Robert Doherty - Project Aura

“I do not think we should anger the Americans further,” Naldo said. “I have talked to the others and they agree.”

“Why did they not come to me themselves?” Dalton asked.

Naldo frowned. “They just left the island two days ago. I told you that is what they were thinking. Are you all right? You do not look well.”

“I have to get back to the island soon,” Dalton said, picking up the cue. “Why don’t you come with me?”

“I just left there,” Naldo said. He cocked his head. “Is everything all right? Has that American gone loco on you?”

“Souris is all right,” Dalton said. “I left her on the island.”

“And the ship?”

Ship? Dalton thought. “As planned.”

“That was a lot of money.”

“It was worth it.”

“It wasn’t our money anyway.” Naldo leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “So what did you want to see me about?”

“I’ve been thinking about the island,” Dalton said.

“ Saba?”

Jackson ’s voice was immediately inside Dalton ’s. “ Saba Island . In the Lesser Antilles.” An image relayed from Sybyl also appeared. A small volcanic island resting in a deep blue sea.

Dalton stood. “I am sorry. Things are uncertain. I should not have come.”

Naldo also stood, confused. “What is wrong?”

Dalton couldn’t have Naldo checking on things or perhaps giving Cesar a call and finding out he’d been duped. He also remembered the bodies of the Special Forces men hung in the meat locker at the other villa.

He accessed his original avatar program. Naldo’s eyes widened as the figure in front of him changed from Cesar to that of a featureless, white-skinned form. Dalton ’s left arm flowed into a power tube and he aimed.

“Who are you?” Naldo was fumbling for a gun.

“What ship?” Dalton demanded.

Naldo fired but Dalton was a step ahead, re-forming behind the old man. “What ship?”

Naldo’s face was red, his breathing labored as he turned, trying to bring the gun to bear. Dalton grabbed it, ripping it out of the old man’s hand. Naldo staggered back, hit his desk, then fell to his knees, hands grabbing his chest. He fell over on his side.

“Damn,” Dalton muttered as he knelt next to the old man. He checked the pulse. Nothing. Dalton stood.

“ Let’s go,” he ordered as he slipped from the real to the virtual.

“ Where to?” Jackson asked.

“ Saba .”

“I thought we were going to adjust the frequencies to affect only the virtual plane,” Dr. Woods, the man in charge of the HAARP machinery, said. He had the latest data from HAARP in his hands and he spread it out on the desk in front of his supervisor. “This is the same frequency we used to kill those people on the helicopter. We can’t transmit that via MILSTAR.”

“There isn’t time to tinker with it,” Boreas lied.

“But this will kill people unless they’re shielded,” Woods argued. “And you want it broadcast from all four satellites at once through CS-MILSTAR. I thought we were going to localize the transmission.”

Boreas considered the man in front of him. The members of the HAARP team had been recruited with suitcases full of cash. Some of them thought they were working for the CIA, others had different ideas, but none knew the truth. The objective of the project was clearly a weapon, but like most people who worked on such projects, they had not really considered the ultimate aim of such a weapon.

“The broadcast will indeed go worldwide,” Boreas said.

“But this frequency.” Woods shook his head. “I can’t-”

He paused, looking down on the small hole in his chest, just to the left of his sternum.

A small puff of smoke was wafting out of the silencer of the.22 High Standard pistol in Boreas’s hand.

“You-” Woods fell forward and hit the floor with a solid thump.

Two jets were headed toward Colorado Springs, one flying west from Andrews Air Force Base, the other northwest from the Caribbean.

On board each, a woman plotted how she would get access to a code locked in the most secure place in the country. One had an Aura transmitter with her, the other a copy of The Art of War.

Eagle Six, the only name by which he was known to the NASA people, watched the crew walk toward the gantry, waving at the TV cameras. Even though shuttle launches were pretty much routine, there was always media on hand. After all, they might get lucky and have another Challenger. Eagle Six’s predecessor had been on that flight and his name withheld from the public in the ensuing inquiry into the disaster.

This was his eighth shuttle launch and he knew the math. No system was foolproof and there were so many subsystems in the shuttle that failure was bound to occur again. He could also get run over by a bus when crossing the street, and that didn’t pay as well as this gig. Each flight he took earned him half a million dollars, and he figured this one to be his last. He could retire and easily live off the interest, plus he would be taken care of by the Priory.

The crew came on board, pointedly ignoring him. He was used to it. They thought he was a spook, from the CIA or the military, and had been briefed to only interact with him on mission requirements.

He checked the readout on one of the monitors. Two hours to shuttle launch and all systems were go.

From the virtual plane, Dalton was able to safely detect the island’s defenses. The guards all about, the hidden snipers, the mines along the shore, all were essentially worthless against a Psychic Warrior. He, Jackson, and Barnes bypassed these defenses and jumped to a spot directly above the large house that dominated the eastern slope of the volcano.

Valika was walking through the operations center, making sure nothing was left that they needed, when the hair on the back of her neck tingled. She paused, looking about for the cause of her alarm. She could almost hear a voice in her head whispering Danger. She drew her pistol and keyed the transmit button on the radio clipped to her belt.

“Anyone see anything?”

The reports from the various guard posts came back negative, but that didn’t make her feel any better. She went to her small room and unlatched one of the suitcases she’d bought from Kraskov. Clipping a half dozen of the “beer cans” to her belt, she began searching the villa.

Dalton found Cesar in the atrium seated at a table near the pool.

“ I’ve got him,” he informed Jackson and Barnes through Sybyl. “ Any sign of Souris?”

“ Negative,” Jackson replied.

“ I’m in some sort of control center,” Barnes reported, “ but no sign of her.”

“ Home in on my position,” Dalton ordered.

In a second both were next to him on the virtual plane, hovering over the atrium, looking down on the man who had killed their comrades.

“ Cover me on the real plane,” Dalton ordered. He shifted, passing the thin line that separated the real from the virtual, taking form on the other side of the table from the cartel leader.

Cesar was startled but quickly regained his composure as Dalton began to appear. Dalton continued to take shape until he approximated his normal appearance.

“Who are you?” Cesar demanded.

Dalton could see Jackson and Barnes appear, one on either flank, their right arms ending in firing tubes. Cesar noted them too and for the first time seemed concerned.

“Who are you?” he repeated.

“Why did you destroy Bright Gate?” Dalton asked, using Cesar’s own voice.

“What?”

Dalton shifted form once more, this time taking Cesar’s appearance.