Project Aura (14 page)

"We believe he was killed by the Priory."

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"I was sent to warn you that the Priory is moving."

"Who are you?" she repeated. The limousine had stopped at a light. The driver turned and she could see his face. He had to be in his sixties, judging from all the lines in the leathery skin. But his eyes were sharp as they regarded her.

"Is it important who I am?" he asked. "I'm from Nexus." The light changed and he turned his attention to driving. "Do you still want to go to your house?"

"What does the Priory have planned?" she asked.

"We don't know exactly. They've been using the Black Budget to develop a system in Alaska called HAARP. A very potent weapon with strategic possibilities. We've managed to deny them access to a critical component of the system by locking it down with an NCA code."

"So the situation is under control?"

"I doubt it"

"Why did they kill Eichen?"

"He went to HAARP. To see what they were doing."

"That wasn't very smart."

"In retrospect it wasn't. But we weren't sure what they have planned and we still aren't. That was Eichen's job."

"Whose is it now?"

"We need your help in that regard. I can take you to your office."

"Take me home," she snapped.

How had they replaced the driver? she wondered. And there was nothing in the material she had been given about Eichen's death. A three-star general getting killed would have surely made her briefing book from the NSA.

"Mrs. Callahan, I think-" the driver began, but she cut him off.

"I want to go home and say hello to my husband and wish him happy anniversary at the very least. Then we can go to the office and find out what the hell is going on." They were only a mile away from her house anyway, and she saw no reason not to finish the trip.

"Yes, ma'am."

She'd met her husband early in her Marine career. He was a lieutenant in a line unit while she was the quartermaster officer assigned to the same headquarters. This was in the early days when women in the Marines were few and far between. She wanted to laugh every time she saw some woman in the papers claiming she'd been sexually harassed by some colleague making a comment. The harassment she had faced had been far beyond the scope of comments.

That was until she met Bill one night in the officer's club. When another officer had committed "rodeo" on her-leaning over, biting her in the ass, and hanging on. She had grabbed a chair and smashed it over the man's head. He'd come up swinging and Bill had stepped between and taken him out with one punch. After that there was no more rodeo in the O'Club; at least not when she and Bill were there.

He'd given up his career for hers, following her from assignment to assignment, and then to Washington, where he saw her less than before. She felt she owed him at least a brief appearance before dealing with this strange man and the mystery of the Priory.

The limousine pulled into the long drive that led to her house. White fences bordered the drive on either side, and she felt a moment of contentment and, not for the last time, considered that perhaps it was time to retire. The driver stopped in front of the double main door.

"Wait for me," Callahan ordered as he opened the door for her.

"Yes, ma'am."

She smiled as she saw the balloons tied to the lights on either side of the door. "Happy Anniversary" on the left and "I Love You" on the right. She felt a stab of guilt for not bringing a gift. There'd been no time on the trip. While others in her position would send aides to do a job like that she believed it was wrong for two reasons: one professional, the other personal. Professionally, she felt it was abusing an aide to give them such a task. Personally, she doubted if anyone could pick out something that Bill would believe came from her. But as she turned the knob on the front door, she wondered whether perhaps she needed to relax her rules just the slightest bit.

She stepped in and was greeted with the sight of Bill hanging from the chandelier that dominated the large foyer just before the wide staircase. She didn't even have a moment for the sight to impact her senses when a hand snaked over her mouth and a cloth was jammed in, choking off her cry of dismay.

Powerful arms pinned hers behind her back She reacted instinctively, stomping down with her right heel where the attacker's shin should be. She heard a grunt of pain but the arms didn't lessen their grip. Instead they picked her up and carried her to a large armchair. Padded cuffs were snapped over her wrists, locking her in place.

In that moment when the hands released her and she realized she couldn't get out of the chair, the reality of what she had seen when she stepped in the house hit her, a jagged razor of pain cutting through her stomach up into her heart. Tears poured and her head dropped onto her chest.

But not for long. A hand from behind gripped her chin between its powerful fingers and forced her head up. A man stood in front of her. He was dressed in a well-cut suit. His face was smooth and unblemished, with clear blue eyes under thick wavy blond hair. His age was hard for her to determine; anywhere from thirty to fifty was her best guess.

"Mrs. Callahan." The man went over to the window and peeked through the blinds toward the drive. Through her grief she noted he was wearing thin leather gloves. "Nexus led us right to you. We knew they had a point of contact in the administration; they always do. The cut out to the President. We just didn't know who." He let the blind fell back in place. "And frankly, we really didn't care who before now. But-" He shrugged. "Things change."

She turned and looked toward the foyer. She could just see Bill's feet dangling four feet above the marble floor. It was real. For a moment she thought she'd been having a nightmare. Now she knew she was living one.

