation with him several times and felt secure that he would follow it through to the letter. Today's news only changed the timetable and the order of events, not the mode of execution.

She held out the papers. "This is the location you must go to for Phase Two."

He took the papers.

She slid the CD-ROM across the desk. “Take that. I’ll supply you with the man who knows how to use it."

Leksi put the CD-ROM in his pocket.

"Go," she said.

Leksi went out the way he had come, still not having spoken a single word. The door slid shut behind him, leaving her alone in her aerie.

*****

A door slid open twenty feet up and food was thrown down, the first indication to Vasilev that he wasn't really in a metaphysical hell. There were only torn pieces of bread and some meat that was suspicious at best, but Vasilev wolfed it down.

When he was done, he was disappointed with himself. He should have eaten more slowly. What else did he have to do?

The air crackled. Vasilev rose to his feet, swaying from weakness. The two red-coal eyes appeared. Vasilev squinted but all he could sense in the darkness was a deeper shadow in the black of the pit.

Vasilev waited, not saying anything, but the eyes only watched him for a while. Finally the voice came.

"You should have died."

Vasilev blinked. "What?"

"You should have died with the others. You were as guilty as those who did die."

Vasilev swallowed, trying to get moisture to his dry throat. "I don't know-"

"Special Department Number Eight."

Vasilev's throat seized and he could only make a strangling noise.

"You must pay for what you did."

Vasilev fell to his knees, curling into a ball, whimpering his apologies, his sorrow for what had happened so many years ago.

"You will do what I tell you to do and forgiveness will be yours. Only then will you know peace. Do you understand?"

Vasilev could only nod, while his mouth moved in half-articulated apologies.

Then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, the red eyes were gone and he was alone once more.

Dalton was surprised the embryonic solution was warm. It felt like molasses as his feet sank into it. He resisted the urge to shake his head; the TACPAD helmet weighed heavily on his neck, and his vision was blocked by the pad of the cyberlink completely covering his eyes and wrapping around his head. The helmet was fastened on very securely, the location determined after four hours of fitting by two members of Hammond's staff in a white room that was completely sterile. They’d told him the location had to be exact, within one hundredth of a millimeter. And they had only been able to do that after doing complete MRI, CAT, and PET scans of his brain.

As they worked, the two technicians had talked in a lingo that Dalton had not understood. They had sent cryoprobes and thermocouples into his brain to test locations, reading results off a bank of machines and then making adjustments to the inside of the TACPAD. Hammond had been right: the insertion of the little wires had caused no pain, or any other sensation for that matter. Still, it had been disconcerting to simply lie there, knowing that they were penetrating directly into his brain, over and over again.

Just putting the fitted TACPAD on had taken forty-five minutes, with another thirty of testing, before they had strapped him into the lift harness in the main experimental chamber and lifted him into the air and swung him over the isolation tank.

He wore a slick black suit that covered his torso, leaving his arms and legs free. An electrical lead was attached directly to his chest, and a microprobe had been slipped through the material and into his chest just before they'd lifted him. Even though Hammond assured him as she slipped the probe in that the wire was so thin he couldn't possibly feel it, Dalton was very aware that something had gone into his heart—a distinctly uncomfortable feeling. The last thing he considered himself capable of doing, encumbered as he was, was conducting a mission. Of course, he still didn't know the mission they were being prepared for, but it wasn't the first time in his career he'd received training without knowing exactly what it was to be used for.

Dalton took steady, deep breaths through the mouthpiece as he was lowered further into the isolation tank. He knew that a few members of the team were gathered around, watching, as he was first to experience being inside. The others were still being fitted.

The solution came around his waist, up his chest, and then he was all the way in. The worst feeling so far, other than the microprobe into the heart, was the feeling of the embryonic fluid seeping into the TACPAD, pressing up against his face. Dalton also didn't like the fact that he could see nothing. He felt neutral buoyancy, something he was used to from his scuba training.

"All right?" Dr. Hammond's voice was loud and clear in his ears.

Dalton gave a thumbs-up. It was extremely hard to move in the solution. Dalton was surprised at the viscosity of the liquid. He wasn't able to speak with the lung tube stuck down his throat. It was irritating, but the hardest part had been when Hammond had put it in, getting past his gag reflex with one practiced push. Dalton had been on the other end of that technique several times in his army career during his medical training.

"Okay, we're going to do several things, all at the same time. Just relax. Let us do it all right now."

Dalton concentrated on his breathing. He felt a buzzing inside his head. A light flickered in his eyes. He didn't know if it was the cyberlink pad over his eyes or the thermocouple projecting directly into his brain. The light became a white dot.

