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 tellyou. Do not do anything unless I tell you specifically to do it. Is that clear?”

“ Clear,” Dalton replied. “ I am giving you tenpercent.”

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 ofweight.”

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 stepinto the virtual plane, there will be nothing beneath your feet. It will be like floating in a mist. Youwill have no sense of orientation. It will take us a little while to get you both oriented and able tomove. 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 verygood one.”

“ Good?” Dalton swallowed. “ Yes. Because youcan’t really feel your real stomach. So this is a subconscious psychological reaction, whichmeans your mind is very attuned to the virtual world. That your mind believes the world you arein now, the form that you are taking, is real.” “ That’snice.”

“ Take some time and get adjusted to being there.” Dalton did as Hammond instructed. More than free-fall parachuting, it reminded him of scuba diving at night, when there was no way to determine which way was up. Neutral buoyancy in the netherworld; Dalton found that concept interesting. He looked about, but everything was the same grayish mist. He had no idea if he was seeing fifty meters into it or ten. He put a hand in front of his face, but all that was there was the stick arm of the avatar. He had no idea where he was either.

“ Now we will teach you how to fly,” Hammond said. “ Fly?”

“ How else do you think you will be able to get around?” Hammond asked. “ Although possible, it is very hard to jump with just your mind, especially onyour first time. It is much easier using the avatar form.”

“ All right,” Dalton said. “ How do I fly?”

“ With your wings, of course.” Dalton’s stick arms transformed into two wide wings, white feathers glistening. “ Sweet Lord,” Dalton whispered. He swept them down and felt himself lift. He swooped, tried to turn and felt himself lose control, before regaining his balance. He looked down. He still had the stick figure he’d originally had, but the wings had replaced his arms. A black level space appeared ahead.

“ I’ve had Sybyl make a place for you to stand, “ Hammond said. “ We must work on the rest of your avatar. I’m passing you to Sybyl fortraining.”

Dalton landed on the black plane. His felt his “feet” sink into the surface slightly.

“ I will show you the various forms we have computer generated, “ Hammond said. “ You must pick the one you prefer in accordance with your ownphysical shape and size.”

Dalton watched as a series of forms appeared in front of him. All were man-shaped, but there were a number of subtle differences among them, ranging from the basic size to the lengths of the arms and legs. One of the forms was moved out in front of the others.

“ The data indicates this would be the best fit, as it most closely approximates yourown body shape,” Hammond said.

The form was featureless, the skin a pure white. The eyes were two black spots on the face. There was no mouth or nose. Dalton assumed that Sybyl had the form that way because there would be no need for mouth or nose in the virtual plane, but he wondered what they would look like when they came out into the real plane. He saw a certain advantage to not having an entirely human appearance in such a situation.

“ Will I be visible in the real plane?” Dalton wanted to check what Raisor had told him. “ You will cause a disturbance in the electromagneticspectrum,” Hammond said. “ Despite the fact that the human eye doesnot see into that spectrum, we have noted that people in the real plane do sense something whenan avatar materializes.

“ You also will have the option to add color and pattern to your form if you have aneed for your form to be seen.”

The form in front of him disappeared. Dalton felt a wave of something pass through him, and he staggered back. When he looked down, he now had the form that Sybyl had built. He looked down at his hands, spreading the fingers, flexing them. His movements felt smoother than they had in stick form. He walked around. He felt like he had shed thirty years. His body— avatar— felt alive and vibrant. And powerful. He reached his smooth hands up, stretching. He slid one leg out in front of the other and did the basic first kata of aikido that he had learned in the Trojan Warrior training. At first he had some difficulty, but he tried again and again, until the arms and legs began functioning smoothly, without conscious thought. He worked his way through the eight katas up to black belt level before he felt satisfied.

“ Weapons?” he asked.

There was a tingle in Dalton’s right arm. He looked down, watching the forearm and hand dissolve into a tube about three feet long from the elbow joint.

“ Aim and fire,” Hammond said. A target silhouette appeared about thirty feet away.

Dalton extended his arm, then paused. “ How do I fire?”

“ Think it and it will happen,” Hammond said. “ Thinkabout making a fist with the arm that is now the weapon. Aiming is easy as you will see a thin reddot on the aim point of your weapon much like a laser sight.” Dalton focused. He saw the red dot, moved it on target. He sent the impulse to clench his nonexistent fist, and he felt a slight recoil in the arm/weapon. A glowing ball raced toward the silhouette and hit. The target shattered.

Several more silhouettes popped up. Dalton fired.

He found the tube to be extremely easy to aim— it was like pointing his arm, and the red aiming dot was dead on with where the round hit. But he was disturbed by the lag between aiming and firing. He found himself pointing at a target and waiting as the power built up to firing level. It took about two seconds between each firing, an eternity in combat in Dalton’s experience.

“ The rate of firing is dependent on power?” Dalton checked.

“ Yes.”

“ Give me minimum power to kill a man with a shot to the head.” There was a short pause, then Hammond responded. “ Done.” Dalton fired at the array of silhouettes, moving at the same time, diving to his right, rolling. Coming to his knees and continuing to fire. This lower power setting was better, firing with what Dalton estimated was slightly more than a second between each shot. The accuracy was superb, as Dalton placed each power ball into the head of each silhouette.

“ Can you equip my team with an array of power settings?” Dalton asked. “ I want most of them able to fire this rapidly, but I want others firing on thestronger setting.”

“ I can have Sybyl do that.”

“ If you decrease rate and increase power,” Dalton wanted to know,

“ can you also fire a spread of balls?”

“ At the same time?” Hammond asked. “ Like a shotgunshell,” Dalton said. “ Yes.”

“ I also want some of my men to be armed with a focused, powerful shot that canpunch through armor.”

“ I can program that also.”

Dalton concentrated and the tube shrunk, dissolving into his avatar arm once more.

“ What about the wings?” he asked. “ If you are ready,you can change your arms to the wings. Just concentrate like you did with the powertube.”

Dalton paused, closing his eyes. He concentrated; his arms felt like he was flexing the shoulder muscles. When he opened his eyes, he had the wings back.

“ Where would you like to go?” Hammond asked. “ Imust keep you within a certain area in the virtual world until you are more proficient. Considerthe borders of the state of Colorado as your current limits. Where would you like to go inColorado?”

Dalton knew the answer to that, but he didn’t bother to tell Hammond as he moved into the virtual plane.

“What is this place?” Barsk asked as the wheels of the plane touched the runway. They had flown for several hours after getting the generator on board. The plane had taken the weight, but the pilots had been forced to use every foot of runway to get them into the air.

“An old airbase,” Leksi said.

“I can see that.” Barsk was tired and his fear of the large man had diminished in proportion to his weariness. He could clearly see that the buildings and hangars had long been out of use. The plane was slowing.

“This is one of the bases where the planes the Americans sent over during the Great Patriotic War were flown to,” Leksi said. He pointed out the small window.

“In that building the American insignia was painted over and the Soviet star was painted on. A crew of our people then manned the plane and flew it to the front.”

“And why are we here?” Barsk asked as the plane came to a halt, then slowly turned and began taxiing toward a hangar, with an open door.

“This is where I was told to take the generator for the first stop,” Leksi said simply.

Barsk could now see there were several helicopters inside the hangar next to the one they were headed for. Men dressed in black fatigues stood in the shadows, weapons slung over their shoulders, watching.

“Who are they?”

“The men and equipment we will need for the next phase.” Leksi stood as the back ramp began coming down. “But do not concern yourself, you go elsewhere from here. I’ll take care of the next phase without your help. There’s something you need to see.”

Barsk followed as Leksi disembarked, walked out of the hangar, and headed for a hangar that stood some distance from the other buildings. Its large door was opened by two men dressed in black fatigues. Leksi led the way to a trap door in the floor. He threw it open, pointing his flashlight into the hole. Barsk peered down. A naked old man chained to a metal post was lying on the floor. The old man stirred, holding a hand up to protect his eyes from the light.

“Who is that?” Barsk asked.

“Professor Vasilev,” Leksi said. He threw the door shut.

“You are to take him with you to the next site. He will be responsible for setting up the phased-displacement generator.”

“What is the cylinder?” Feteror asked. He had finished his report, telling the general that a group of mercenaries had killed the GRU surveillance team and had loaded a strange steel cylinder and other equipment onto a plane and flown off to the south.

“That is not your concern,” Rurik said. “You do not know who these people were?”

“Ex-military,” Feteror said. “They wore unmarked uniforms and acted like soldiers. They didn’t exactly line up and tell me their names.”

“Your report is insufficient,” Rurik snapped.

“It is insufficient because you didn’t give me enough power to cross over and find things out. I could have ripped open a throat or two and gotten someone to talk. I could have stopped them if you’d given me the power, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation. It is insufficient because you pulled me back too soon. Before I could see where the plane went.”

“Do not lecture me!” General Rurik screamed. Everyone stopped working and stared at their commanding officer. Rurik lowered his voice. “You do what I tell you to.”

“Then you should be satisfied with my report.” Inside his steel housing, Feteror felt better than he had in years. All was progressing quite well. Tapping his data banks, he brought up a picture and could see the general’s pretty young wife. And the young children. Two boys. Perfect.

“Get back in your pit!” Rurik slammed his fist down on the power level. Feteror’s electric eyes and ears shut off.

Dalton sideslipped and began falling, tumbling out of control.

“ Relax,” Hammond said. “ Spread yourwings.”

Dalton arched his back and spread his arms— wings— wide. They caught and the descent slowed. “ Am I outside?”

“ You will have to look to see.”

“ How do I do that?”

“ This is where you must look into the real world from the virtual,” Hammond said. “ How do I do that?” Dalton asked once more, slowly circling where he was, in the middle of the same fog he’d been in since entering the virtual world.

“ Concentrate. It is just like focusing on the white dot.”

“ Great.” Dalton did as Hammond said. Gradually the fog began clearing. He saw white peaks, mountains. “ When you do this, your psyche is on the line betweenthe virtual and the real world,” Hammond said. “ But your avatar isstill in the virtual. If you know where you are and you know where you are going, you can

‘fold’ the virtual world and ‘jump’ there.”

“ I don’t understand,” Dalton said. He was beginning to see the peaks more clearly. “ You know where you are, and you know where you want to be.Traveling in the virtual world is different than the real. Sometimes you can cover great distancesin an instant.”

“ Sometimes?” Dalton asked. He saw the white cross of the Mount of the Holy Cross. “ We ‘re not exactly sure how it works,” Hammond admitted. “ Great.”

Dalton turned his face to the east. He pictured where he wanted to be and dove in that direction. There was a bright flash of light and then he was over the Plains to the east of the Rockies. Banking, he turned and could see Pikes Peak to the west, Cheyenne Mountain to the left.

Dalton headed down toward a large building. “ What about walls?”

“ From what RVers have reported, it will be disconcerting but you can pass rightthrough walls on the virtual plane.”

