Breaking Point (2 page)

They were on a narrow dirt trail that wound through a section of mostly hardwood forest. There was enough shade so the day's heat didn't lay too heavy a hand on them, and the air was rich in oxygen, the smells of warm summer vegetation, and decades of damp humus. The backpack was a lot heavier than anything Jay was used to carrying, but since Soji's was every bit as heavy, he could hardly complain. He had the tent, but she had the cooking gear.

He shook his head. He couldn't successfully argue philosophy or religion with Sojan Rinpoche. She could talk circles around him. Though only in her twenties, she was much more educated in such things than he was. They had met after the on-line injury he'd got stalking the creator of a quantum computer that had caused Net Force all kinds of problems. Since they had come together initially in VR--virtual reality--via the internet, they had been in persona, and hers had been that of an aged Tibetan monk. She was a lot better looking as a young woman than she had been as an old man. And she had been instrumental in helping him recover from a brain injury that theoretically wasn't even possible.

"See, that's the problem with you, Jay. You spend too much time on-line. You need to get out more."

"I could put mosquitoes in a scenario if I wanted."

"You could. But have you ever?"

"Well, no."

"And without experiencing real bugs sucking your blood and going splat when you slap them, you wouldn't be able to do it accurately. And even then, it would only be an imitation, and not the real thing."

"But isn't this all just an illusion?" He waved one hand to encompass the wooded hillside.

"Wrong religion, white boy. Try the Hindus or the existentialists. Buddhists aren't into denying reality. We like to get down and roll around in it."

"What about that old man persona of yours on the net?"

"A tool, that's all. Got me past a lot of preconceptions, and made my patients relax. Besides, an illusion is by definition not real, so altering it one way or the other doesn't make it any more or less real, now does it?"

He chuckled. Boy, he liked being with her.

"So how much farther is it to this secret place of yours?"

"Not far. Couple more miles."

He gave out a theatrical groan. "You didn't tell me I was going to have to hike halfway around the planet carrying a house on my back. This better be worth the walk."

"Oh, it will be. Guaranteed satisfaction or your money back."

Well, that sounded promising. He slapped at another mosquito, and was inclined to agree with Soji's father on at least one point, despite what she'd said.

Chapter
2.

Quantico, Virginia

When John Howard walked into the range, he heard, "Tens-
hut
! General in the house! Morning, Brigadier."

Howard fought the grin, but lost. Amid the familiar tang of burned gunpowder, Sergeant Julio Fernandez stood at ramrod attention, a perfect salute in place. Any crisper and he would have crinkled.

"No such thing as a brigadier anymore, you know that."

"It has a nice ring,
sir
!"

"At ease, Lieutenant," Howard said. He returned the salute.

"Not funny, John."

"Hey, I can do it, you know. Me being a general now instead of a colonel. What do you think, Gunny?"

Behind Julio, the rangemaster grinned. "Oh, yes, sir, I believe Sergeant Fernandez is excellent officer material, sir. Never
has
earned his money."

"I get promoted, first thing I'll do is fire your sorry ass," Fernandez said. "You'll be out whitewashing rocks on the parade ground eighteen hours a day."

Gunny laughed. "Long arms or sidearms today, sir?"

Howard said, "I believe the sergeant needs a lesson in how to shoot his pistol."

Gunny nodded and set two plastic boxes of ammo on the counter. The blue box contained .357 cartridges, the orange box 9mm. Howard grabbed the blue box, Fernandez the orange.

"Lanes eight and nine," the rangemaster said.

Howard put his earplugs in as he headed for the entrance to the gallery, Fernandez hurrying to beat him to the door so he could hold it open. "Let me, General. I wouldn't want you complaining you hurt your hand or anything after I shoot the pants off of you. I never got to beat a general before."

"And not likely you'll start today, Sergeant."

In their respective lanes, the two Net Force military men set their ammo down and started up the holoprojectors. They used identical scenarios when they went for scores against each other, so there would be no doubt who had outshot whom.