"We had to race to beat you home," the man said. "We didn't know who he would be picking you up at Andrews."

She shifted her gaze back to him.

"Ah, yes. I know the questions you have. Who am I? Why am I doing this? Why did I do that-" He inclined his head toward the foyer. He left the room and came back with a dining room chair and set it five feet in front of her. He sat down and turned the lapel of his coat. A pin sparkled. Diamonds and other precious stones on a silver background in the form of an elongated cross.

"You didn't think the Priory was real, did you?" he asked as he once more hid the pin. "Strange how that is. After all, you know for certain that Nexus is real. They came to your office and briefed you. Do you think Eisenhower had nothing better to do when he signed that executive order? Do you think there can be resistance without a force to resist against? Not that Nexus has been much resistance. But we can't take any chances."

He glanced at his watch. "Any time now."

*****

The driver checked his watch and looked at the front door once more. He was startled when someone rapped on the glass next to his head. He turned in surprise and saw a child, about twelve, on a bike. He powered down the window. "Yes?"

The child smiled. Then began to ride away.

The driver frowned and the bullet from the silenced sniper rifle hit right in the center of that frown, taking the back half of his head off. Gore splattered the glass divider and front seat, The child had already turned the corner and was gone. A car pulled up behind the limousine and a man got out of the passenger side. He reached in the open window and opened the door. He shoved the body aside, started the engine, and drove off.

*****

The man checked his watch once more. "Well, that's done." He stood, the chair in his hands. "You came home and found that your husband killed himself.” He looked down at the chair. "This belongs there."

He carried it to the foyer and lay it on its back below Bill's feet. Then he returned. "The love of your life is dead. There's only one thing for you to do. The question is: how would someone like you kill yourself? I spent the time waiting for you considering that. And the answer was in your closet."

He reached behind him and pulled out a nickel-plated Beretta automatic pistol. The one her battalion had given her at the conclusion of her command. He pulled the slide back, chambering a round. Then he flipped off the safety.

He flipped it expertly in his hand, now holding it by the barrel. The man behind her reached out and took the gun. She began struggling as he unhooked her right hand. The man's left arm went around her throat applying pressure. She began to feel faint when the cold grip of the gun was placed in her right hand, the man's hand over hers. She had no power to resist as the gun was swung up, the muzzle against her right temple. The man slid her finger through the trigger guard, his on top. Her eyes darted to the side, to see Bill's feet and the chair, and she felt the pain once more.

She was content when the man exerted pressure on her finger.

The SC-MILSTAR satellite was secured in the cargo bay of the space shuttle. The cargo doors slowly closed shut on the payload in preparation for the shuttle to be mated with the external tank and solid propellant boosters that waited for it

A shuttle launch was a highly coordinated operation, and in six hours, when all the parts of the launch vehicle were assembled, the twenty-four-hour countdown would begin.

*****

Dalton felt like a guinea pig as he was rigged in preparation for entering the isolation tank. Hammond was talking Kirtley's men through the process as her technicians worked on Dalton, Barnes, and Jackson. The three of them had done their pre-mission planning, preparing their jump points to the last known location of the team in Colombia. Dalton was confident that Barnes could make it back to the site where they had confronted Feteror in Russia without the same kind of preparation because he had already been there once.

"The isolation tanks are warm right now," Hammond said, "but once the body is inside, they will be super cooled in order to slow the body processes down to a minimum. This machine here—“ she paused next to a bulky machine on the side of Dalton's tank that had a line going from it full of dark blue liquid-- "connects to the helmet and provides a cooled, special liquid-oxygen mixture directly to the lungs. By keeping the liquid moving at slow speed over the lung's alveoli, it provides the body with enough oxygen to sustain it while the diaphragm is in stasis along with the other functions of the autonomic nervous system."

Easier said than experienced, Dalton thought as he was placed in the harness that would lower him into the tank. He felt a twinge of pain from his shoulder, but it didn't concern him, since it would not be a factor once he "went over." Kirtley's men were uneasy with what Hammond was telling them. He remembered how the team he had led here had reacted on first being told what they were going to experience, and felt some empathy for the NSA men. Hell, he felt sorry for himself, Barnes, and Jackson, as he had little desire to go through the process another time. Only the thought of the missing A-team made it bearable.

"The isolation tank allows your brain to focus on the virtual plane by removing all distractions and energy drains from the real one," Hammond continued.

