Dalton knew some of the men were listening in. He also knew there wasn’t much he could say to make them feel better. In his experience, he never knew how someone was going to react in combat until they were there. Training helped, but no training could prepare someone for the ultimate test. He’d seen men he’d thought he could count on flake out and others he hadn’t thought much of do the most incredible feats of arms.
His watch began beeping. Dalton stood. “Rise and shine. Another great day in airborne country.”
The members of the team got out of their bunks.
“Let’s do it.” Dalton headed for the door.
Feteror looked down on the rail line. The armored train was twenty minutes from the border checkpoint between Kazakhstan and Russia. He noted the Havoc helicopters flying cover, and on the train the number of guards and their weapons.
Then he swept north searching, doing quick jumps through the virtual plane, peeking into the real. After six tries, he spotted the MI-14 helicopter with its fighter and gunship escort, heading northwest, toward Russia. The aerial convoy would cross the border in six minutes, but he knew its destination and it had another hour and twelve minutes of flight time. More than enough, Feteror knew.
He jumped, through the virtual plane, and poked into the real above the FARP. He could see the men preparing their weapons, the helicopters warmed up. Leksi was yelling orders, getting everyone moving.
Feteror settled down on a mountain peak, between the FARP and the rail line. He slowly materialized into the real world, keeping his form colorless so he couldn’t be spotted. He felt the spatter of the light rain on his wings.
Like a huge vulture perched on the rocky crag, he waited.
Oma turned the card the NATO representative had given her over and over in her liver-spotted hands.
The phone rang and she put the card down and picked the receiver up.
“Yes?”
“We accept.”
She recognized Abd al-Bari’s accent.
“In fact,” the voice continued, “we would like delivery of four packages.”
Oma closed her eyes. She had dealt with large sums of money, but the thought of four billion dollars staggered even her.
“The money?” she asked.
“The first payment has been transferred to the account you indicated. As we discussed, the balance will be paid upon our satisfaction that you have completed your terms of the agreement.”
With her free hand, Oma began typing into her computer, accessing her Swiss account. She knew al-Bari was not lying, but she had to see the numbers for herself.
“Where do you want the packages delivered?” she asked as her fingers worked.
“That data is being transmitted via encrypted fax as we speak.”
Oma looked up as the bulky secure fax machine she had appropriated from the defunct KGB buzzed, then hummed, spilling out a piece of paper.
“We will be waiting,” al-Bari said, then the phone went dead.
Oma looked at her computer screen. Four hundred million dollars was credited to her account. She slowly walked across the room to the fax and picked up the paper.
You will destroy the following targets:
1. Washington, D.C., the Capitol Building zero point
2. Inside the Israeli Negev Desert nuclear weapon storage facility
3. The Pentagon
4. New York City, the United Nations zero point
Oma’s hand shook as she read the list and realized the implications of the targets and the order of destruction. One word sprang to mind as she carried the paper back to her desk: jihad. Abd al-Bari’s people were preparing for the Holy War they had always dreamed of, crippling the abilities of the Americans and Israelis to fight against the storm of fanaticism they hoped would arise.
She placed the target list on the desktop next to the card. She looked once more at the computer screen and the flashing dollar figure there.
She opened a drawer and pulled out a cellular phone. She punched in memory one. It was answered on the second ring.
“Yes?”
“Barsk, are you ready?”
“We have off-loaded the weapon and Vasilev is setting it up, hooking it into the computers you had waiting here. I have men working now on splicing into the power lines.”
“Good. Wait until you hear from me again.” Oma cut the connection and put the phone on the desk in between the card and the target list. Then she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.
General Rurik paced back and forth, bathed in the glow of the flashing red light that indicated that Feteror was out.
“Anything further on what our friend has been up to?” he asked the senior technician.
The man looked up from his computer screen with a troubled visage. “It is most strange, sir.”
Rurik halted in his pacing. “What is?”
“Feteror is gone, but I’m picking up indications that he isn’t gone.”
“How can that be?”
The man shook his head. “I am not certain. There is a presence inside of Zivon that I cannot pin down.”
“Well, pin it down,” Rurik snapped.
Dalton felt the embryonic solution slide up his legs as he was lowered into the isolation tank. He knew the other members of his team were being lowered at the same time into their own tanks, but he could see nothing with the TACPAD helmet securely fastened on his head. He gave a thumbs-up as the solution came up over his waist, then chest.
“All right.” Dr. Hammond’s voice echoed in his ears. “All systems are green on all tanks. We are ready to proceed.”
Raisor’s voice replaced hers. “We have final approval from the National Command Authority. Psychic Warrior is a go for its first operational mission.”
Dalton felt the first tinglings of the TACPAD being activated.
From his rocky aerie Feteror watched Leksi move his forces out. Then he leapt into the air, sliding into virtual space, and jumped.
He came out where he thought the air convoy with the PAL codes should be. He twisted in the air, searching, and spotted it moving at 140 knots to the northwest. He focused on the MI-14 in the center. He knew that to act too early would be to alert the troops guarding the train, so he flew alongside.
Chapter Twenty
Fifth time wasn’t much better. Dalton’s lungs tried to expel the liquid coming in, but lost the battle. His mind was focused on other matters though, noting the pain and nausea with almost a detached feeling.
“Give me the latest satellite downlink,” he asked Hammond, through Sybyl.
“This is live feed from a KH-14 over the target,” Hammond told him as a picture formed in Dalton’s mind. He saw a bridge over a river. A train on the western side, approaching. There was only one very long car with two engines pulling. He could also spot two gunships flying cover.
“Expand,” Dalton ordered.
Hammond had Sybyl relay the request to the NSA computer, which forwarded it to the spy satellite.
As Dalton waited he ran down the checklist for complete interface with Sybyl. A new picture was forwarded. The river crossing was a small spot in the lower left corner. Dalton traced the rail line as it moved into Russian territory along the east side of the river. He knew the resolution wasn’t good enough to be able to spot the planned ambush, but that wasn’t what he was looking for.
“The immediate rally point-the IRP-will be here.” Dalton picked a hill on the west— Kazakhstan— side of the river. He searched further. "The emergency rally point-the ERP-will be over this mountain.” He designated the spot he wanted. “Use the ERP if you become separated or things go to shit. If it’s really bad, come all the way back here to Bright Gate. Is that clear?”