Howard slipped the Fist paddle holster with his Smith & Wesson .357 Model 66 revolver nestled in it into his waistband and adjusted things. The S&W was an antique, stainless steel and not nearly as efficient as the polymer tactical pistols Net Force issued. The H&Ks and the Walthers carried almost three times as much ammo, and had all kinds of bells and whistles--lasers, suppressors, flashlights, all very modular. Until recently, the Smith had been pretty much stock, unmodified. Howard had allowed Gunny to talk him into trying a red dot scope, a tiny one that mounted where the iron sights were, which had improved his shooting immediately. Even so, it felt like sacrilege--the old wheel gun was as much talisman as anything, his good luck piece, and in the same category as the tommy gun he had gotten from his grandfather. It worked, but it couldn't really run with the newer hardware out there, even with the Tasco scope.

Julio was still smiling every time he saw the scope, too.

"You ready, John?"

"Crank it up."

Fernandez was using his blued Beretta Model 92, not as ancient as the Smith, but certainly not in the same class as the tactical pistols, either. Two old and grizzled types they were, set in their ways. If they weren't careful, the future was going to blow right past them.

The mugger, armed with a crowbar, materialized thirty feet away and ran toward Howard. He snatched his piece out of the holster, brought it up, and did a fast double tap, aiming at the chest. The mugger stopped and fell down. The holographics on the range were pretty good, and the computer registered the hits and kept track of everything.

"Got me by a quarter second," Fernandez said from the other side of the bullet-resistant barrier. "General's luck."

"Right," Howard said. "Rack 'em up and I'll show you how lucky I really am."

The second mugger had a long knife, and Howard's first round caught him a hair high, just at the base of the throat. Good enough, since the second round didn't go off. Instead, there was a metallic
pop!
and the cylinder jammed.

"Got a mechanical malfunction here!" Howard yelled. He kept the weapon pointed downrange, waiting.

Julio came around the barrier, an eyebrow raised in question.

"Something broke. Cylinder won't turn."

"I'll get Gunny out here to take a look. So much for your six-for-sure theory."

The rangemaster said, "Sorry, sir, but sooner or later, everything wears out. You probably put thirty or forty thousand rounds through this thing over the years, you got to expect it to metal fatigue and start nickel-and-diming you to death. I can fix it, but it's gonna take a few days to get the parts and get 'em installed."

"General will need a loaner," Julio said. "Can't have him walking around naked. Why don't you show him the Medusa?"

Gunny smiled and went to the gun safe. He came back with a Styrofoam box. On top of it was a little pamphlet. It said "Phillips & Rodgers, Inc.," over a little logo with a reversed "P" and an "R" separated by a big "I." The words "Owners Manual" were under that. Gunny handed Howard the pamphlet. Howard flipped it open to the first page and saw "Firearms Are Dangerous Weapons" in bold print at the top of the page.

He shook his head. That's what came of too many lawyers without enough to do. A maker had to warn you that a gun was dangerous. What was the duh-factor there?

Gunny opened the box. Inside was a flat-black revolver with what looked like ivory grips. It had an unfluted cylinder, and seemed like a K-frame S&W with a funny-looking squared-off and grooved barrel.

Fernandez took the revolver from the rangemaster. "General, this here is a P&R Model 47, aka Medusa. Three-inch, match-grade, one-in-nine twist barrel, 8620 steel, heat-treated to 28 Rockwell, with a vanadium cylinder at 36 Rockwell. Got a neat little red fiber-optic front sight, and fully adjustable rear sight. Coated with black Teflon, so it won't rust."

He handed the piece to Howard. It felt good, familiar, if it looked a little squarish for his tastes. "You getting a commission from these people, Julio? And why would I like this more than my Smith?"