Despite that assurance, Dalton flinched as the outside wall of the building rushed up. There was a moment of blackness, a feeling of hitting something not quite solid, passing through, and then he was inside. He hit the floor of a hallway and was halfway into it before he stopped and drew himself up. He floated down until he found the right room. He slid in, then paused. There was someone else inside. Dr. Kairns was standing there, staring at Marie. She straightened for a second, as if sensing his presence. Kairns reached down and gently moved a stray lock of gray hair off Marie’s face, then turned to walk out of the room. She hesitated at the door, looking back into the room, then left. Dalton looked down at Marie. What he saw wasn’t the person in the bed, but the young woman he had met thirty-four years ago. The woman who had been waiting for him after five years of separation, standing on the tarmac as he got off the plane bringing him back with the other POWs. Who had withstood his long absences and always been there when he came back. And now he was gone when she needed him the most. He couldn’t hide from his responsibility any longer. Dalton looked at his wife and concentrated. Then he really did see her, standing over the body in the bed. As she had been, her long blond hair flowing over her shoulders, her face smooth and unwrinkled, her green eyes bright and happy. She was as Dalton had always seen her in his cell, in his memory.

“ Treasure?” Dalton projected the word toward the vision. She turned. “ Jimmy?” A broad smile lit up her face. “ Oh,Jimmy, it’s been so long this time.”

“ I know.”

Marie frowned. “ But I’m the one who’s been away, haven’tI?”

Dalton nodded. He was afraid to get closer to her, afraid her form, which he could see through, would break apart and float away like a mist before a strong wind.

Before his eyes the young woman aged, lines that Dalton knew his army career had contributed to greatly began to materialize, flowing across her, giving her an imprint of the years she had lived, producing in Dalton a deep sense of sadness.

Marie smiled again, this time with sadness resonating through. “ I’m hurt too badto come back Jimmy.”

Dalton nodded once more, not trusting even his mental voice.

“ Is it all right if I go? It feels so much better like this, being free, rather thantrapped like I’ve been.”

She had always been there for him, but she had always done what she wanted also. The question was the courtesy the two had always given each other over the years.

“ I think it’s fine if you go, Treasure.”

“ You look like an angel,” Marie said. “ Are you allright?”

“ I’m fine,” Dalton said. He reached his hand up. The image of Marie did the same. The two hands flowed into each other. Dalton felt an electric shock run up his arm/wing.

“ You’ve always been my Treasure,” Dalton said.

“ I know,” Marie said, “ and you ‘ve beenmine.”

Feteror dumped the data he’d stolen out of the GRU mainframe into one of his memory cells inside Zivon. He found it ironic that the code for the encrypted information he had was also most likely inside of Zivon, but inaccessible to him, even though the scientists considered him part of the computer. He activated a decoding program and the mechanical part of Zivon went to work on the data while Feteror waited.

It didn’t take long.

Feteror was impressed. The GRU was taking no chances with the arming codes for the nuclear weapons. They were shipping them via military helicopter direct from Kazakhstan to Moscow. There would be a four-fighter escort. Feteror noted the time of departure and the proposed flight route. And the name of the officer who would have the codes: Colonel Verochka.

Now he only had one problem— being on the outside during the flight— but the other data he had stolen would help with that.

A bright light flashed. Feteror would have smiled if he could— Rurik wanted him. Feteror accessed his outside links.

“Yes?”

Rurik wasted no time. “We need you to find something.”

“What?”

“I’m having the data loaded.” Feteror was not surprised to note the physical description for the phased-displacement generator entered into his data banks.

“What is this thing?” he asked.

“A weapon.”

“What kind of weapon?”

“That is not your concern,” Rurik snapped. “Just find it. As you reported, it was stolen from the site you just checked. So find the men you saw there and you will find the weapon.”

“That will be very difficult,” Feteror lied. “Practically impossible.”

“Do it!” General Rurik yelled.

“I will try.” The tunnel opened and he was gone. In the chamber the red light began flashing. General Rurik stared at it for a few moments, then turned to his senior technician.

“What was Feteror doing before I summoned him?” The technician typed into his keyboard. “He was working within the hardware, running a program.”

“What kind of program?”

The technician didn’t answer right away, checking the machine. “A decryption program.”

Rurik leaned forward. “What is he trying to decrypt?” The expert shook his head. “We don’t know. It’s inside his memory database section.”

“Can we access his memory section?” The technician shook his head. “He has cyber-locked and encrypted all that data.”

“We can’t access our own damn computer?” The technician backtracked. “We can access it, but I don’t think we can get the data stored there out in legible form. Also, the way I am reading what Feteror has done, it would cause some permanent damage to Zivon for us to do that.”

The technician saw the look on the general’s face and hurriedly continued, “For security reasons, Feteror only has access to certain parts of Zivon. We have, in effect, put a wall up to keep him from having free access. But you must remember, General, that when you build a wall, it blocks traffic both ways. That wall also keeps us from freely going into his part of Zivon.” Rurik looked at the steel cylinder. “He’s up to something,” he whispered.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Rurik spoke in a louder voice. “I want you to find out what Feteror has stored. In a way that can’t be detected and will cause no damage to Zivon. I want to know what is happening on Feteror’s side of the wall.”

The technician opened his mouth to say something, but his teeth snapped shut as he saw the expression on his superior’s face. He nodded and turned to his computer console.

“You’re down to six,” Raisor said accusingly. Dalton wiped the embryonic fluid off his face and threw the towel to the floor. He felt a chill spasm through his body and he shivered uncontrollably for a few seconds. He felt an empty space in his chest, a sick feeling.

“Six what?” His mind was elsewhere, Raisor’s words registering distantly on his conscious mind.

“Six men,” Raisor said. “One of your so-called special men has flaked out on us.”

“You talked to Trilly?” Dalton asked dully. He could still see Marie fading away, her spirit disappearing, growing ever fainter until there was nothing there. He’d stayed in the room as the medical alarms had gone off and Dr. Kairns had rushed in. He was grateful the doctor had obeyed his written wishes that Marie not be resuscitated. He had finally left when Kairns had tenderly pulled the sheet over Marie’s body.

“He came to me,” Raisor replied. “Said he had talked to you and told you he wasn’t going in the tank again.”

“That’s not his decision,” Dalton said.

“If he’s not willing, there’s not— “

“It’s also not your place to talk to my men,” Dalton said, cutting the CIA man off.

Raisor shook his head. “I’m in charge here, Sergeant Major, not you. You may be in command of your men, but I’m in charge of you. So in effect, I’m in charge of your men too.”

Dalton jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the isolation tank he had just come out of.

“Fine. Then you go in there and lead the team.”

“I just might do that,” Raisor said. Dalton realized Raisor would take over. “Let me lead my team,” Dalton said.

“You go over one more time for practice,” Raisor said,

“then it’s for real.”

“Fine,” Dalton said. He didn’t particularly care one way or the other at the moment.

“Can you do it with six?” Raisor asked.

“I didn’t think we could do it with eight,” Dalton said.

“But we’ll have seven. Orders are not optional. Trilly’s going with us.”

“I’ll supplement your team with some of the RVers,” Raisor said.

“I thought the reason we’re here is because they couldn’t do the mission,” Dalton said.

“They can’t— by themselves. But three of them are military and have had basic military training. I’m sure with your leadership, they’ll be of help.” Raisor’s cold smile matched his tone. “And they have experience in the virtual plane.”

“They’re more likely to get in the way,” Dalton said.

“You can’t have it both ways,” Raisor said. “Do you want the help or not?”

“We’ll take them.”

“Be ready to go in two hours,” Raisor said. “We’ve set up the practice range as you requested.”

“Fine.” Dalton was tired. He wanted the blessed relief of sleep. He turned to Dr. Hammond, who was at her master control station. She looked exhausted, her face drawn, dark rings under her eyes. She’d been on duty practically nonstop since the team had arrived.

“I’d like for all of us to go over at the same time in the next practice,” Dalton told her.

Hammond nodded. “I’m bringing the rest back. We’ll shut down for a couple of hours, then send you all over together with your advanced avatars to practice your weaponry skills and your team coordination.”

“Fine,” Dalton said. Despite his exhaustion, he went to the communications room. He dialed on the secure line.

“Colonel Metter.”

“Sir, it’s Dalton.”

There was a short pause. “Jimmy, I’ve got some bad news. I was trying to get through to you but— “

“Sir, I know about Marie.”

There was an even longer pause before Metter spoke again. “But it just happened thirty minutes ago. How— “

“Sir, how is not important. I need you to take care of the arrangements. I had everything ready, you just need to check on it all.”

“I can get you back from there,” Metter said.

“No, sir, I don’t think you can,” Dalton said. “And I can’t come back anyway. I’m needed here. Marie understood.” Dalton leaned against the wall. “I have to go, sir.”

“Jimmy, I’m sorry about Marie.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Take care of the team, Jimmy.”

“I will, sir.”

Deputy Commander Oskar Bredond slapped the young Chechen with the steel wire butt of his AK-74, ripping four teeth out of the young man’s mouth in the process. The Chechen spit blood at the officer, his arms bound by two sets of handcuffs, ratcheted down so tight on his wrists that his hands were turning blue.

“Fuck you, pig.”

Bredond smiled. “No, I think it is you who will get fucked. A nice young piece of meat like you will be received quite nicely in our prison.” Bredond wore mottled camouflage fatigues with a thick bulletproof vest buckled over his chest. His men wore the same, along with black Kevlar helmets. They were the elite strike force arm of the Moscow police, known as the Omon, more heavily armed than their western SWAT counterparts and with broader powers of arrest.

There was another way that the Omon differed greatly from police in the West, and that was that they focused only on certain criminals while ignoring others. Moscow, if one took out Mafia-related crime, was one of the safest cities in the world. But whenever the Mafia was involved, the Omon and the rest of the Moscow police turned a blind eye.

Bredond, despite being a deputy commander, took home the equivalent of $250 a month. They all supplemented their income with second jobs. Bredond, seeing the writing on the wall, had chosen the most lucrative and easiest way to supplement his income.

He kicked the Chechen once more. The man was a freelancer. He had come to Moscow from his home state, stolen a vehicle, and driven it home, where he had sold it. Unfortunately for him, the Moscow Mafia was growing weary of freelancers working on their turf. Bredond had been tipped off about this man and his stolen vehicle an hour ago. Bredond, not a stupid man, wondered if the Chechen had been set up.

The cellular phone in Bredond’s pocket buzzed, halting him in the middle of another kick. He walked away, pulling the phone out.

“Bredond.”

“We have a job for you.” The voice on the other end was filled with static. Bredond knew that was because it was sent through several relays and scrambled. Not that the person calling him was concerned about the police, but rather the other Mafia clans listening in.

“Yes?” Bredond waited.

“We want you to pick someone up.” When Bredond heard the name and address, he gritted his teeth. He knew what that address meant.

“That will be difficult,” he said. There was no answer. He licked his lips and continued. “There will be strong repercussions if we take action in that neighborhood.”

“I didn’t ask you to do this,” the voice said. The phone went dead. Bredond cursed. He yelled for his men to gear up. They left the Chechen lying in a pool of his own blood, still whispering curses at the Omon as they drove off

At the abandoned airbase, Barsk watched as Leksi’s mercenaries pulled four Hind-D helicopters out of hangars, along with two MI-8 Hips. He was surprised at the number of aircraft, wondering how much his grandmother had paid to obtain them. Even with the glut of military material on the black market, these would still cost quite a few dollars.

The Hinds were combination attack/transport helicopters. They could carry eight combat-equipped troops in the back, while the pods on either side carried numerous rockets, and a 12.7-millimeter machine gun was mounted in the nose. The Hip helicopters could carry twenty-eight men each, and it looked like Leksi had enough men to fill all six helicopters, judging by the number of black-clad men in the hangar. The pilots began walking around, doing their pre-flight checks, as the men loaded magazines with bullets and sharpened their knives.