She turned to Dalton and picked up his bulky, black helmet. "This is the TACPAD. Actually, this lining on the inside that conforms to the skull is the TACPAD, which stands for thermocouple and cryoprobe projection assistance device. This one has been fitted very specifically for Sergeant Major Dalton's brain. It does two things. One is to give direct electrical stimulation to those parts of the brain that we want to emphasize, while at the same time using cryoprobes to lower the temperature of those parts that are not needed to operate on the virtual plane.

"This hasn't changed since the last time you went over," she added, addressing Dalton, Barnes, and Jackson, "but you will find some changes in the programming which should make the transition easier."

She turned back to the NSA team. "The other critical component that makes Psychic Warrior viable is the cyberlink to Sybyl, our mainframe computer. We have long known that we only use about ten percent of the brain's potential. By linking with Sybyl, our master computer, through the TACPAD, we are accessing some of the brain's untapped areas.

"Sybyl gives you form and power to operate on the virtual plane and then to come out of the virtual plane at a distant point, into the real world in the form of your avatar."

"What's an avatar?" one of the men asked.

"A computer-generated form," Hammond answered. "The power Sybyl sends to you is very important," Hammond continued. "It allows us to make the jump from simply being able to remote view to operating in the virtual and real worlds, to cross the boundary between the two."

Dalton considered that statement. If that was true, then perhaps the lost team members were trapped on the virtual plane, without the forms of their avatars to help them navigate. Of course, Chyort, the Russian avatar, had "killed" their avatars, so perhaps he had killed their psyches? But what about Raisor, he wondered? He had asked Hammond to pull the power going to Raisor's avatar and reroute it to the surviving members of his team so he could transport Jackson and Barnes out of Russia after Raisor went off on his own and abandoned their mission.

That line of thought was interrupted as the techs carefully lowered the TACPAD helmet over his head and locked it down on his shoulders securely. Hammond's voice now sounded far away.

"The cyberlink also gives you complete access to Sybyl's extensive database," Hammond said. "You’ll be amazed at the things the linkage will allow you to do."

A hand moved over his chest and a microprobe was slid into his heart. He bit down on the mouthpiece, securing it in place. Dalton felt the jerk as his feet were lifted off the ground. He went up, then over the lip of the iso-tank. The embryonic solution was warm as he was lowered into it. The helmet was not airtight and as he sank lower and lower, fluid seeped in, pressing against his face and head. He took steady breaths through the mouthpiece, dreading what was coming.

"Ready for TACPAD?" Dr. Hammond's voice came through a small speaker in the helmet.

Dalton gave a reluctant thumbs-up, the only way he could communicate right now. He knew the cryoprobes and thermocouples were so small that he shouldn't feel them going into his brain, but nevertheless, he could swear he felt the pinpricks piercing his skin, sliding through skin and bone.

"We've got green all across the board," Hammond informed him. "Just relax; this will be easier than last time. We're making the initial link with Sybyl. Do you see the white dot?"

He concentrated and there it was, floating in front of him against a completely black background. The embryonic fluid was getting cooler, dropping his body temperature.

Dalton swallowed, a reflex in nervous anticipation. He felt something move in his mouth and he fought against his gag reflex as a smaller, flexible tube slid out of the breathing tube and forced its way to the rear of his mouth. His throat spasmed as the tube slithered down his airway to his lungs.

Then he began to drown as fluid seeped out of the end of the tube, filling his lungs. He used every bit of training he had to try to relax, to accept what was happening, but Hammond had been wrong; this wasn't any better than last time. His chest spasmed, fighting to expel the liquid, but it was a losing battle. The pain and discomfort faded as the temperature in the tank got lower and parts of his brain were brought to minimum operating status by Sybyl.

"You're completely on the iso-tank system now." Hammond's voice was very distant. "I'm switching you..." Her voice faded out and silence and darkness, other than the white dot prevailed. Dalton felt nothing, no sense of having a body.

Then a faint feeling. He struggled to identify it, then realized it was the itching over every square inch of his flesh. He knew that the feeling was entirely inside his head, since input from his nervous system was shut down, but he had to make sense of it somehow.

The black was changing also, a grayness creeping from the white dot outwards. Dalton ‘looked’ down and saw the beginning of his avatar forming. Two arms and two legs. A smooth trunk in the middle; all featureless and pure white.

Another figure was forming to his right: Jackson. Then came a surprise. Her featureless form began to shift. Eyes, a nose, a mouth appeared. Even hair, just like hers in real life. Dalton looked down, his avatar morphed also and became a realistic representation of his own body wearing a skintight black jumpsuit. Barnes appeared and his avatar shifted quickly into his normal appearance.

"Do you like the new avatars?"
Hammond's eager voice was inside his head. "
I've been working on this for a while. It doesn't really make a difference when you're in the virtual plane, but when you form on the real, you might be able to pass for a real person. I haven't had a chance to test it yet."

