Psychic Warrior

Jimmy Dalton leads a team of psychic warriors on a mission to stop the Russians' ultimate virtual killer, a ruthless psychic assassin who has access to a secret weapon that could unleash a nuclear arsenal on the free world.

Wires and tubes crisscrossed on the bed, and Sergeant Major Jimmy Dalton  carefully scooted them aside as he gingerly sat on the edge. With a callused

hand he tenderly brushed a stray lock of gray hair off the face of the woman

lying there.

He could feel the press of her thin thigh against his hip, and he stared  at her face, letting his hand lightly trace over every wrinkle and line etched  there by the years, lingering on the closed eyelids. He let out a deep breath  and took her hand in his, careful not to disturb the IV line in the back of  it. He leaned over, his lips close to her ear. His voice was a low, gravelly

one, one that gave an immediate sense of confidence to the listener.

"Well, my Treasure, another great day in airborne country. The  colonel gives his regards. He was by last night. Lots of people are worried,

but I know you're going to be all right.

"The Christmas formal is only six weeks away and, well, I was wondering  if you might want to escort this old soldier there." Dalton waited, head  cocked as if listening to an answer, before speaking again.

"You've been away from home for four months now. I think it's time to  be coming back. I miss you."

Dalton felt her skin under his fingers. He remembered the long years  when he had so yearned for just this sensation, to be able to feel her once  more. He leaned close and put his lips to her ear. "You waited for me for  five years when I was a POW, I'll wait forever for you. So we can be together  once more."

"Sergeant Major Dalton?"

Dalton slowly straightened and looked over his shoulder at the door. A  young woman, at least by his standards young, somewhere in her thirties, stood  there. She held a metal clipboard in her hand. "I'm sorry to disturb you. I'm  Dr. Kairns. I was assigned yesterday to take care of your wife. I assume you

know that Dr. Inhout, who was caring for your wife, was transferred."

Dalton slid off the bed, his highly polished boots making contact with  the  tile floor. Dalton was a little less than average height, five foot nine inches  tall, and had a stocky, well-muscled build. His face was dark and well  tanned, cut with deep lines, his hair heavily peppered with gray and cut very  short. He walked across and held out his hand. Kairns, after a moment of  surprise, took it.

"Thank you for taking care of Marie, ma'am," Dalton said.

"Well, you're welcome, but I haven't really done anything yet." She  held up the chart. "I have--"

Dalton took her elbow. "Perhaps we should talk outside."

Kairns looked over at the bed. She knew the woman could not hear them,  but she allowed herself to be escorted out of the room. They walked down the

hallway to an empty waiting room. Large windows revealed Cheyenne Mountain to  the west, the sides covered in snow. Between the window and the mountain lay

rows and rows of barracks, motor pools, and housing areas, all comprising Fort  Carson, home to the 4th Infantry Division and the 10th Special Forces  Group. Behind and to the right of Cheyenne Mountain, and barely visible, was

the bright white top of Pikes Peak, catching the first rays of the rising sun  coming over the Great Plains of Colorado from the east.

Kairns flipped open the chart once more. "We took another MRI and  there's no doubt your wife suffered an aneurysm  in the anterior portion of the frontal  lobe." Kairns looked up at the sergeant major. He nodded, indicating he knew

what an aneurysm was.

Kairns showed him the MRI. "It happened here. Fortunately, there wasn't  too much bleeding or swelling of the brain, but I have to warn you it could  happen at any moment even though she's been in here a while. The brain is very  strange. Very delicate at times, very tough at others, and there's much we  don't know about it."

"Why is she unconscious?" Dalton asked. Ever since being admitted  four months ago, his wife had been in a coma.

"In effect, she also suffered a stroke. I thought Dr. Inhout would  have explained all that."

"He did, but I'd like to know what you think the situation is, given  that you are the one who is going to be caring for her."

Kairns said, "Even if your wife regains consciousness, there is a  high likelihood of some brain damage. The blood that came from the burst blood  vessel, well, that flow was interrupted, obviously, and the part of the brain  that blood vessel feeds did not get enough oxygen for an extended period of  time."

Dalton nodded to indicate he understood. He walked over to a hard  plastic seat and sank down in it. He wore heavily starched  camouflage fatigues that  were covered with insignia: The Combat Infantry badge with two stars and the

Master Parachutist badge were sewn above his name tag. Below it was sewn the

small dive-mask badge indicating Dalton was scuba qualified. On his left  shoulder was a Special Forces patch, of subdued green and black to match the

fatigues. Above it was a Ranger tab and a Special Forces tab. He wore an  identical Special Forces patch on his right shoulder, indicating combat  service in the unit.

The patch was in the shape of an arrowhead, homage to the stealthiness and  craftiness of Indian warriors. An upright dagger was in the center, to  indicate the covert way Special Forces operated. Three lightning bolts ripped  across the dagger, representing the three means by which Special Forces  soldiers infiltrated their objective: by air, sea, and land. The patch, and  the green beret that went along with it, were the insignia of  the elite of the United States Army. Sergeant Major Dalton had  served thirty years in the unit, one of  the very few left on active service who had served in Vietnam. Mornings like

this he felt the cumulative effect of those thirty years.