Leksi interrupted Barsk’s musings on the cost of this operation by slapping a map down in front of him. “You will take the cargo plane, the generator, and the old man, and transport all to here.”

Barsk looked at the map. The location was two hundred miles away from where they were. An airfield next to a large dam.

“What is this?” Barsk demanded.

“It is where Oma said for you to take the weapon. We will meet you there.”

Barsk stabbed a finger down at the map. “But there is a town nearby. The authorities will be notified.”

Leksi shrugged. “It is what Oma has ordered.” Dalton looked over the other six Special Forces men. They were all wearing the black one-piece suit that fit them like a second skin. Trilly looked like a dog that had been kicked once too often, but Dalton didn’t have time to soothe the sergeant’s feelings. He’d told him to suit and brooked no resistance.

A door on the side of the room opened and three more people walked in, two men and Lieutenant Jackson, the fillers promised by Raisor. The CIA man followed them, also in the black suit. Eleven altogether. Captain Anderson had ceded command of the team to him without outright saying so. Not out of lack of leadership, but more out of recognition of Dalton’s combat experience and natural authority. It was the strongest and smartest leadership decision the captain could make under these circumstances.

“All right,” Dalton said, now that his entire team was gathered together.

“We need to accomplish two things and we don’t have much time to do it. We need to work on developing our avatars and projecting them into the real world, using their weapons. And we need to work on our teamwork.”

He looked at Lieutenant Jackson and the other two RVers. “You have experience in the former and we have the experience in the latter. So let’s all contribute and work together. We only have one shot at getting our act together before we go for real, so let’s not waste any time.” He turned to Raisor. “Where do you want to be?”

“I’ll be overseeing the operation; don’t concern yourself with me.”

“Let’s load,” Dr. Hammond called out from her console. The Psychic Warriors headed for their isolation tanks.

Feteror watched the Omon smash the front door in. The house was well built, but the Omon used a shotgun to blast out the locks, then two men swung a small battering ram, splintering the wood. Feteror was in the virtual plane, hovering overhead.

The team, led by Deputy Commander Bredond, sprinted through the doorway. Feteror swooped down, passing through the roof flitting from room to room, watching as the Omon did his dirty work. There were three people in the house— a woman and two children. The Omon had them gagged, hooded, and cuffed, ignoring the woman’s screams about who her husband was and how important he was.

The Omon hustled the three out of the house and into one of their cars. Feteror followed overhead as they drove through the streets of Moscow until they arrived at an old warehouse near the railyard. Bredond exited the car, dragging the woman with her as two of his men brought the kids. Two armored BMWs waited in the shadows. Four men emerged from the lead one and took custody of the woman and two children. They pulled the hood off the woman and checked her photograph against one they had with them. Satisfied, they threw the woman into the trunk of the car, then crammed the two children in on top of her and closed the trunk, ignoring the muted cries and jerkings of the bound bodies. As the men started to get back in the still-open doors, Bredond stepped forward. All four men paused, hands hovering near the front of their long black leather coats.

“This is going too far!” Bredond yelled toward the rear BMW. Overhead, Feteror began forming in the real plane, his clawed hands hooked onto one of the large support beams holding the roof up, his wings folded in tight, unseen and unnoticed by those below. There was no reply, either from the guards or whoever was seated behind the tinted glass in the second BMW.

Bredond shifted uncomfortably, his three men holding their AK-74s uncertainly.

“Her husband is a GRU general. We were seen picking her and the children up. There will be inquiries. I will have to answer for this.”

One of the bodyguards from the lead BMW put a finger to his ear. Feteror could see the thin wire, indicating he had a small receiver there. The man snapped a command and all four slipped inside the car. Bredond raised his hand. His men pointed their weapons at the two BMWs, blocking the exit. Feteror spread his wings and leaped. He swooped down, both arms out to his side, and went right between two of the Omon, claws ripping throats open in a gush of blood.

Feteror landed as Bredond and the last surviving Omon policeman spun about, searching for the cause of the other half of their party’s death.

Feteror stepped forward and swung low. The last Omon man caught a glimpse of Feteror’s form even as the claws punched through skin, into warm viscera. Feteror felt the man’s spine and he gripped it, practically ripping the man in two in the process. He lifted the man up, then threw him onto the car the Omon had driven.

Bredond stepped back, weapon raised. He could see the intermittent form of some large creature, the two glowing red eyes unmistakable, the red blood dripping off an almost invisible clawed hand very clear. Feteror drew in more power and he slowly materialized, adding color to his form. His scaled skin was black, his wings streaked with red, his demon features hard and angular.

Bredond’s eyes opened wide, the weapon falling from his fingers as he dropped to his knees, hands raised in supplication. “Chyort! Please! Spare me!” Feteror spun so quickly that those watching from the other cars only saw a blur. He lashed a backhand strike with his right wing, the six-inch claw on his middle finger extended. It sliced through Bredond’s neck like a paring knife through bread. Bredond’s head tilted back, held in place only by the spinal cord. The body flopped back, blood still pumping from the heart. Feteror turned to the second BMW. A window slid down and the cracked face of Oma peered out.

“He was useful,” she said.

“His usefulness was over.” Feteror liked the sound of the avatar voice he had worked hard on. It was deeper than a human voice, with a rough edge. A true demon’s voice. “The Omon’s being involved will cause confusion. Their bodies found dead will make even more confusion. It will take the GRU a while to sort through. By then it will be too late.”

“Why do we need them?” Oma asked, indicating the trunk. Feteror extended the same claw that had almost decapitated Bredond toward the first BMW.

“They are important to our plan.”

“How?” Oma asked. “I did as you asked but I don’t see how a GRU general’s wife and children help us.” Feteror glared at the old woman. He could see the fear in her guards’ eyes, the four men having jumped out of the front BMW, weapons at the ready at his appearance. He could not tell her why, because doing so would expose a weakness.

“Do as you are told, old woman.”

“You need me,” Oma hissed.

Feteror extended his wings, putting the car in the dark shadow they created. “Oh, yes, old woman, I need you.”

Feteror leapt up, translating from the real to the virtual plane in an instant and, in doing so, disappearing before the eyes of those watching, leaving behind the bodies he had torn apart as the only evidence that what they had seen had been real.

Dalton looked around. He was in a large open space, the horizon limitless. The ground beneath his feet was flat and a featureless gray. The air was filled with a white fog, making him wonder how far he was really seeing.

“ I am bringing all of you here in your forms in the virtual planefirst,” Hammond said.

Dalton noticed something above him. He looked up and saw a falcon and two eagles soaring. He immediately knew from Sybyl’s input that they were Jackson and the other two RVers, Sergeant Williams and Chief Warrant Officer Auer.

More forms began appearing on the ground around him. Dalton was slightly surprised that he could recognize each of his men, their forms very similar to what they were in reality, even though their facial features were white masks without features. There was enough variance in size and shape to allow him to separate them.

“ Your weapons,” Hammond announced. Right arms formed into tubes from the elbow forward. Dalton’s tube was about four inches in diameter, tapering to a smooth muzzle about a half inch wide. Two others were similar to what Dalton carried, two were the “shotguns” he had asked Hammond for, and two were the more powerful, slower-firing tubes.

“ What about you?” Dalton projected the question to the RVers circling overhead.

Lieutenant Jackson’s voice answered inside of his head. “ We need the power tofly. We can be your eyes for this mission. If we had weapons, we would take away power fromyours.”

“ All right.”

He saw another figure, Raisor, standing not far away, blank face watching. The avatars gathered round. It was eerie to watch the bird forms of the RVers simply come to a halt overhead, wings folded. But Dalton knew that if he tried, he could hover off the floor and hang next to them.

“ Mr. Raisor has set up a practice scenario for us at Fort Hood, Texas.They’ve closed off a tank range there and put in a bunch of targets, both stationary andmoving, for us to attack. We have no idea right now what form the Mafia assault on the nuclearweapons train will take, but this is the best we can come up with on short notice.”

“ Do we fire on full power?” Captain Anderson asked.

“ Yes,” Dalton said. “ We act as if this is the real thing.Dr. Hammond?”

“ Yes?”

“ Show us the computer mock-up of what’s been set up for us at FortHood.”

A line of old railcars appeared, towed into place on a dusty, scrub-covered range. Several armored vehicles, relics towed off other ranges, were lined around it. Scores of silhouettes, some red, some blue, were spaced all around. The terrain around was the hill country of mid-Texas that Dalton remembered from a tour of duty at Fort Hood.

“ The blue are friendly. The red are the enemy,” Hammond said.

“ All right. Here’s what we’re going to do.” Dalton led his men through his plan for the assault on the attackers.

Feteror was out of time. The link back to SD8-FFEU was weakening, General Rurik’s way of drawing him back. The longest Rurik had ever allowed him to be out on a mission had been six hours in real time. It was another way the general tried to keep a leash on his demon and one that had worked very effectively over the years.

Feteror headed back to SD8-FFEU, sliding down the tunnel, feeling the virtual window shut behind him. He settled in and immediately accessed his inner eyes and ears, somewhat surprised to find them on. There was no sign of General Rurik in the center, which didn’t surprise Feteror. He assumed Rurik had had him called back as soon as he got called about his wife and children, and that the general was still trying to find out what had happened.

Feteror paused as he moved through his electronic home. Something was wrong. Like a tracker noting a blade of grass disturbed here, a broken stick there, Feteror did a detailed search of his domain. His scream of anger echoed along the wires of Zivon as he found that the intruder had tried to get into his memory files.

“Tell me about the phased-displacement generator,” Barsk ordered. The old man was blinking, not used to the light even though the interior of the hangar was dim. Barsk looked past the man toward the runway, where the blades on all six helicopters were turning. The first one, with Leksi on board, lifted and headed south. The others followed.

The old man gulped down the water one of Barsk’s bodyguards handed him, finishing the canteen in one long swallow. Barsk waited.

The old man put the empty canteen down and squinted in Barsk’s direction. Getting out of the hole seemed to have bolstered the man’s confidence somewhat. Or, Barsk thought, he had simply given up. He had seen both reactions over the years among those who knew the end was near.

“Who are you?”

“I ask the questions, old man,” Barsk reminded him. “What is this phased-displacement generator? How does it work?” Vasilev worked his tongue around his mouth, feeling how swollen it was. “It is a weapon.”

“What kind of weapon?”

“It can take a physical object and move it into the virtual plane and then bring it out of the virtual plane.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Vasilev, despite his condition, drew himself up. “I would have to teach you four years of graduate physics for you to grasp the basics, and then I would have to be honest and tell you I do not know exactly how it works.”

“How do you know it works at all, then?”

“We tested it a long time ago.”

“At October Revolution Island?”

Vasilev nodded, his eyes distant.

Barsk remembered the bodies in the cavern. “What happened?”

“We succeeded and we failed,” Vasilev said.

“I don’t have time for word games,” Barsk warned.

“We sank an American submarine in the Atlantic Ocean with a nuclear warhead.”

Barsk looked at his bodyguards and signaled for them to back up, out of earshot. “If this generator is so effective, why was it abandoned?”

“Because— “ Vasilev paused, then continued,

“Because, as I said, we also failed. Part of the system, shall we say, malfunctioned, and all those involved were killed.”

“The bodies in the coffins. They were mutilated. Were they the cause of the malfunction?”