"Follow the dot," Hammond said.

The dot moved slowly to the left.

"Don't move your head," Hammond warned.

Dalton moved his eyes and they followed the dot. Or was his brain following it? He wondered. His eyes were covered, so they couldn't be. . . . The dot was moving the other way and Dalton had to stop his wondering and follow it.

This went on for a while, how long Dalton couldn't know, but he gradually became aware that he was cold. The buzzing in his head was still there, but he was hardly noticing it; it had become the norm.

"You're doing good." Hammond's voice was more distant. "Give me a thumbs-up if you hear me clearly."

Dalton was shocked to find that he couldn't feel his hand. He couldn't feel any part of his body. He made the mental effort anyway. He tried to feel his eyelids, to determine whether they were open or not, but there was no way he could tell.

"At this point," Hammond said, "your peripheral nervous system is just about shut down, so you shouldn't be able to feel your extremities. You're doing fine. We're doing the last part of the physical aspect now, taking over for your central nervous system. Relax. Relax."

Dalton felt a twinge in the tube in his throat. His chest spasmed as liquid slithered into his lungs.

"Relax."

Dalton was drowning, his lungs filling.

"The dot, follow the dot."

There was a flash of brightness. Then the dot reappeared, now moving in a circle.

Dalton felt as if his chest were being crushed. He tried to expel the liquid coming in, the dot forgotten.

"Relax."

Dalton wanted to tell her to shut the hell up as he concentrated on accepting the foreign substance pouring into his lungs. He focused on the knowledge that he wasn't drowning, that this liquid was sustaining his life. The body didn't buy it. He was drowning.

"You're all right. That's done," Hammond said. "The machine is breathing for you."

Dalton halted the panic with a firm mental slam on the runaway emotion, using what he’d learned during Trojan Warrior training. He was breathing. He couldn't feel his lungs but he accepted that he was getting the oxygen he needed. He'd actually passed out several times in scuba school, drowned, so he knew what it was like to go under without oxygen.

"The dot. Look at the dot."

Dalton went back to following the dot. He felt very small, as if his entire being had closed in around the core of him, the "I" that rattled around inside his skull. He was fading away, losing awareness, losing consciousness.

"The dot, find and stay with the dot. It will be your connection with Sybyl, along with my voice."

Dalton was startled out of his lethargy. During winter warfare training, he'd seen men, tough soldiers, curl up into small balls inside their snow caves and totally withdraw from the outside world. Just wanting to fall asleep and then slip into frozen death.

Dalton focused on the dot.

"All right," Hammond said. "You're in good shape. We're doing your breathing for you. We've got your heart regulated and beating in the correct rhythm. Everything is fine."

Yeah, right.
Dalton thought. He noted that her voice was growing fainter, as if she were very far away.

"Your senses are shutting down. Soon you will no longer be consciously processing information from your normal senses."

Dalton had to strain to hear her.

"You'll be hearing me on Sybyl's link next. Just give me . . ." The voice faded out. A deep, profound silence ensued.

Dalton felt himself start to drift away, and he snapped to.

There was a buzz, then silence. Then a clicking sound that really caught Dalton's attention.

He felt a stab of pain above his left eye. The pain grew stronger, almost to the point where he couldn't take it anymore, then it disappeared, to come back just as strong.

The dot was still there, but Dalton didn't care. He went back further inside his memories, to a dark hole. Dank, dripping, concrete walls. The surface pitted. Dalton knew every little divot, every scratch in those walls. The four low corners, each one of significance to him. The ceiling too low for him to stand up, only four feet high.

He could reach his arms out and touch wall to wall. Exactly square. He'd measure it by using his thumbs. Sixty-three thumb widths wide each way. He’d spent a long time considering how whoever had built this thing could have been so exact in their measurements, because when he was taken out he could see the entire building that was his prison and how poorly constructed it was. It was a place that no one talked about in the media, a place where the Taliban exacted their own revenge for Abu Gharib.

"Sergeant Major Dalton."

The voice was raspy, echoing, intruding. The pain that had been so distant was back, although not quite as sharp.

"Sergeant Major Dalton."

Dalton tried to answer.

"Sergeant Major Dalton." There was a change to the tone and timbre of the voice.

Dalton didn't know how to speak. He had no throat. No mouth.

"Sergeant Major Dalton." The voice was smoother now, almost human.

Dalton tried to figure it out, how to answer with no voice of his own.

