The fourth item on her desk was a copy of an accident report filed to the aviation center at Fort Rucker concerning the crash of a Blackhawk helicopter in Alaska. Four fatalities-two pilots, a crew chief, and General Eichen. Cause of crash was initially being called pilot error pending further investigation. McFairn knew such investigations could take months. And then, they would most likely support the initial conclusion, since the effect of HAARP would not be taken into account because the investigators would have no idea how it worked.
More blood spilled. She took out her Sun Tzu and read for a little while, before going back to her work.
Sweat poured down Dalton ’s face. His left arm jerked, then lifted up to cover his eyes as his legs kicked the blanket off the bed. He moaned, protesting in his sleep against whatever demon was invading his unconscious mind.
Jackson put a hand on his shoulder and shook gently. “Sergeant Major.”
Dalton bolted upright, hand snaking for the automatic pistol under the pillow. Jackson ’s hand was on top of his, having seen this once before. “Easy, Jimmy, easy.”
Dalton ’s hand stopped, his eyes focusing. He swung his feet over to the side and planted them on the floor, connecting with reality. “What’s up?”
“The new boss is here. Kirtley. And he has a half dozen people with him. A new team.”
“Military?” Dalton asked as he retrieved the pistol and stuck it in the small of his back, under his fatigue shirt.
“I don’t think. Civilian clothes.”
“CIA?”
“Maybe,” she said. “One of the alphabet soup organizations, for sure.”
Dalton scratched his head. “Then why does he want us around?”
“I suppose he’ll tell us. After all, we’re the old hands-the only experienced people left who have operated as Psychic Warriors.”
“Where’s Barnes?”
“He was on admin leave, but they called him back. He came in on the same chopper from Denver with the new team.”
“Three of twenty-four,” Dalton noted. “After PW team one and PW team two, we’re going to run out of tubes to keep the bodies.”
“I wouldn’t mention that in front of Kirtley,” Jackson warned.
That startled Dalton. “You think he’ll pull the plug on the first two teams?”
“I don’t know what he’s thinking,” Jackson said. “He gives me the creeps. He’s one of those no-affect people. I can’t get a read on him, which either means he’s masking his feelings very well or he doesn’t have any.”
Dalton looked about. What struck him most were the empty bunks. He’d come here the first time with eleven other men.
Dalton nodded toward the door. “Let’s see what our new friend wants.”
They left the billets area and walked toward the center of the complex. Jackson swung the door open, revealing the nerve center of Bright Gate. Two rows of ten cylinders-isolation tanks-filled one end. On the other was the control area where a dozen monitors gave access to Sybyl, the mainframe computer.
The first thing Dalton noted was that all the tubes were empty.
Jackson caught the look. “No one’s gone over since my last mission. Hammond has been reprogramming and updating Sybyl.”
“ Hammond have anything on the bug she found?” Dalton asked in a low voice.
“Not yet.”
Dalton shifted his attention to the control area. Dr. Hammond was standing next to a black man with a shaved head. He was talking on a cell phone, which he snapped shut as they approached.
He crooked a finger. “Over here.”
Dalton led the way, around the row of computer consoles.
“You were supposed to be back yesterday,” Kirtley said.
Dalton didn’t bother to offer his hand. “I wasn’t told that until this morning. I was taking care of my wife’s remains.”
Kirtley reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pager. He tossed it to Dalton. “From now on you have that with you wherever you go, even if you’re taking a shower. You’re on my team now, Sergeant Major, until I tell you that you’re not.”
Dalton took the pager in his callused hands and put it on the desk between him and Kirtley. Then he pulled out the chair and sat down across from the younger man. Dr. Hammond flanked Kirtley on the left. She was middle-aged, her face marked by deep, dark pockets under each eye, her blond hair disheveled and badly in need of a cut. Jackson took a seat next to Dalton. He noted that she had her pager attached to one of the pockets on her flight suit.
“Lieutenant Jackson. Sergeant Major Dalton.” Kirtley said the names as if he were reading them off a manifest. “I’ve been assigned to get a Psychic Warrior team operational as quickly as possible. I expect you to help with whatever I request to get my team up to speed.”
“Then we’re not part of it?” Dalton asked.
“You’re whatever I tell you to be.”
Dalton felt old, worn down by his years of hard service, the wounds he had accrued over the years, subtle aches that underlay the most recent wound. Eichen’s visit the other night and the hints of treachery echoed in his mind.
He knew the answer but he asked anyway. “Do you have written orders for the lieutenant and me indicating that?”
Kirtley handed him a piece of paper. “Yes.”
Dalton read it. They were from the office of the G-1, personnel, at the Pentagon. Such sheets of paper had ruled Dalton ’s entire life. An order to Vietnam; to Lebanon; all over the world, working for whoever’s name was indicated on the orders. He folded and slid it into a pocket to add to the thick sheaf in his personnel records.
A long silence ensued.
Dalton finally broke it. “Why as quickly as possible?” He remembered what had happened last time they were in a rush. He had lost one man in training, even before they became operational, dying inside his isolation tube.
“Because those are my orders. And now they are your orders.”
Hammond cut in. “I’ve updated the program.”
Dalton didn’t even look at her. He leaned back in his chair and considered Kirtley. A man who controlled his fate because of a piece of paper signed by another man. Finally Dalton turned to Hammond.
“With the update, can you recover the first two teams?”
Kirtley answered. “The first two teams are no longer a factor.”
Dalton straightened. “ ‘No longer a factor’?”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Kirtley said. “I’m not pulling the plug on their isolation tanks. I’m saying they are no longer a factor in operational terms. If we can find them or recover them, then we’ll do it. However, do understand me that they are not the mission priority.”
Dalton reached forward and picked up the pager. He clipped it onto his belt. “What is the priority?”
“I’ve just been informed that a special ops team from Task Force Six has been lost in Colombia and we’ve been detailed to find out what happened to it.”
“Lost a team? How?” Dalton asked.
“They didn’t make extraction and they’ve missed all scheduled contacts,” Kirtley said. “There was no one at primary, alternate, or emergency exfiltration points.”
“Why are we getting called on this?” Dalton asked. “Task Force Six can draw from all of Special Operations. Seems like a misuse of a valuable asset.”
Dalton was used to that in his career. Special Forces had been designed initially to be teachers, not commandos. Green Berets were to teach the people of other countries to fight as insurgents or to stop insurgencies, acting as a force multiplier and keeping American soldiers from having to do the dirty work. But over the decades from the founding of Special Forces, they had been drawn into every possible type of mission where well-trained, highly dedicated men were needed, from strategic reconnaissance to commando raids.