"Looks good,"
Dalton said.
"We can still shift into wings, right?"

"Oh, yes,"
Hammond said.

Dalton willed the change and his arms morphed into wings. He lifted off the virtual ground. Jackson and Barnes followed. Technically they didn't need the wings to move in the virtual plane, but they had discovered it made movement easier.

"First jump point,"
Dalton said. He pictured the location in his mind: the firing range at Fort Hood where they had conducted their first live fire practice with the team.

Then he was there, two hundred feet above the ground, hidden in the virtual plane. A second later Jackson was next to him, hovering like an angel. Then Barnes.

Dalton indicated for Barnes to break off and go to Russia. Barnes's avatar nodded, and then he was gone in a flash.

Dalton turned to Jackson.
"Second jump, now."

He came out above the first lock of the Panama Canal. Even Hammond didn't know how they did the jumps. They probably could have jumped directly from Colorado to Colombia, but Dalton preferred taking it in steps. He also wanted a little time to get reoriented to the virtual plane.

The best explanation Hammond had been able to give them was that since the virtual plane had no substance, there also really wasn't a concept of distance. As long as they could mentally picture where they wanted to go, they could jump there. Dalton and Jackson had discovered, though, that it wasn't that simple. Sometimes the jumps seemed to take real time. Other times they didn't arrive exactly where they wanted and had to get oriented and re-jump. There had even been occasions in Jackson's experience where jumps just didn't happen. There were many bugs yet to be worked out in the Psychic Warrior program, and they were learning by doing, which was not the safest way.

"This is our emergency rally point,"
Dalton reminded Jackson.

"Roger that."

He was surprised to see her lips move, even though the words didn't travel in the nothingness of the virtual realm but were relayed from her mind, through Sybyl, to Dalton's mind.

"Hammond did a lot of work on this,"
he said.

"This phase was being prepared when we went on the last mission."

"What's the phase after this?"
Dalton wondered.

"You'll have to ask the good doctor,"
Jackson said.

Dalton knew that Hammond, back in the control room at Bright Gate, could hear everything they were ‘saying’ but there was no reply from her forthcoming.

"Last jump to objective,"
Dalton said.
"Now."

He visualized the road curve in the satellite imagery Kirtley had shown them. The place where the Special Forces team set up the ambush. And he was there, just above the treetops.

He floated down until his feet reached the dirt road. This gave him spatial orientation and he switched from wings to a right arm and a firing tube for the left. Using power from Sybyl, the tube could fire a pulse of energy in the real plane that was deadly. Unfortunately, it had not worked at all on Chyort the Russian avatar, a result that Hammond had been at a loss to explain. Dalton didn't expect any problems, since they planned on staying on the virtual plane, invisible from anybody in the area, but it never hurt to be prepared.

The first thing he noted were the blood trails on the road as Jackson appeared.

Dalton knew exactly how an ambush would be set up here. He moved to where the machine gun should have been positioned and noted the expended brass. The 7.62- millimeter NATO cartridges confirmed the location. But there weren't many. Perhaps two bursts worth. Since there was no blood trail the firer hadn't been killed here, which meant that either the gunner had moved or surrendered.

"They were in a firefight,"
Dalton reported back to Hammond and Kirtley.

He moved back to the road and rejoined Jackson, who was looking at something in the far ditch.
“
Jimmy."
She pointed.

Dalton saw the legs, shreds of jungle fatigue pants still clinging in places, the skin gray and waxy. Looking along the ditch, he could see the trip wires for other claymore mines and knew he was looking at the far side of the kill zone.

"Where's the rest of the body?"
Jackson asked.

Dalton doubted a team on the run would haul half a dead body with them.

"They got hit from behind,"
Dalton said
"At least one of them tried escaping through the kill zone. That means things were really bad."

"And the rest?"
The voice was Kirtley's.
"We need accountability. Do you have an identity on the body you have?"

"All we've got are a pair of legs,"
Dalton said.
"And we can't exactly bring back a DNA sample."

"There were ten men on that team,"
Kirtley said.

Dalton didn't need to be reminded of information he'd received in the mission briefing. He and Jackson circled about, but found no other bodies.

"I'm open to suggestions,"
he finally announced.
"Wherever they are, they aren't here. And someone recovered at least part of one body, probably wanting the head for propaganda purposes."

"I've got an idea,"
Jackson said.
"Mr. Kirtley, do you have the identity of the cartel that was targeted here?"

"Actually, there is a consortium called the Ring led by a man named Hector Cesar. He has many holdings throughout Colombia."

"Find the closest to this location."

"Hold on."

Dalton used the time to move up the road. Tire tracks and footprints in the dirt.