“What we are doing here is modulating the individual photons, one by one, that make up a virtual wave. However, we are not doing an electromagnetic modulation exactly or a frequency modulation, but rather we are affecting the virtual state of the photon, the virtual world that the photon, which has action but not substance, exists in.”
Sarovan spared a glance at his audience. They were trying to look like they understood, but he knew they didn’t. He himself had a Ph.D. in physics and had been working in this field for decades, and he still wasn’t exactly sure how the virtual world worked. He just knew they had stuck their toe in the door and, through sheer luck, had been able to accomplish some things.
“What we have to do,” Sarovan continued, “is generate a coherent virtual wave of photons inside the tube, what we call phased displacement, which absorbs any physical material, taking it from the real plane to the virtual. That is what the computers and phased-displacement generator— the metal tube— are for.
“Then, like a radio station, we can send a signal of the photons which carry the object. The phased-displacement generator is not enough, however, for us to have an effective weapons system. The problem is then twofold. Think how a radio wave goes in all directions as far as the strength of the signal will propagate. There is no focus, no direction.
“To have a weapon, we must direct the object once it is on the wave, and then re-form the object in the real world once at the target. That is what we use the men below— what we call remote viewers— for. We went through over twenty thousand prisoners to find these four, men who have the ability to ‘see’ on the virtual or psychic plane. Who can find our target and direct the object on the wave the proper direction and distance. Both parts— the generator and the remote viewers— are needed to make the weapon system complete.”
Something else was being brought into the chamber below. Four soldiers wheeled a platform up to the tube. Two of the men climbed onto the platform, next to a wooden crate. The bottom of the platform scissored, raising it up to a level with the open hatch near the top of the tube. They picked up a round, green-painted shell and carefully slid it into the opening. Reaching in, they attached four leads on the inside of the tube to the shell, then, with great difficulty, they swung shut the thick door and began screwing it into place using long levers on the outside handles.
“As you may well recognize, that is a nuclear warhead designed for the S-23, 180-millimeter Lowitzer,” Professor Sarovan informed the GRU officers. “Its yield is the smallest possible, just under one kiloton.”
There was a nervous rustling among the officers.
“Are we safe?” General Vortol demanded.
“The tube can contain the explosion if need be, venting it down into the earth,” Sarovan lied to them. “But it will not be a problem. The warhead will not be in there when it explodes.”
The GRU officers looked at one another, their skepticism quite apparent— both about the explosion being contained and the bomb no longer being in the chamber.
“Your explanation is not sufficient,” Vortol said. “It seems to be a pile of scientific excrement designed to befuddle the listener.”
Sarovan shrugged his massive shoulders. “I explained as best we understand, Comrade General. There is much we don’t understand. Could you explain the physics of how one of your tank guns works? Or a jet fighter flying? You cannot, but you do know those weapons work. We know this works.”
“It did not work the last time you attempted this,” Vortol noted.
“That was not the last time we tested this. We have run four tests in the past two years, and all have been successful.”
Vortol’s voice was cold. “Let me correct myself, Comrade Scientist. The last time you used a nuclear warhead, it failed. With terrible consequences.”
Silence filled the control room. They all had sufficient clearances to know what had happened in late 1958. In fact, both Sarovan and Vasilev had been extremely fortunate to have survived the disaster, mainly because they had manned the remote-viewing site, overseeing where the warhead was supposed to have gone. Those stationed where the warhead was initiated had all perished in a terrific explosion that had devastated a large portion of Russian countryside to the east of the Ural Mountains, just north of the city of Chelyabinsk. The dead had numbered in the thousands. That disaster had led to Department Eight’s exile to this remote site.
One of the scientists below indicated all was ready. The experimental chamber was evacuated and the doors shut, leaving only the four men in the coffins.
“We are now seeking to gain a coherent balance in the hyperspatial flux inside and placing the bomb in the virtual field,” Sarovan informed the military men. “Building our virtual wave and containing it before release, so to speak. We must achieve this before proceeding further. That is what those computers”— he pointed to a bank of machines along the back wall of the control center, manned by a dozen white-coated technicians— “are for.”
Vasilev could sense the growing unease among the soldiers as the minutes passed and nothing apparent happened. A green light flickered on the console in front of Sarovan.
“We have coherence.” There was a quiver to the scientist’s normally calm voice. “Initiating phase two.”
Sarovan leaned slightly forward toward a microphone. His voice was low, almost soothing as it spoke to the four subjects. “The target. You must find the target.” He repeated the two sentences for almost a minute, but nothing happened. Still speaking, he gestured with his right hand.
One of the other scientists turned a knob.
Sarovan momentarily shut off the microphone to address the GRU officers. “Current is being sent directly into the brain center of each man. To the place that regulates pain. You could not even begin to imagine what they are experiencing right now.”
“Ahh,” General Vortol said. “Motivation. We have used that direct stimulation technique on prisoners. Most effective torture, with no actual physical harm other than the probe into the brain.”
“These men are special,” Sarovan said. “They were tested at our Institute along with thousands of others, and these four had the highest rating on our psychic ability scale. We have long known that certain people have an ability to do what we call remote viewing— to ‘see’ places that are physically distant from them, using their minds. That is how these men will find the target for us and ‘aim’— so to speak— the weapon.”
Sarovan turned the mike back on. “The target. You must find the target.” He repeated that several times.
“We have a lock,” one of the scientists announced from his desk, watching a panel.
“Show me the target,” Sarovan said into the microphone. “Show me the target.”
Above the tube, something flickered. A long black object appeared, the image hazy and unclear, floating in the middle of the experimental chamber, slowly gaining more form and substance.
One of the GRU officers swore under his breath as the forty-foot-long image became clear: a submarine. They could even see the propellers moving in the air. It was an exact copy of the picture on the machine: the USS Thresher. The image was not totally solid, as they could faintly make out the other side of the cavern through it. It was nose down, diving.
“That is the Thresher as it is operating right now in the Atlantic Ocean,” Sarovan told the officers. His knuckles were white as they gripped the edge of his desk. “Center the target,” he whispered into the mike, then cut it off.
“Arm the warhead,” he ordered the man next to him, who threw a switch and flipped open a cover, revealing a red button underneath. The GRU officers all unconsciously took a step back from the window. Vasilev’s hand hovered over a button on his console, the neutralizer switch, his eyes focused on the chamber below.