"Sergeant Major Dalton.” It was recognizable as a human voice now. A woman's, but there was a timbre to it that was unnatural.

"Sergeant Major Dalton. This is Dr. Hammond. I'm talking to you through Sybyl now. Through the computer directly into your brain. You have to focus your mind to answer. This may take a while, as we have to adjust your program link to your brain."

Dalton tried to reply.

“To answer, you must focus on the dot."

The damn dot
, Dalton thought. He did as instructed. The dot was still now, centered.

"Now, say ‘hello’."

Dalton tried, but he knew it wasn't working.

"It takes time to learn. Relax."

Dalton thought that humorous. How could he relax when he had no control?

A sharp stab of pain right between his eyes caused Dalton to start.

"Good. The computer heard that," Hammond said.

The pain came again, but Dalton was ready.

"I didn't hear that," Hammond said. "You must relax and allow your emotions to pass through."

The pain once more.

"Screw you," Dalton projected.

There was a long pause. "We must do a series of tests now to format your program. I'm going to have Sybyl run you through a program we've prepared for this. Do what she tells you to."

Sybyl's voice was a flat mechanical one, barking out directions. Dalton did as instructed, feeling like a child as he responded, sometimes feeling a little silly.

A series of grid lines appeared. Sybyl had him focus on various coordinates. After a while, the computer guided him in moving along the grid line, a task that Dalton was able to accomplish only after many tries. He had no idea how long this went on until finally Sybyl told him he was done. For now.

Dalton felt a snap, followed by an echoing pain that slid back and forth across his head like a slow-moving tide. The pain wound down, but then he began feeling a tingling sensation in his forehead.

The dot disappeared.

The tingling turned to itching. The extent of the feeling came down his forehead, across his face. To his neck. He could feel the obstruction in his throat.

Soon his entire body itched as if armies of ants were marching across every square inch. And Dalton squirmed, since he couldn't scratch.

But then the cold came. Worse than the most bitter cold he had ever experienced in all his winter warfare training. He'd been in Norway above the Arctic Circle on exercises with the wind chill hitting seventy below zero, and it hadn't been this bad.

Hammond's voice exploded in his head. "I know you're cold. We're warming you up." The volume went down during the second sentence. "We're going to get you back on oxygen shortly."

Dalton sensed some uncertainty in Hammond's voice. Was this where they had had their accident and lost their man?

"It take a little bit of time to get the fluid out of your lungs, and when we start, you won't breathe again until your lungs are clear and we can get oxygen in. It takes about two minutes. Trust us. We’ll get it done and your body has plenty of oxygen to make it through. We'll keep your heartbeat slow. You can go ten minutes without oxygen at your present physiological rate."

A fist hit Dalton in the chest. Then a drill began ripping a hole right through him. He screamed, the sound resounding in his skull but not making it out his mouth.

A claw was ripping his lungs up through his throat. Dalton felt darkness closing down as he struggled for air. The only thing keeping him conscious was the pain.

Then the oxygen came and the pain got worse, shocking Dalton with its intensity. But he could breathe. He took in a deep breath, then began choking, hacking, trying to spit.

"The machine will get the rest of the liquid out," Hammond's voice informed him. "Relax."

Screw your relax
, Dalton thought. He took another deep breath, relishing the feel of the oxygen as the tube fought his breathing, trying to suck out the last of the liquid on each exhale.

He was still cold, but he could tell that the fluid around him was warming rapidly.

"We're pulling you out."

He felt straps tighten around his shoulders as he was lifted. The fluid let go of him reluctantly, and with a sucking noise he was dangling in the air. He was swung over and lowered.

His knees buckled as his feet hit the ground. He felt hands supporting him. Arms went around him, keeping him still.

"We're extracting the cryoprobes and thermocouples," Hammond informed him. "You have to remain still. It will take a few minutes."

To Dalton nothing appeared to happen, but then fingers reached under the neck seal of the TACPAD helmet. It ripped open. The helmet was lifted off slowly. Someone delicately peeled the cyberlink pad off his skin.

Dalton blinked, trying to get oriented. All he saw was white. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again. This time he could make out hazy forms around him. He shook his head, clearing his vision a little. Staff Sergeant Barnes was holding him up. Dalton slowly regained control of his legs. He looked about Dr. Hammond and Raisor were standing at the main control console.

There were three bodies in other tubes.

"Damn it! I told Anderson to wait until I was done," Dalton said, his voice hoarse and cracking.

Barnes frowned. "I know, Sergeant Major, but you were in there five hours and they said they had to get this thing going."