Just as important as the imaging equipment was the onboard computer that could be programmed to look over wide swaths of terrain for a specific image. The RHC3000, a 32-bit, 2-gigabyte, high-density mass-memory command and data handler, was currently being updated with information sent by the Russians regarding the makeup of the phased-displacement generator and with the exact composition of the twenty missing warheads.
It would be in position in six minutes to begin searching outward from the site of the ambush into central Russia.
Feteror had never gone this high— there had never been a need to and it had never occurred to him to try. As he passed out of the atmosphere, he wondered if he could travel far in space, or if his virtual link to Zivon and SD8-FFEU had a limit.
It was dark here in this netherworld, not the grayish white of the virtual plane closer to the planet. More a dim area, desolate, empty even of the whispering of the souls of those close to the surface. Feteror found it quite soothing.
He reached out through the virtual plane with his senses. He picked up the approach of W a r fighter 1 as it closed on the ambush site. He closed on the satellite. It was a spectacular piece of machinery. He noted the imagers pointing earthward out of the bay, the small maneuvering thrusters firing slight puffs, orienting the vehicle.
Feteror slid his being into the satellite. He became part of it, using its imagers as his own senses. He looked down at the earth, able to see the curving horizon of the planet in all directions. It was so spectacular that he almost forgot his task, but not quite.
He processed a picture through the main camera. Then he accessed the thruster control program.
“Sergeant Major.”
Dalton heard the resignation in Hammond’s voice before he turned and saw the defeat etched across her face.
“Yes?”
Hammond wordlessly held up a glossy piece of paper.
Dalton took it, Lieutenant Jackson looking over his shoulder. The demon’s face was etched against a black background, as horrible as Dalton remembered it.
“Chyort,” Dalton said, handing the imagery back. Jackson was nodding, also recognizing their foe from the ambush.
Hammond spoke in a monotone. “He took out the satellite the NSA was sending over to find the generator and the nukes.”
“Took out,” Dalton repeated. “How did he do that?”
“They don’t know, but they have no communication with it and the tracking station can’t even pick it up in orbit. It’s gone. The Russians”— Hammond’s voice betrayed her admiration in the face of the disaster— “they must have done something completely different than us to come up with this thing, this Chyort.”
Dalton considered the photo. “He wanted us to know he did it. There’s no other reason for him to allow his image to be processed.”
“Any more information on who or what Chyort is?” Lieutenant Jackson asked.
“I’m working on getting that information, but my best guess is that he’s the end result of their version of the Psychic Warrior program.”
Jackson gave a derisive laugh. “They’ve got something going that we don’t have a clue about. It’s far beyond what we’re doing here.”
Dalton shook his head. “We don’t have time for this.” He pointed at the imagery. “Allowing himself to be photographed like that means he’s confident that he can accomplish what he wants to and he’s not worried about us stopping him.” He turned to Hammond, who was still staring at the picture. “I want communication with the National Security Council.”
Hammond nodded. “We have a direct link in the control room.”
“How can we stop them?” Jackson asked while they walked to the control room.
“I’m an old soldier,” Dalton said, “so I say we do it the old-fashioned way. With some new-fashioned help.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Feteror’s roar vibrated the metal in the hangar. “How can you not be ready! You have the program!”
Vasilev watched the demon pace about. “I have done my best. I am trying to update the language of the program to work on these new computers, but I am not a computer expert.”
A claw flashed out, stopping just short of Vasilev’s neck. The old man didn’t even flinch.
“I thought the program had already been updated when it was switched to the CD-ROM.”
“Somewhat, yes,” Vasilev agreed. “But that was three years ago and already computers have advanced beyond that.”
“How long will it take?”
“Anywhere from a couple of hours to a couple of days.”
“We do not have a couple of days.”
“Whether you have the time or not makes no difference in how long updating the programming will take,” Vasilev said. “There is also the additional problem of once the base programming is running, having it synched with a psychic projection. We need a way to target the warhead once it is on the virtual plane.” He spread his hands. “I don’t see that part of the system here.”
“I’m that part of the system,” Feteror said. “You get it working. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“I will try.”
Feteror shook his wings, sending a breeze through the hangar. “Try is not good enough. The problem is the computer? I will take care of it.”
He slid out of the real plane and flowed into the computer Vasilev had been working at. He raced along the electronic pathways. There was much he understood here from his time inside Zivon.
He came to the place where Vasilev had been working. To his virtual eyes, there was a logjam of data, the pieces not fitting, turned the wrong way.
He worked like a madman, twisting the data to fit, putting the pieces in place. He cleared up what he could see, then reversed his path out of the computer, re-forming into the real world in front of the old man.
“Get back to work,” Feteror snarled. “It should take you less time now.”
Feteror’s head twisted on his gnarled shoulders as the sound of inbound helicopters made its way through the metal siding of the hangar. Feteror flashed outside and watched as Leksi’s two helicopters landed and the bombs were off-loaded.
All was in place, but they could not act until the advanced computer could process the old program. Feteror would have found it humorous except for the stakes involved.
“Is everyone clear on what they have to do?” Sergeant Major Dalton was dressed in the camouflage fatigues he had worn to Bright Gate. He was striding down the corridor that led to the hangar. Lieutenant Jackson and Dr. Hammond were having to run to keep up with him.
“Clear,” Jackson said.
Hammond reluctantly nodded.
Dalton glanced at Jackson. “You remember what you have to do, right?”
She nodded.
“And?” Dalton prompted.
“We don’t do anything until you clear the way,” Jackson said.
“Roger that.” Dalton continued walking. “But the minute I take care of Chyort, you have to move quickly.” He glanced at Hammond. “Is everything set to get this started?”
“They’re still trying to get through to the Russians.”
“What about my ride?”
“It will meet you at DIA.” Hammond looked troubled. “This is going to cause a hell of a stink.”
“The stink has already started,” Dalton said. “Let’s hope we can keep it at that level. One of those nukes goes off somewhere and everything you’re worrying about right now will be insignificant. Any idea where Raisor went?”