Vasilev raised an eyebrow. “Yes.” Barsk sat back, considering the old man. “Can you make it work now?”

“Not without— “ He paused. A sense of dread overcame him. Had they done it again?

“Without what?”

“The remote viewers to fix the target.” Barsk assumed Oma had thought of that. “If you have that part, can you do it?”

“With the proper computers, enough power, the generator, the proper program, I suppose— “

“You had better do better than suppose,” Barsk warned.

“You are working with the demon?” Vasilev asked. Barsk leaned forward. “What do you know of this demon?”

“He visited me there.” Vasilev pointed at the pit.

“Who exactly is the demon?”

“It is more a question of what is this demon,” Vasilev said.

“I suspect he is a creature that exists on the psychic plane.”

“Explain as much as you know to me,” Barsk ordered. Vasilev gave a weak laugh. “That won’t take long.”

“ Go!” Dalton ordered.

The three RVers unfurled their wings and took off. Dalton watched them until they suddenly disappeared from view.

“ Hammond?” Dalton checked.

“ Here.”

“ You can have Sybyl relay information from Lieutenant Jackson and theothers?”

“ Yes.”

Dalton shook his head. This was all happening too fast. He had little idea what their capabilities and limitations were. But he knew that Raisor and Hammond had little idea also. He had to consider so many factors that he knew he was missing some important aspects. He also knew from his combat experience that it was the details that were overlooked that got people killed. And whatever could screw up was going to. Murphy’s law had been a maxim of military operations since the first man had clubbed a guy over the head in the next cave.

Dalton broke his seven-man team into two three-man fireteams. He put Captain Anderson in charge of one. Each fireteam had one fast firer, one “shotgunner,” and one heavy firer.

The plan was as simple as Dalton could make it. He had to guess what the Mafia’s plan would be, but he figured they had to have military men working for them and thus he felt reasonably sure about what would happen. The Mafia force would set up what was called an ORP, objective rally point, near the attack site, but out of direct line of sight. They would launch their attack from there. Dalton’s plan was to use Captain Anderson’s fireteam to attack the ORP while his team assaulted the attacking force. That would force the Mafia to fight on three fronts: the Russian troops guarding the train in front of them, Anderson’s team from behind, and Dalton’s team right among them.

“ We’re closing on Fort Hood. “ Jackson’s voice was inside his head, as loud and clear as Hammond’s, startling him out of his military speculating. Entering the real plane, “ Jackson said.

Dalton waited.

“ Okay, we’re here.” There was a difference to Jackson’s voice. As if she were in a large, empty space, her voice echoing strangely.

“ It’s like the mock-up but there’s also some more armor in the ORP

area. About fifty ‘men’ in the ORP. Another force of about a hundred stretched outbetween the ORP and the train. Hold on, I’ll show it to you.” Dalton blinked as an image flickered across his vision, momentarily blocking out the featureless area of virtual space around him. He focused and he could see the range target area as Jackson saw it, circling overhead.

“ All right,” Dalton said. “ Captain Anderson, designatetargets for your men.”

“ Roger that,” Anderson answered. Dalton did the same, able to use the views forwarded from Lieutenant Jackson and the two other RVers to give each of his men specific targets. As he did this, a part of Dalton started feeling more confident. He’d been on many military operations in his time in the Army, but this one, while undoubtedly the strangest, also was presenting him with advantages he hadn’t even dreamed of. Being able to see the target like this and then being able to mentally communicate with each of his men, letting them know his plan by seeing it, instead of just telling them what he wanted, was something every military commander would give anything for.

“ Are we ready?”

He received an affirmative from each man.

“ Sybyl, give us the visual checkpoints,” Dalton ordered. It was a technique the RVers had perfected. Sybyl could access the NSA’s satellite imagery database and pick easily identifiable spots on the earth’s surface between their present location and the target. They could then project themselves through virtual space from checkpoint to checkpoint by imaging the picture.

“ Let’s do it.”

The Special Forces men’s avatars lost their weapons as their arms shifted into wings. They entered the virtual plane and headed south.

Dalton found himself alone once more, moving through the virtual sky with his virtual wings. He hit the first checkpoint and spotted two other of his men passing through. He kept going, until he was at the last checkpoint, less than a kilometer from the target. At that point, he pulled in power from Sybyl and materialized on a hillside, the bulk of the mountain between him and the target. He watched as the other men showed up within a couple of minutes of each other.

“ Hell of a way to infiltrate a target area,” Captain Anderson noted as he gained his feet and took a few tentative steps, refamiliarizing himself with operating in the real world with his avatar.

“ Any change in the target?” Dalton asked Jackson.

“ Negative, “ Jackson responded. “ Here’s thecurrent image.”

Dalton checked it. “ All right,” he said to the men of his fireteam, Trilly, Egan, and Barnes. “ We will go back into the virtual plane from here and I want us tocome out into the real world right here— “ He picked a spot on the image. It was about a hundred meters from the railcar, in the midst of numerous red silhouettes indicating the attacking force.

“ When you come out, come out blasting,” Dalton said. “ Ready, Captain Anderson?”

“ Ready.”

“ Let’s go.”

Dalton released his hold on the real world and dematerialized. He focused on the image of the spot he had picked. And then he was there. He materialized, the power tube flowing out of his right arm as he flickered into existence in the real world.

He fired at the closest red silhouette.

On a hill to the south a wide-angle video camera had been set up on orders from the CIA to send an image back to Bright Gate. The range area was supposed to be completely evacuated, but two officers from Fort Hood had stayed in the observation post, curious to see what the results of all the strange, high-level orders they had received would be. They had expected to see parachutes come out of the sky, perhaps carrying members of a Ranger battalion practicing a train takedown. They were stunned when strange men appeared out of nothingness, firing with what looked like tubes in place of forearms and hands. Silhouettes splintered as small fireballs hit them. Through his binoculars, one of the officers watched as a derelict tank was hit by a larger fireball that smashed through the front armor and exploded inside.

“Who the hell are these guys?” the officer asked his partner.

“ What the hell are they?” the other officer asked in return as he focused in on one of the forms, seeing that the face was a featureless white mask.

It was going very well. Of course, Dalton reflected as he moved and fired, the silhouettes weren’t shooting back. That was perhaps the biggest concern he had. Despite Dr. Hammond’s assurances, he wasn’t absolutely confident that the avatars could sustain much damage or that they could be reconstituted as easily as she imagined. There was the issue of what had happened to Stith lurking in the back of his mind.

He did a forward roll behind a berm and fired, slicing a red silhouette in half. “ Anderson?” he asked through Sybyl.

“ We ‘ve wiped the ORP out. No problem!” Anderson’s voice was excited, like a kid who had just won a big ball game.

Dalton didn’t blame him. It was intoxicating, being able to move and fire, to communicate instantly, to come in and out of reality. As he thought that, Dalton looked at a tank hulk fifty meters away. He faded out of the real, sped through the virtual, and popped into existence inside the tank. He

“killed” all the crew, then “jumped” again to another position.

Without being asked, Sybyl was updating him on the position of the other members of the team, pushing the data through his consciousness without interfering with what he was doing. He could see that Anderson’s team was moving slowly in his direction, clearing out the terrain between them. That was when the drones came in overhead. Three of them, flying in triangular formation, they were firing off flares to simulate weapons. Each was programmed with their flight route and had a wingspan of twenty feet. They were flying at two hundred miles an hour, low out of the setting sun. Even as Dalton noted this unexpected development, he was getting the exact positions, directions, and speeds of the drones from Lieutenant Jackson. He swung up his tube and fired, as did Barnes. The drones were blasted out of the sky less than two seconds after they had been spotted.

“ Behind you!” One of the RVers warned him. Dalton spun, tube at the ready, but even before his avatar completed the turn, the RVer had shown him what was happening. A group of the blue silhouette targets had dropped their covering and were now red.

That lasted for less than a second as all six Special Forces men fired into the new targets. Dalton paused. There were no more targets. The other members of his fireteam

“jumped” to his position. Then Anderson’s team was there. He could see Raisor’s avatar floating to the north, watching, and he knew where the surprises had come from.

“ Let’s go home,” Dalton ordered. On the hillside, the two officers lowered their binoculars after watching the ten men’s arms shift into wings before they simply blinked out of existence.

“That couldn’t have been real,” one of the men whispered.

“Those targets are all destroyed,” the other noted.

“That’s real.”

The first officer headed for the door of the bunker. “We weren’t supposed to be here. As far as I’m concerned, we didn’t see anything. We didn’t hear anything. We don’t know anything.”

“We wasted them!” Egan, the intelligence sergeant, was ecstatic as he toweled off the embryonic fluid.

Dalton didn’t say anything, letting the adrenaline flow run its course. The trial run had gone far better than he’d expected. He’d had to reevaluate his outlook on the upcoming mission and accept that Raisor was mostly right— they would have a tremendous advantage and they were the best force for this mission. Not only were they a potent fighting force once they arrived on target, but the ability to infiltrate and exfiltrate a foreign country through the virtual field was unparalleled in its possibilities. Dalton saw Raisor and Hammond by the master control console watching.

“You see how I hit that tank and the fireball went right through the armor!” Barnes was using his hands like a fighter pilot to show what had happened. “Then I

‘jumped’ about twenty meters to the left and hit the tank again. Unbelievable.”

“Just remember nobody was shooting back at you,” Dalton noted. That brought a moment of silence.

“What exactly happens if we do get shot?” Trilly wanted to know.

“You slip back into the virtual world,” Dr. Hammond said,

“and allow Sybyl to reconstitute you.”

“Far out!” Monroe yelled, raising his hand for a high five from Egan.

“You go on the real thing in six hours,” Raisor said. “I suggest you get some rest.”

As the team filed out, Dalton cornered Lieutenant Jackson. “What do you think?” he asked her.

“I think it was too easy,” Jackson said. Dalton nodded. “Two things worry me. First, we still don’t really know what happens when the avatar gets shot or blown up or run over, or any of the other things that can happen to it.”

“And the second?” Jackson asked.

“Murphy’s law,” Dalton said succinctly. “Whatever can screw up will. I’m concerned about the Russian psychic capability. What if they are on top of this?” He could see the look in Jackson’s eyes and knew she was thinking the same thing. “What if this demon, this Chyort, shows up? Or if what happened to the first team happens to us?

“We don’t know much about what we’re doing,” Dalton continued. “We really don’t know diddly about the Russian capability. What about this Dr. Vasilev? You said he worked in Moscow. Do you think you can find him?” Jackson looked tired, black lines under her eyes, but she nodded. “I can give it a shot. He’s published in some journals that give some bio information. I can go to the Institute in Moscow and try to find him from there.”

“I’d really appreciate it,” Dalton said. “I know you need to rest, but— “

Jackson held up her hand. “No problem. I’ll go back in.” Dalton ran a hand through his goo-filled hair. “I’ll go with you.” Feteror sensed a presence down the computer path he was on. A shadow where there shouldn’t be one. He paused, uncertain for the first time in a very long time. The shadow moved. Feteror raced down a side path, his essence flowing through the circuitry, and he popped out behind the shadow. He froze, seeing his grandfather looking about in amazement at the hardware inside of the computer.

“Opa!” Feteror exclaimed.

The old man turned, a bright smile above his bushy gray beard. “Arkady!” Feteror edged forward, uncertain. “How can you be here?” Opa shrugged. “That is what I wanted to ask you. And where is here?” His frail arms waved about.