Fernandez grinned widely. "Well, sir, if we can't get you to use a semiauto, at least we can get you closer to the current century. These first came out in 1996, I believe, and they have a big advantage over your antique Smith. They will chamber and fire everything from an anemic .380 ACP to the hottest .357 Magnum rounds, and a whole bunch of stuff in between. You can load it up with any variation of 9mm you can think of--Kurz, Largo, Long, Luger, Mauser, Parabellum, Steyr, whatever, as well as .38 ACP, .38 auto, .38 Super, or .38 Special. Bunch of other calibers will work, too, but the manufacturer doesn't recommend 'em."

"And how many cylinder changes do I have to carry to accomplish this miracle? Three? Five?"

"No, sir, not a one. Pop the cylinder and push back on the extractor rod."

Howard did so. The extractor looked very odd.

"Those are springs, those little things in the chambers. Anything that'll fit, they'll hold in place, and it'll cook 'em off just fine."

"Really?"

"Yes, sir. You happen to find yourself on a battlefield somewhere and you run out of .357, you can always find 9mm somewhere, it still being the most popular military caliber worldwide. It'll shoot the stuff we use in our subguns."

Howard looked at the gun. "What's the catch?"

"Well, sir, there are three. It doesn't much like speed-loaders, because of the springs. You can make them work, but there's a little trick to it. Speed strips would be better, and they are easier to carry anyhow. Second, if you are going to mix calibers, you should shoot the longer stuff first, so as not to gunk up the chambers. And third, if you are mixing calibers, the sights won't be dead-on for the different ones, so you have to adjust the rear sights. But that's the same with mixing bullet weights, and most of the time, you'll be shooting the same ammo. Still, you can put a different caliber in every chamber and fire them off just fine. At close range, you don't need to worry about the sights, anyhow."

Howard hefted the revolver. "Interesting."

Gunny said, "Only thing I got in .357, General. I have a snubnose Smith M60 in .38 Special if you want to try that, but even with plus-P, it ain't much gun, and it only holds five."

Julio nodded at the Medusa. "Why don't you put a few through it, long as we are here? Unless you want to, uh, forfeit the match?"

"You wish."

Gunny said, "Lemme see your ring, sir."

Howard nodded and slipped the Net Force signet ring from his right third finger. It looked ordinary enough, but inside the mounting was a tiny computer chip powered by a capacitor whose stored electricity came from a small kinetic generator, basically a little weight that shifted back and forth. As of a month ago, all Net Force who carry and field-issue sidearms, subguns, and rifles were equipped with smart technology. The guns had an internal chip that kept the actions from operating unless they received a coded signal. The rings sent the signal, and had a range of a few centimeters, no more. The Net Force guns were all tuned to the same signal, so if needed, they could shoot each other's weapons, but if anybody not wearing the transmitting signet ring tried to fire a Net Force small arm, it would simply refuse to go off.

Howard was not happy with the things, but he had been made to understand that there was no choice in accepting them. All federal agencies would eventually be using smart guns, and the FBI was taking the lead.

So far, the new guns had operated at 100 percent, no failures. So far.

Gunny put the ring into a slot on the coder and checked the program, then did the same for the new gun. "All set, sir." He passed the ring and revolver back to Howard.

Howard looked at the gun as he slipped the ring back on. The theory was fine. If your kid found your weapon and hadn't been taught properly, at least he wouldn't shoot himself or one of the neighbors. It wasn't foolproof--somebody could snatch one of the rings and use it--but it was supposed to keep Net Force people from being shot if they lost a gun in the heat of battle. And once a month, you were to run your ring through a coder that reset the command signal, so any lost rings would no longer work after thirty days. He didn't like it, but that was how it was going to be. End of story.

Back at the lane, Howard loaded the revolver using his .357 ammo. The shells were a little harder to put into the chambers than they were in the Smith, but not that much harder.

He set a stationary bull's-eye at fifteen meters, lined the sights up. The front sight had a red dot on it, easy to see under the overhead lane lights. He squeezed off a round. He was surprised. Even though it fired the same cartridge, the recoil seemed considerably less than the Smith. Probably because it was a heavier piece, plus the barrel was a half-inch longer. He looked at the counter. A centimeter below dead center. Probably zeroed at twenty-five meters.