There was one more thing. When the maintenance workers had accidentally allowed him access to the security cameras inside SD8-FFEU, Feteror had taken full advantage of the opportunity. He had accessed the small camera inside of General Rurik’s quarters— no one was exempt from security’s eye in the GRU— and scanned it. He had zoomed in on the photo next to the army bed: a woman with two children. The woman whose ring Rurik wore.
Feteror scanned through GRU personnel files until he found the information he needed.
Satisfied, Feteror headed back out of the computer and headed for SD8-FFEU.
“Sergeant Major, I can’t do it.”
Dalton rubbed his eyes. First Jackson waking him, now this. Sergeant Trilly was standing in front of him, head down. Dalton finished zipping up his black isolation tank suit. He had five minutes before his next session. He could see a couple of the other bunks were now occupied by men who had finished their second training session.
“Can’t do what, Trilly?” Dalton knew the answer, but he was also aware he had to play this out.
“I can’t go in there again,” Trilly said, his voice quavering. “I can’t breathe that shit they put in your lungs. I can’t get shut off like a light switch and frozen. I just can’t do it.”
Dalton looked the sergeant over. He was shivering, a blanket about his shoulders. His hair still wet, his skin covered in goosebumps. He remembered how Trilly had missed most of the Trojan Warrior training after getting his collarbone broken during the aikido training.
“You don’t have any choice,” Dalton said. “You’re the team sergeant. Your team goes on a mission in thirty-six hours. Can’t is not an option.”
Trilly made a choked sound. “I can’t go in there again, Sergeant Major. I can’t. I know I can’t. You can order me and make me put that stuff on, but I can’t do it.”
Dalton felt the soreness in his throat where the tube had twice gone down. His body was covered with small welts, from what he had no idea. He had just noticed them when getting dressed.
Dalton stepped close to the other man and kept his voice very low and level. “Get some sleep, Master Sergeant Trilly. You’ll feel better.”
Trilly looked up. Dalton could see the shadows in the others man’s eyes. “I’m not going to feel better. It’s not going to make any difference.”
“Trilly, you’re Special Forces. We may not like where we get sent or what we get ordered to do, but by God, we go there and we get the job done.”
“Like Stith?”
Dalton resisted the urge to grab Trilly’s shoulders and shake him. “Yes, like Stith. Who the hell do you think all those names on the Special Operations monument outside of SOCOM headquarters are? Nobodies? They were men just like you and me. They got killed doing the job they volunteered for. That you volunteered for. You want the easy life, you should have stayed in Air Defense. You put that green beret on, you choose a different path from most. Now it’s our turn in the breach.”
“I can’t do it.”
“Don’t say that.” Dalton kept his voice firm. “You think negative, you won’t be able to. You’ve got to think of the team, not yourself. The team needs you.”
“I can’t— ”
“Shut up,” Dalton hissed. “Get your head out of your ass, Trilly. Think about somebody else for once. You got the stripes on your collar, you do the job. You flake out on this, we’re another man short, and sometimes one man can make all the difference.”
Dalton could see the clock over Trilly’s shoulder. He had no more time. “Get some sleep.”
Trilly turned without a word and went to his bunk. Dalton watched him, then walked into the corridor and to the experimental center. He noted the doors on the wall that he had not been through. He wondered which one hid the bodies of the first team.
Two of Hammond’s technicians had his TACPAD waiting. They rigged him, the process going somewhat faster now that he was used to it. He still wasn’t thrilled when they shoved the tube down his throat or his head was encased in the TACPAD, but he hardly noticed the micro-probes going in anymore.
“We’re going to send you over to the virtual plane this time,” Hammond told him through the computer.
He was lifted up, then lowered into the isolation tank six minutes ahead of the new schedule. The handoff to Sybyl went smoothly.
The computer quickly ran through a check of his stick man form, insuring that he had control.
“It is time now,” Hammond finally announced, satisfied. “You will feel power. It’ll feel good. A feeling of strength. Do not do anything until I tell you. Do not do anything unless I tell you specifically to do it. Is that clear?”
“Clear,” Dalton replied. “I am giving you ten percent.”
Like a jolt of adrenaline, power coursed through him. Dalton felt giddy. He began to lift this arm.
“Do not do anything until I tell you.”
Dalton forced himself to remain still. The feeling grew stronger.
“Turn to your left.”
Dalton did as instructed.
“Do you see the light?”
There was a bright glowing tunnel straight ahead. All else was dull gray fog. Dalton paused as he realized what he had just done, or what had been done for him by Sybyl— he was inside the avatar, looking about— not in his own head looking at the form.
“I see it.”
“Walk toward it. I am giving you a surface to walk on and a feeling of weight.”
Dalton did feel ground beneath his feet. Slightly spongy, like walking on a gym mat, but it gave him something to push off of. The tunnel got closer. Then it was right in front of him.
“Wait,” Hammond said.
Dalton paused.
Hammond’s voice, filtered by the computer link, came through. “When you step into the virtual plane, there will be nothing beneath your feet. It will be like floating in a mist. You will have no sense of orientation. It will take us a little while to get you both oriented and able to move. Some have difficulty with this.”
Dalton remembered the first time he had free-fall-jumped out of a plane. It was much different from static line parachuting. He had tumbled in the air as he fell; the only orientation he had had was the ground far below that he was rapidly plummeting toward and the air whistling by. He had an idea what Hammond was talking about. He had seen men panic in such a situation, unable to deploy their chutes as they tumbled, saved only when their automatic opener activated at a predetermined altitude.
“All right. I’m ready.”
“Step into the tunnel,” Hammond ordered.
Dalton moved his leg forward. There was nothing to put it on. But he didn’t fall as he lifted his other leg. He felt himself drawn forward and then he was in.
His stomach spasmed his last meal ready to come back up as he floated in a fog. He had no idea how far he was able to see, because there was nothing to see.
“I f el like I’m going to throw up,” Dalton said. “That’s a psychological reaction,” Hammond said. “And a very good one.”