Feteror stepped forward. “But you aren’t real.” Opa reached out and grabbed Feteror’s virtual arm. “Does that feel real?”

“But— “ Feteror shook his head. “How can this be?”

“How can you be?” Opa said. “I don’t know. I was asleep. And now I’m awake.”

“But I didn’t summon you,” Feteror said.

“Summon me? Summon me?” Opa glared at his grandson.

“What happened to wake you?” Feteror asked. The old man frowned. “Someone tried breaking in.” He looked about, confusion crossing his face once more. “But I was home. In the cottage. Someone was at the window. I woke and yelled. They ran. But this isn’t the cottage.” Feteror nodded. Rurik’s prying had woken the old man. But what he didn’t understand— and knew the figure in front of him wouldn’t know either— was how his grandfather’s image had come “alive” and escaped its memory cell. This was something new and unprecedented.

Feteror checked the time. He knew that General Rurik would exhaust all the normal channels to try to find his wife and children. When they failed— and they would, given Oma’s and his own thoroughness— he would reluctantly turn to Feteror. He estimated he had a little while before the call came.

“Where is the cottage?” Opa asked. Feteror reached out and took his grandfather by the arm. “I will take you home, Opa.”

Dalton’s lungs filled with liquid. His body spasmed, tired muscles fighting the foreign substance, then giving way.

The process went faster and shortly Dalton was back on the virtual plane. Jackson’s falcon avatar swooped past, over his left shoulder, startling him.

“ Ready to go?” Jackson asked.

“ Where’s the first point?” Dalton asked. An image from Sybyl appeared in his mind as Hammond spoke. “ You’ll betaking the polar route to Russia. Your first jump point will be in central Canada right above thislake.”

Dalton’s arms flowed into wings and he took flight, catching up to the falcon.

“ First jump, “ Jackson said.

“ First jump,” Dalton acknowledged. He concentrated on the lake point in Canada. Everything went blank; he felt disoriented and then he was there, about five hundred meters above the water.

He looked around. Jackson was close by. Dalton felt awkward and huge next to her small, graceful form.

“ Second point, “ Jackson projected. It took them four points to get to Moscow. Dalton had no idea if that many were necessary— if they could have gotten there with one jump. He also had no idea how much time passed. Between some of the points the transition was not instantaneous. He felt as if he had flown a distance between some of them in the gray fog of the virtual plane.

He was grateful for Jackson’s presence, as he wasn’t sure he could have made it this far this quickly without her keeping him oriented.

“ The Russian Physiological Psychology Institute is that building.” Jackson nosed down toward a large, square building, built of dark stone. Dalton followed. He paused as Jackson’s avatar blipped into the roof and disappeared, then he did the same. He was in an office. There were three men in uniform inside the room. Dalton staggered backward before he realized that he was still in the virtual plane and the men couldn’t see him.

“ This is Dr. Vasilev’s office. “ Jackson paused. “ I don’t know who they are. They have GRU tabs on their shoulder boards.”

“ Seems like they’re looking for something,” Dalton noted. That was an understatement, as the large desk was turned on its side, spilling papers. Two men dropped to their knees, searching both the papers and the underside of the desk. The third, obviously an officer of higher rank, watched the other two.

One of the men on his knees said something to the senior officer in Russian. The officer replied.

“ Vasilev is missing, “ Jackson told Dalton. “ They’re trying to find out what happened to him.”

“ You understand Russian?” Dalton asked. There was an amused tone to Jackson’s projection. “ Yes. And so doyou.”

Dalton didn’t have a chance to pursue that as the senior officer pulled a cellular phone out of a deep pocket of his greatcoat. He punched in and began talking. Dalton watched with interest as Jackson dissolved her falcon shape and became a small glowing sphere on the virtual plane. She floated over to the officer, enveloping the cell phone and the hand holding it.

The officer completed the call. Jackson came back to

Dalton’s position, re-forming to her avatar on the virtual plane. “ Let’sgo,” she said.

“ Where?” Dalton asked.

“ He just called his higher headquarters to say their search has turned up nothingand they have no idea where Vasilev is. We ‘re going to that headquarters to see what elsethey know.”

“ How do you know where that headquarters is?” Dalton asked.

“ I went into the cell phone’s memory. The address was listed there inside ofthe encryption lock. It’s a trick I’ve learned while doing this,” Jackson said. “ Here’s the site.” Dalton received the image.

“ The phone he called is inside this room,” Jackson told him.

“ It’s not far away. Let’s go.” He flashed out of the room behind Jackson.

When he came to a halt, he was in a conference room, hovering directly above a large wood table. Startled, he pushed himself over to a corner of the room, joining Jackson.

“ They can’t see you,” Jackson reminded him, the edge of laughter in her tone.

“ I’m glad you’re having fun,” Dalton said. A GRU officer was at a lectern, speaking quickly in Russian.

“ Can you understand him?” Dalton asked.

“ Yes,” Jackson said. “ As I told you earlier, you can too,if you ask Sybyl to do the translation for you. It’s practicallyinstantaneous.”

“ Another thing no one’s told me about,” Dalton said.

“ It’s hard to get you up to speed on everything in a couple ofdays,” Jackson noted. “ I’ve been remote viewing for six yearsand there’s still so much I don’t know about it. So many capabilities Ihaven’t even thought of, never mind tested.”

“ Sybyl?” Dalton prompted. The voice of the Russian faded for a brief moment, then

Dalton could hear him in English, through the medium of Sybyl. It was disorienting— as pretty much everything else that had happened so far had been— to watch the man’s lips move, but hear words that didn’t exactly correlate with the movements.

“We must assume there is a connection between the attack on October Revolution Island and Dr. Vasilev’s disappearance,” the officer said. “The phased-displacement generator is missing. Without Vasilev’s expertise, the weapon would be practically useless. With his expertise— “ The officer paused, the words sinking in.

“ What is a phased-displacement generator?” Dalton asked Jackson.

“ A hypothetical weapon,” Jackson responded. A mechanical devicethat integrates a space inside of it into the virtual plane, and then is capable with psychic help ofsending a mass through the v-plane to any location on the planet. There were intelligence reportsyears ago that the Soviets were trying to develop such a weapon.”

“ Doesn’t sound very hypothetical to these guys,” Dalton noted.

“The generator is no good without nuclear warheads,” one of the officers at the table noted.

“Not necessarily,” the officer at the lectern said. “The phased-displacement generator projects mass. The possibilities for its use are limitless. Whoever has it can project a biological agent directly into the aqueduct for a major city and cause an epidemic. They can project a conventional explosive to exactly the right location to cause a tremendous disaster. Say a pound of C-4 into the American space shuttle’s fuel tank when it launches?”

“If this weapon is so damn effective, why was it left lying in that godforsaken place?”

Dalton focused on the man who had said that. His uniform was different— camouflaged fatigues, a blue beret tucked in his belt. His face was hard, the eyes cold: a killer. Dalton recognized the insignia of the Spetsnatz on the beret.

“Colonel Mishenka,” the man at the end of the table with the four stars of an Army general on his collar acknowledged the Spetsnatz officer. “The weapon was abandoned because it malfunctioned, killing everyone involved in the project.” Mishenka fingered a folder. “This Vasilev wasn’t killed, General Bolodenka.”

“ Almost everyone,” Bolodenka clarified. “Vasilev barely escaped. The information he gave us indicated that the risks involved in a weapon such as the phased-displacement generator would not be worth taking.” The general indicated for the briefer to continue.

“The generator requires computers in order to operate. Another key to the phased-displacement generator is that it will require a tremendous amount of energy. This will limit where whoever has it can set up. They would have to tap directly into a major power line, and the draw would clearly show up. I’ve already alerted those who would be affected to keep an eye out.”

“That’s if they stay inside our borders,” General Bolodenka noted.

“The Mafia is most powerful inside our borders, so I will assume that is where they will operate,” Mishenka noted. “How do you know this thing— this generator— works?”

General Bolodenka swiveled in his heavy leather chair. “Because in its last field testing, the phased-displacement generator destroyed an American nuclear submarine in 1963 just before it malfunctioned, killing all those who were running the test and also destroying what I understand were some critical biological components.”

“Critical biological components?” Mishenka repeated.

“The generator required the mind power of psychically attuned individuals to operate,” the briefer said.

“Then that’s another parameter that whoever has it will need for it to operate, correct?” Mishenka asked.

“Correct.”

“Perhaps, then,” Mishenka mused, “the good doctor is involved with this. Wouldn’t he have access to such people at his Institute?”

“We’re checking into that,” General Bolodenka said.

“You said that this generator required computers,” Mishenka said.

“That is correct.”

“And the computers need a special program?” Mishenka prompted. The briefer glanced at the general, who nodded for him to speak.

“A CD-ROM with the programming for the phased-displacement generator was stolen from GRU records last week.”

Mishenka shook his head in disgust at the information. “I was informed of that attack, but I was not told what was taken. I cannot operate efficiently if I am kept in the dark.” He leaned forward. “The attack was most brutal. From what I understand, one of your GRU

agents was ripped in half. How could this happen?”

“We don’t know,” the briefer said.

“How could the Mafia have found out about this weapon? About the CD-ROM?” Mishenka asked.

“We don’t know that also.”

“There has to be a leak inside your organization,” Mishenka said. Any comment on that was forestalled when the door opened and an enlisted man walked in, handing the briefer a piece of paper.

The briefer quickly scanned the message and said,

“We’ve just received word that General Rurik’s wife and children have been kidnapped. They were picked up by a squad of Omon, but the bodies of those men were found in a warehouse in the river district. There are no further clues.” The briefer glanced up.

“The injuries to the bodies are similar to those we found at the site in Kiev.”

“Who’s General Rurik?” Colonel Mishenka asked.

“And what does he have to do with this generator?”

“Rurik is the head of SD8,” General Bolodenka said. “That is the department that was in charge of the generator.”

“ ‘Was’?” Mishenka asked. “What does SD8 do now?”

“It runs the successor to the phased-displacement generator program,” Bolodenka said.

“Which is?” Mishenka pressed.

“That, Colonel”— General Bolodenka’s voice had turned chilly— “is none of your concern.”

“I disagree, General,” Mishenka said. “I do not think this kidnapping can be a coincidence. All of this information is most definitely connected. Anything you withhold from me will hinder any action I take.”

“Let us deal with one problem at a time,” Bolodenka said.

“What do you want me here for, then?” Mishenka asked.

“When we find the generator, your men will go in and secure it,” Bolodenka said. “You will also neutralize all those involved with extreme vigor.”

‘Just say ‘kill,’ “ Mishenka said. “It does not bother me to deal in the truth.”

“Kill, then,” Bolodenka said.

“And how do you propose to find the generator?” Mishenka asked.

“That is not your concern.” Bolodenka smiled, revealing expensive capped teeth. “But rest assured we will.”

“I need to know what is going on,” Mishenka said. “Or I will not accept this assignment.”

Bolodenka stood. “Alert your men, Colonel Mishenka. Be ready to move at a moment’s notice.” The general walked toward the door and paused.

“Contact my scientific adviser. He will update you on SD8’s current status.” Bolodenka went out of the room, the others following. Mishenka pulled a cell phone out of his breast pocket.

“ Can you get that phone’s number?” Dalton asked Jackson.

“ Yes.”

“ Do it,” Dalton ordered. She coalesced into the glowing ball and slid over Mishenka’s hand. In a moment she was back at Dalton’s side.

“ Let’s go, “ Jackson said. Dalton followed her out of the room, into the featureless virtual plane. They paused as they both considered what they had learned.

“ You really believe the Russians destroyed one of our subs in 1963 with thisthing?” Dalton asked.

“ It’s long been an unsubstantiated rumor that the Thresher, an attacksubmarine, was destroyed by some sort of psychic force,” Jackson said. Dalton was concerned with something else. “ Do you think this Chyort is the successorto the generator?”

“ Yes, “ Jackson said.

“ So the Chyort is an avatar, just like us?”

“ Like us,” Jackson acknowledged, “ but more powerful.They’ve done something different than Psychic Warrior.”

“ What the hell is going on? “ Dalton wondered. “ Thisdoesn’t make much sense. If all this is true, and you met the Chyort in the railyard, thenthe GRU should know that the Mafia plans to take down the nuke train. But those guys in thereacted like they didn’t have a clue.”

“ Maybe the information is compartmentalized?” Jackson suggested.

“ That was the head of the GRU in there. If he doesn ‘t know, who does?

Hell, Chyort, whoever the hell he is, should be stopping all this.”

“Let’s get home,” Jackson said. “I’m tired and this doesn’t change anything. In fact, it makes it all the more critical that we stop the nuke hijacking, now that we know that the Mafia will have a means of projecting those warheads anywhere on the globe.”

“One billion dollars. U.S. currency, of course.” Oma lit a foul-smelling Russian cigarette and watched the two men across the expanse of her desk. There was no external response on their part to her quoted price or the odor she blew across the desk.

“I will be most reasonable about payment,” Oma said.

“One hundred million due in the next twenty-four hours to insure targeting. The balance to be paid on completion of the task.”

“For one nuclear bomb?” the head of the delegation asked.

“For one nuclear bomb placed anywhere you want it on the face of the planet and detonated there, Mr. Abd al-Bari,” Oma clarified. “You want the bomb inside of Israel’s secret nuclear weapon storage facility in the Negev Desert? I will put it there and detonate it.” Oma’s steel teeth shone as she smiled. “The world will think it an accident. The Israelis will have to go public and admit what they have so fervently denied for so long. Their nuclear arsenal will be destroyed. The military forces based nearby will also be destroyed. A rather spectacular coup, and there is no way they can trace it to you.”

“No one can get inside Negev,” the younger of the two men protested, before he was shushed by Abd al-Bari.

“I can put the weapon anywhere you want and detonate it,” Oma repeated. “That is why the price is set as it is.”

“Still rather high for one weapon,” Abd al-Bari said.

“How much do you spend on your military each year?” Oma didn’t wait for an answer. “Buy a few less fighter jets and you won’t even tweak your budget.”

“The money is not the critical factor,” Abd al-Bari said. “I want to know how you can do this.”

“That is not part of the deal,” Oma said. Abd al-Bari laughed. “Then there is no deal.” He stood. “I have listened to many fools make many outrageous promises over the years. I do not need to waste any more time.”

Oma spread her hands out on her desktop. “You fail to understand the true nature of what we are discussing. I am trying to be courteous. To give you something for your money.”

“I do not need to listen to your blustering.” Abd al-Bari turned for the door.

“I understand you enjoy gambling,” Oma said. Abd al-Bari paused.

“According to my sources, you play the cards,” Oma continued.

“That means you understand the difference between a bluff and someone holding a strong hand.”

“I am very good at everything I do,” al-Bari said.

“If you have the imagination, I would suggest you turn this all around and picture my deal for one billion dollars per bomb as a winning hand.” Oma smiled once more.

“I do not wish to offend you, but please, understand that I can put those nuclear bombs anywhere, including the center of your largest oil field. There are some who would pay the money I am asking for that to happen. Of course, I have not contacted them yet. If I am bluffing, then no harm done if you walk out that door. But if I truly hold the cards I am telling you I hold— “ Abd al-Bari’s skin flushed a shade darker. “Do not threaten me.”

“I am trying to be reasonable,” Oma said. “I would like to continue to be reasonable. But I thought it best that all the possibilities be put on the table, so to speak, so that we have complete understanding.”

Abd al-Bari said, “And if you fail? If you do not do what you say you can after I have paid you the money you ask for down payment?”

Oma spread her hands wide, taking in her office and the building. “Then you know where to find me and you can play your winning hand. I understand you have those in your organization who are most willing to die for your cause. I have no doubt that if you wanted me dead, one of those people would find a way to accomplish that.”

“I have to confer with others,” Abd al-Bari said.

“Please do.” Oma’s voice chilled the room. “But I need an answer in twenty-four hours.”

A dreary rain was falling, turning the ground around the railhead into mud. Colonel Verochka, head of nuclear security for the GRU, watched from the interior of the BMD armored vehicle through a bullet-proof portal on the side. Led by two T-72 tanks, four BMDs rolled through the mud, their treads giving firm traction. The armored personnel carriers were followed by two more T-72s. Overhead, above the sound of the rain falling on the metal and the roars of the armored vehicles, Verochka could hear the sound of helicopter blades. She knew that four MI-28 Havoc gunships, the most advanced helicopter in the Russian inventory, were flying cover.

The four BMDs slid next to a heavily armored railcar hooked to two oil-burning engines. As dozens of infantrymen, weapons at the ready, spread out around the train, the back doors on the lead BMD swung open. Two men carried a plastic container out, up a concrete ramp and in through the heavy metal doors on the side of the car. Four more bombs were off-loaded, then the next BMD moved up and the process was repeated.

Colonel Verochka waited until all twenty warheads were loaded and the train was secured. Then she ordered the driver of the BMD to head to the nearby airfield. She sat down in one of the web chairs along the inner wall of the APC. Between her knees a metal briefcase was secured. A steel chain ran from the case to a titanium cuff around her left wrist.

Overhead, two of the Havocs flew cover as they approached the airfield.

“Goddamn those Russian sons of bitches!” Raisor exclaimed.

“We thought they might have had something to do with the Thresher going down!”

“We?” Dalton was bone-tired, and there was less than four hours before they had to go. But Raisor had demanded a complete report on what they had discovered on their reconnaissance mission. “You weren’t even born when the Thresher sunk.”

“The CIA suspected Soviet involvement in the sinking at the time,” Raisor said.

“That really doesn’t matter right now,” Dalton said.

“The important thing is we now know there’s more to this theft of nuclear weapons than it appeared. If these Mafia people have the phased-displacement generator, and they have Vasilev, and the programming code, and they can get the bombs, we’ve got a big problem on our hands.”

“They still need remote viewers to aim the weapon,” Jackson noted.

“If they’re gathering all the other pieces,” Dalton said,

“I’m sure they have a handle on that too.” Raisor checked the digital clock overhanging the room. “We don’t have much time.”

“If you can get an idea where Vasilev is or what happened to this generator,” Dalton said to Raisor, “it would help.”

‘Just concern yourself with your mission,” Raisor said.

“I’m trying to do that,” Dalton said, “but nobody seems to have a clue what is really happening.”

“We know the warheads are going to get stolen in four hours,” Raisor said. “That’s all we need to know.”

“Dr. Hammond,” Dalton said, giving up on the CIA man. Hammond had a cup of coffee in her hand. “Yes?” Dalton noted that the hand holding the cup was shaking very slightly. “What if you wanted to destroy an avatar? How would you do it?”

“On the virtual plane or in the real?” Hammond asked.

“Either one.”

Hammond took a deep drink from her mug, then put it down. “I’ve thought about it and I’ve had Sybyl put some time into it. But I really can’t tell you. The key thing to remember is that the avatar is a projection. Even when it coalesces into the real world and transfers power into matter, it is still a projection. So what you want to know is sort of like asking how one would destroy an image on screen in a movie.”

“Where am I then, when I’m on the other side?” Dalton asked. Hammond looked at him quizzically for a few seconds, then realized what he meant. “We have to assume that despite traveling on the virtual plane, the essence of who you are remains with the body.”

“I don’t buy that,” Dalton said. “When I’ve been out there, I’ve been out there.”

“You’re asking where the mind exists,” Hammond said,

“and that’s something that’s more philosophical than—

“

Dalton cut her off. “I’m asking where the soul exists,” he said, slamming his fist into his own chest. Then he pointed at his head. “This only takes you so far, then something else takes over. I want to know if we’re putting that something else out there.”

“I don’t know,” Hammond said. “I don’t think so, but...”

“What do we do if we come up against an enemy avatar during our mission.”

“What enemy avatar?” Raisor asked. He gave a hard look to Jackson.

“Has she been filling your head about her devil?”

“It’s a possibility,” Dalton said. “General Bolodenka said that SD8, which deals with the same thing you at Bright Gate deal with, has come up with a new-generation weapon, something beyond the phased-displacement generator. I think they may have developed a similar ability to Psychic Warrior, and I think we need to be as prepared as we can be for the possibility we might run into something.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Hammond said.

“We really have no experience in this area.” A thought occurred to Dalton. “What if something happens to Sybyl while we’re out in the virtual plane?”

“We have a backup computer that we can put on-line,” Hammond said.

“And while you’re waiting to go on-line, what happens to us?” Dalton demanded.

“The switchover is automatic.”

“But if there is a time gap?”

Hammond put her hands in the air, more from frustration than anything else. “I don’t know.”

“Why are you so worried?” Raisor asked.

“Because we think this Russian avatar, Chyort, knows about the nuke takedown. And we might trip over each other trying to stop it.”

“If your goals are the same, then there shouldn’t be a problem,” Raisor said.

“But if they aren’t?” Dalton didn’t wait for an answer.

“Remember, this Chyort probably works for the agency that killed every man on board the Thresher. Even if our goals are the same, we’re still on opposite sides, as you pointed out to me when you justified not giving the Russians your intelligence about the takedown.”

“Why not focus on your mission, Sergeant Major?” Raisor suggested.

“What about the first Psychic Warrior team?” Dalton asked.

“Are they dead?”

Silence filled the room. Finally Raisor stood up. “Come with me, Sergeant Major. I want to show you something.”

“Agent Raisor— “ Hammond began, but the look he gave her froze the next words in her mouth.

Dalton followed as Raisor headed to the side of the control room, to a door that Dalton had never seen opened yet. Raisor punched in a code on the small pad next to it and the metal slid to the side.

“Come on,” Raisor said, waving Dalton in. The door slid shut behind them. The room was almost a duplicate of the control room, full of ten tubes. And inside nine of them were bodies, floating in the green fluid. Six men, three women.

“That’s the first Psychic Warrior team,” Raisor said.

“ My team.”

“Are they alive?” Dalton could see small placards on the front of each tube listing the name of the occupant.

“The bodies are,” Raisor said. “The minds, or soul, or whatever you want to call the essence of a person, that we don’t know about. Hammond thinks they’re dead. The government thinks they’re dead. We were supposed to pull the plug on the bodies a week and a half ago.”

“What happened to them?”

“We were betrayed,” Raisor said. “I’ve seen your classified file, Dalton. You fought in Vietnam, were captured and held prisoner. You know about being betrayed, don’t you? About being given a mission and then having the plug pulled? Well, that’s what happened here, literally. They were on a mission and my superior had Sybyl shut down while they were still out. I was in DC, playing politics with the Select Committee on Intelligence, trying to keep our funding flowing. And I came back to this.”

“Why?”

“That’s a complicated story which you don’t have the clearance for,” Raisor said.

Dalton had seen it before— personnel abandoned because some bureaucrat or politician thousands of miles away and safe behind their desk made a decision. In Vietnam they’d sent teams of indigenous infiltrators into the north, and when Nixon had halted the bombing campaign, all air traffic over the north was grounded, including the resupply and exfiltration flight for those men. They all died. And life in Washington went on. The Marines in Beirut who’d been placed in an untenable position with unclear guidance. And thus they died. Delta Force in Mogadishu. The SEALs in Panama. Dalton stopped in front of one of the tubes. A dark-haired woman floated inside, fluid slowly flowing through the tubes. The name on the placard was Kathryn Raisor. Dalton turned toward the CIA man.

“Is this your wife?”

“My sister.” Raisor held up his left hand. “This is her ring from the Air Force Academy. She went from the Air Force to the NSA. We were both pegged for this program because we maxed out the psych tests when they were screening for personnel for this program. We were good psychic ability candidates. It must be genetic, don’t you think? Hammond and the other brains think so.” Raisor was standing next to his sister’s tube, looking up at her, his voice low, as if he were in a trance. “Oh yes, that’s what they think.”

“Hammond did this?” Dalton demanded. Raisor shook his head. “Her predecessor.” The cold smile crept around his lips. “He is no longer with us.”

“Who ordered it?”

“That’s my concern,” Raisor said.

“It’s mine too,” Dalton said. “It will be my team in the tubes next. I want to know if the son of a bitch who did this to your team can do this to mine.”

“The source of that decision is not wired into the chain of command for this mission,” Raisor said.

“So this is why we were brought in?”

“Replaceable parts in the big machine,” Raisor said. He looked at his watch. “I suggest you get some rest. We go over very shortly.” As Dalton walked out of the room, the last thing he saw was Raisor silhouetted against the glow from his sister’s tube.

“Who is that?” Opa asked.

The sound of General Rurik’s summons echoed across the glade, into the woods and the fields beyond.

Feteror was seated with his back to one of the trees. He reluctantly stood. “I have to go on a mission,” he said.

Opa reached out a wrinkled hand and placed it on Feteror’s shoulder. “I enjoyed talking with you.”

Feteror nodded, not sure what to say.

“Will you be back?”

Feteror paused. “I do not know.” He looked at the glade and the area surrounding them. He could hear birds chirping in the trees, the sound of the water rushing by. He could even smell the odor of manure coming from the nearby fields. It felt more real than anything he’d experienced in almost a decade and a half but he knew it wasn’t.

“I have to go.”

“Arkady— “ Opa paused.

“Yes?”

“There are good things in the world.” Opa spread his hands, taking in the glade. “This is a good place.”

“This is not real,” Feteror said. He paused, almost adding that the old man he was talking to was not real either.

“Are you here?” Opa asked.

“What do you mean?”

“If you are here, then this is real,” Opa said. “You don’t believe me. You don’t believe that I am here, either, do you?” Feteror felt the tug of the plan he had worked so hard to put into effect pulling at him.

“Hatred is not the way,” Opa said. “I fought for years and I know that.”

“Do you know what they did to me?” Feteror didn’t wait for an answer. “They cut away my body and kept me in darkness. They took away everything!”

Opa shook his head sadly, his thick gray beard brushing against his aged chest. “They took much, but not everything, Arkady. Some things you’ve given away and you can get them back.” He reached up with his hand and placed it on Feteror’s chest.

“You ‘re missing something there. You can get it back.” Feteror shrugged the hand off. “I will make them pay.” Feteror dissolved from Opa’s view.

The old man stood alone in the glade. He looked up into the blue sky, a tear slowly making its way down his leathery cheek.

sFeteror accessed his outside links, forcing himself to block out the image of his grandfather, and focusing on what was to come.

“Yes?” He could see General Rurik standing at the master console. He was pleased the see the wild look in the other man’s eyes. He had hoped the pig cared for his family.

“I have a mission of the highest priority for you,” Rurik said. Feteror waited.

“There are two tasks.” Rurik paused, collecting himself, then continued.

“The steel cylinder you saw being taken from October Revolution Island— you must find it.” He paused, not speaking.

“And the second task?” Feteror pressed. Rurik’s hands came down on the edge of the table in front of him, the whites of the knuckles clear to Feteror’s cameras. “My wife and children have been abducted. I want you to find them.”

“Which of the two tasks has the higher priority?” Feteror asked. The look in the general’s eyes told Feteror the answer to that, even as the old man lied.

“I want you to accomplish both.”

“You must give me the power and time to accomplish both, then,” Feteror said.

His electronic eyes could see the anger on Rurik’s face. “You will have all the power we can send you.”

“I will do as you order.”

“Do not cross me,” General Rurik said. “I will reward you if you get my family back.”

What could you possibly offer me? Feteror choked the words back. He focused on the pain he could see on the general’s face, relishing the sight.

“I’m loading all the data we have on both the phased-displacement generator and my family’s abduction,” Rurik said.

“Let me get started.”

The window to the outside world cycled open. Feteror felt a wave of power, more than he’d ever experienced before, shoot through him. He leapt for the window and was out. Barsk looked out the window as the cargo plane banked. The ground below was snow-covered in places and looked rather bleak. He could see the large dam and the hydroelectric plant behind it in the gorge where a plume of water cascaded down from the overflow spillway.

To the east, high above the power plant, a landing strip had been laid down years ago, but it looked desolate and empty, with a group of hangars lining the runway. Three sets of power line towers ran by the edge of the airfield after climbing out of the gorge.

Vasilev had spent the entire flight rocking back and forth in his seat, his eyes unfocused. Barsk had serious doubts about whether the man was going to be of any use once they landed. Barsk turned his attention back into the plane as they descended. “There’s one thing I don’t understand.”

Vasilev, despite being dressed now in a one-piece black jumpsuit borrowed from the mercenaries and despite having been given a good meal on the flight, still looked rough. Barsk slapped him on the shoulder. “Hey!”

Vasilev slowly rubbed a hand along the gray stubble of his beard. “What?”

“This Chyort— the demon that is helping my grandmother. Why is he doing it?”

Vasilev gave a laugh that bothered Barsk. “He is trying to get back at those that use him.”

“To what end?”

Vasilev stared down the length of the plane along the gleaming steel tube that filled it. “So we will all go to hell.”

“One hundred million dollars.”

Oma steepled her fingers and peered over the top of her reading glasses at the young man sitting across from her who had just spoken. He wore a tailored three-piece suit and his Russian was flawless, without an accent. He was of the new breed of international broker, representing the interests of the United Nations, using economic leverage and payoffs instead of force.

The young man smiled, revealing very white and straight teeth. “Half now, half upon delivery of the warheads.”

“I do not have any warheads,” Oma said.

“Not yet. But I believe you plan to come into ownership of some shortly. I thought coming here before you finalized some other deal to, shall we say, dispose of them, would be best for all involved in case you are successful in your endeavors.”

“Your NATO already has thousands of nuclear weapons among the various members,” Oma noted.

“And we prefer not to have to use them,” the young man said. He leaned forward, his false friendliness gone. “Listen. I know who you are. I know what you do. I know you’ve been putting feelers out for buyers of nuclear weapons. That tells me you either have them or are planning to get them shortly. I’ve also heard that you are promising delivery of those weapons anywhere in the world along with detonation. You must be a fool to think you can get away with that. We have dealt with people like you before. We will never let you get a warhead out of the borders of Russia. And we will squash you like an irritating bug.”

“Then why are you offering me money instead of squashing me?” Oma asked.

“We are trying to be civilized.”

“If you are so smart and informed,” Oma continued, “you would know that one hundred million dollars is one tenth of the price I am asking.”

“You have to be alive to be able to enjoy your money. I’m offering you life and one hundred million. That’s better than lining your coffin with a billion dollars.”

“I could have you killed for five dollars on the streets,” Oma said.

“That would leave me with a considerable profit margin.”

“I am only a representative,” he answered. “Killing me will not make your problem go away.”

“Actually,” Oma said, “I believe you are the one with the problem. You came to me.”

The man said nothing, simply staring across the desk at her.

Oma waved her hand, signaling the meeting was over. “I will consider your offer.”

The young man stood. “Do more than consider.” He flicked a card onto the desk. It was blank except for a cell phone number.

Leksi was standing behind the two pilot seats in the MI-8 Hip, watching through the windshield as two of the Hind gunships swept over the field a half a kilometer ahead of them.

When both gunships turned and commenced to circle, Leksi ordered the pilot of the helicopter to land there. They swept in to a landing in the tall weeds. Leksi could see two fuel trucks in the treeline, exactly as Oma had told him there would be. The FARP, forward arming and refueling point, had cost them over five hundred thousand American dollars to have ready, but it was worth it. All the choppers would be topped off and fully armed, prepared for the upcoming action.

As the blades of the MI-8 began slowing, Leksi exited the chopper and walked to the side of the clearing. The other MI-8 came in for a landing, followed by the Hind gunships. As the sound of the rotors and engines began winding down, Leksi stretched his back.

He looked to the west where a range of high hills loomed. On the other side of those hills was a river. And along the thin level space between water and mountains ran a rail line. Leksi shivered, not from the damp chill in the air, but from excitement, almost a sexual feeling. His right hand slid down to the butt of the nine-millimeter pistol strapped to his thigh and the fingers flexed around it, feeling the cold plastic and metal. He looked at the watch strapped to his left wrist. Two hours.

Colonel Verochka walked quickly from the back ramp of the BMD to the left side door of the MI-14

transport helicopter. As soon as she was inside, the door was swung shut by the loadmaster. She checked her watch. It was time. She gave a thumbs-up signal to the loadmaster, who relayed the order through his headset to the cockpit, and the helicopter took off.

Other than the loadmaster, who sat down across from her, she had the spacious interior of the cargo bay to herself. She set the metal case down between her feet, making sure that the chain wasn’t tangled. She twisted in the seat and looked out one of the small glass portals as they gained altitude. She saw one Havoc gunship about fifty meters away, and she knew the second was on the other side. She also knew that four Mig-24 jet fighters were taking off at this moment and would provide overhead cover.

She leaned back in her seat and relaxed for the first time since she’d signed for the metal case. The lights were off, leaving only the dim reflection from the half-open door to illuminate the room. Dalton was sitting on his bunk, back against the cold wall, listening to the nervous rustlings in the room. Some of the men were asleep from sheer exhaustion, but he knew most were awake, unable to sleep. No one had taken Hammond’s sleeping drug, not wanting to have anything in their system that could interfere with their ability to operate. There was slightly under ten minutes before they had to go to the experimental chamber and prepare to launch.

Dalton turned his head as someone slipped in the door. He recognized the slender figure of Lieutenant Jackson. She wove her way through the bunks until she arrived at his location. Dalton slid over, giving her room to sit at the foot of the bed.

“You okay?” he asked in a low voice.

“No.”

Dalton smiled in the dark. “Me neither.” Jackson’s head came up. “But you’ve been in combat. Don’t you get used to it?”

“You never get used to it,” Dalton said. “Plus, this is different than anything else I’ve ever done. One time I sat down and figured it out. I’ve fought on every continent except Australia and Antarctica. I guess I should be grateful there’s no native population in Antarctica and we haven’t gone to war with the Aussies, or I’d be seven for seven. Vietnam. El Salvador. Lebanon. Somalia. Panama. Antiterrorist work in Berlin. Other places. Other times. Each one a little different, each one pretty much the same.

“I’ve jumped in, walked in, been flown in, swum in, ridden in— you name it— I’ve gone into combat every way I thought was possible. And now here’s a new way.”

“I’ve never fired a shot in anger,” Jackson said. Dalton chuckled. “Hell, neither have I. I’ve fired a heck of a lot in fear, though.” He stretched his legs out. “It feels strange to be this close to infiltration— I guess we can call it infiltration— and not be doing something. Usually we would be cleaning our weapons, loading magazines, sharpening knives, memorizing call signs and frequencies and doing radio checks. But we’re just sitting here waiting.” 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. 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 rallypoint-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’sreally bad, come all the way back here to Bright Gate. Is that clear?” He received an affirmative from the other members of the team and Raisor.

“All right,” Dalton said. “RVers, head for the first jump point.”

Leksi leaned down and placed his head alongside the rail. He could feel the slightest of vibrations. He stood, gesturing for his demolition men to work more quickly.

This section of track curved left, following the river. The demo men were placing two sets of charges on the rail. A pressure trigger was wired to the first set of charges. When fired, the explosives would take out a forty-foot section of track.

Leksi had carefully chosen this site. He knew that blowing a straight section of track would be fruitless— he had seen a train cross over sixty feet of blown track and pick up the track on the other side. But with the curve gone, the engine would smash into the mountainside on the east side. He looked up the steep slope. His missile teams were settling in, throwing small camouflage nets over their positions. The FM radio hooked to his combat vest was crackling with noise.

“This is Tiger Flight. In position. Over.” Leksi spoke, the voice-activated boom mike in front of his lips transmitting. “Hold until I call you in. Over.”

“Roger. Over.”

Leksi took one last look around, then sprinted for cover. He paused just before sliding off the embankment and looked up. He scanned the skies, but there was nothing he could see. Still, as he got behind the concealment of a large boulder, his eyes went once more to the sky, then to the rail.

“ We ‘ve spotted the ambush site,” Jackson reported through Sybyl. “ The train is only about two minutes from passing through the killzone.”

“ Roger. We’re coming,” Dalton relayed back to her.

“ Jump point one. Let’s go!” Dalton concentrated on the first point that had been relayed back by the RVers. He was there. He paused only long enough to make sure the other members of the team came in. Then he was on to the second jump point.

Leksi pulled a set of night vision goggles out of his buttpack. The mercenary next to him stared at him in confusion. Leksi ignored him. He had learned early to trust his instincts. He slipped the goggles over his head and, making sure they were turned to the lowest possible setting so they wouldn’t overload in the daylight, he switched them on. He scanned the sky. Nothing. Then he turned the switch to infrared.

Leksi paused in his scanning. There was something up there, a disturbance as if something was passing through the air, but he couldn’t see anything solid. Leksi frowned. He pulled the night vision goggles off and pulled his binoculars up and looked in the same direction. Nothing. He put the goggles back on and the sky was clear.

A tap on his arm brought his attention back to earth. He could hear the train now. The lead engine was in sight, a half mile away. Leksi reluctantly took the goggles off, the mystery of the disturbance having to be put off for the time being.

Dalton was the first one into the immediate rally point. He materialized, feeling the rocky ground under his feet. Other forms appeared all around.

“ The train is about to enter the kill zone,” Jackson reported. Along with the message came the view she had. Dalton could see the train. And the ambushers. He looked about the IRP. Everyone accounted for. Except Raisor.

“ Anyone seen what happened to our CIA friend?” The responses were all negative. There was no time to wait or to devise an elaborate plan.

“ Captain Anderson. You hit the side of the hill and work your way down. My team,we’ll go right on top of the train. Clear?”

“Clear!”

The train hit the trigger. The explosion was relatively small, just enough to cut the track in both spots. The lead engine raced off the embankment and slammed into the rocky mountainside two hundred meters from Leksi’s position with an impact he could feel through the rubber soles of his boots. The second engine buckled on top of the first, gushing steam forth.

The lone cargo car smashed into the back of the second engine, bounced off, broke its coupling, then rolled three times before coming to a halt, between the engines and Leksi. Leksi jumped to his feet, waving with his free arm for his men to follow.

Overhead, the lead Havoc came racing in for a gun run. Two SAM-7 missiles flashed out of the hidden positions on the mountainside, and the gunship became a fireball.

The second one had been about a quarter mile behind the first, and the pilot desperately tried to pull out of his run.

Two more missiles fired. They closed the distance and hit the remaining Havoc. Leksi put his AK-74 to his shoulder and fired a burst, killing a dazed soldier climbing out of the armored cargo car.

Feteror was still in the virtual plane. It was interesting keeping himself fixed in the center of the cargo bay of the MI-14 as it flew. He was watching the female colonel who had the case attached to her wrist. The army had changed much since his time. To trust such an important thing to a woman!

It was time.

He entered the real plane.

Colonel Verochka looked up, sensing the change in the inside of the cabin, the hair on the back of her neck rippling as if she had been touched by an electric shock.

Feteror materialized, letting color flow into the form of his avatar.

Verochka pressed back against the hard seat back in disbelief. The loadmaster ran for the cockpit, screaming into his microphone, but Feteror reached out and grabbed him around the throat with one massive hand. Feteror squeezed with that hand while he slammed the other into the man’s chest and through. The man screeched. Blood exploded out the back, splattering Colonel Verochka. The loadmaster’s head popped off with a horrible ripping and snapping sound. Feteror threw the body to the floor and turned to the woman. Her right hand was scrabbling at her side, trying to draw the pistol strapped there, but her wide eyes were focused on him. Feteror slashed out with his right hand, forefinger extended, a six-inch razor-sharp claw at the end. It sliced through Verochka’s wrist, cleanly severing her gun hand.

The door to the pilot’s compartment opened. The copilot stuck his head in, saw the demon and the carnage, and the door immediately slammed shut, the lock clicking.

Feteror drew back, pulling his wings up high, his most frightening pose. Thus he was caught off-guard when Verochka darted forward, blood still spurting from the stump of her right wrist. She ducked under his left wing. Feteror whirled.

Verochka had her left hand, briefcase tucked under the arm, on the lever that opened the side door. Feteror paused, confused.

Verochka opened the door, the wind ripping it away. She dove out with the briefcase. Feteror roared and dematerialized. He re-formed, streaking down, following Verochka’s body. He was impressed, not only with the decisiveness of her actions, but the way she kept a tight body form on the way down, her arms tight at her side, head down. It was all so clear to Feteror; he could even see the thin trail of blood spurting out of her wrist into the air behind her. He spread his arms, unfurled his wings, and scooped her out of her fall.

Feteror came to a hover, leaning his demon face into the colonel’s. “Very brave,” he hissed.

He felt her slam the briefcase against his back as she struggled. Her face was pale, from fear and loss of blood.

The first thing Dalton saw was green tracers ripping by just inches to his left. Hammond’s assurance notwithstanding, he rolled right, and fired at the source of the tracers. His first fireball hit the man in the chest, blowing a hole straight through.

He continued firing, seeing in his mind the other members of the team materializing.

“ Shit!” a voice yelled. “ Something’swrong!”

Dalton knew immediately that it was Trilly, both from the voice and the tactical update that Sybyl was constantly playing in the background of his mind.

“ I’m losing form,” Trilly said, the surprise evident in his voice.

“ Get out of here,” Dalton ordered.

“ Going to ERP,” Trilly confirmed. Dalton continued to fire at the attacking mercenaries.

“ Hammond, what’s going on?” Dalton demanded.

“ We ‘re having trouble keeping track of everyone. There’s adivergence. Someone’s split off.”

Goddamn Raisor, Dalton thought. “ You keep power to my team, do youunderstand?”

“ Yes.”

An explosion flashed on the hillside as Captain Anderson’s team took out one of the SAM sites. Feteror stiffened. He turned his head from the frightened face of Colonel Verochka. Something was wrong.

“It was nice to meet you,” he hissed to her. He let go of her body, snapping his claws shut on her left arm, severing it— and the attached metal briefcase— from her body.

He listened to her scream, both from the fall and the loss of her arm, her body tumbling to the ground far below.

Still hovering, Feteror ripped the case open, the metal parting easily. He dropped the empty case as he held the single piece of paper inside between two claws. He scanned the PAL codes listed, matching them to the warhead serial numbers, putting the information into his database. Then he dematerialized and jumped.

Raisor floated above the limousine as it cruised down Constitution Avenue going from the Capitol toward the White House. He wanted to wait, until the limo was directly across from the White House, on the south side of the Ellipse, before striking.

It was difficult, though, to hold back. To keep at bay the anger, the passion of revenge he had nurtured ever since finding out what had happened to his team, to his sister.

It had taken this, an international crisis, for him to be able to go back on the virtual plane with the power to use the weapons they’d developed for the psychic warriors. Now he was bringing those weapons home to the woman who had so casually tossed away the first team of psychic warriors. It was night in Washington and Raisor began to allow his avatar to form in the real plane, directly over the closed sunroof of the limousine.

Leksi pressed his back against the railbed. Another fireball flashed by overhead, catching one of his men in the head, blowing it open like an overripe melon.

He looked up the slope. More of these monsters were coming down the hillside. All of his missile teams were dead.

“Tiger Flight!” he yelled into the mike to be heard above the sounds of firing and screaming.

“Tiger Flight. Over.”

“Get in here for support now!” he screamed.

“Roger.”

Dalton carefully stood. The surviving attackers were scattering, some hiding, others running.

“ Captain Anderson,” Dalton projected. “ I want you tosecure— “

Dalton halted in mid-sentence as a scream seared through his brain like a red-hot spike. He staggered, losing all sense of his surroundings.

On the hillside, Feteror had come into the real plane directly behind one of the attacking avatars. He had a very good idea who they were, and he didn’t hesitate. With all the power of SD8-FFEU being directed through him, he grabbed the form and crushed it in his claws. The energy/matter of the avatar in his hands vanished in a flash of light. At Bright Gate, Dr. Hammond stared at her control panel in dismay.

“ What’s happening?” Dalton demanded, his voice echoing out of the speakers.

Hammond typed furiously on her keyboard.

“ What is going on?” Dalton repeated.

“Sybyl’s overloading. Something’s affected two of the avatars. I’m trying to pull them back, but Sybyl can’t do that and keep everyone else going at the same time. Also the power split, going to two different locations-we’ve never done that before and Sybyl is having trouble maintaining all your forms.” Hammond ran a hand across her forehead.

“It’s all happening too fast.” Dalton became aware of his surroundings. He staggered back, feeling a pounding in his head. A line of green tracers burned through the air, right by him. He sank to his knees.

“ Get out of there!” Jackson’s voice echoed through his brain. Dalton snapped out of existence at that place, into the virtual plane. He could hear more screams in his head. He checked tactical but there was nothing coming from Sybyl.

“ What the hell is going on?” he projected toward Jackson.

“ Chyort!” was the quavering answer. “ Choppers-gunships inbound from the east!” she added. Dalton came back into the real plane fifty meters from where he had been and behind the man who had shot at him. Dalton fired, the fireball blasting through the man.