Tom Clancy's Net Force 6-10 (101 page)

Read Tom Clancy's Net Force 6-10 Online

Authors: Tom Clancy

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BOOK: Tom Clancy's Net Force 6-10
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When nothing else was forthcoming, Thorn said, “All right. So he didn’t really have anything to complain about. So?”
“So? Right after he turned thirty-nine, he started having trouble breathing. Turned out he had developed some rare form of emphysema—and he never smoked a single cigarette. Six months later, he couldn’t move without having to wheel around a bottle of oxygen. The game industry had another revolution and the stuff he was writing went into the toilet. He couldn’t come up with any new ideas that worked. He lost his big house, the cars, the hired help. His high-maintenance wife bailed without a backward look. Barry wound up filing for bankruptcy. Moved back in with his parents. So here he is, on his fortieth birthday, and he’s gone from being rich and on top of the world, to he can’t walk to the mailbox without having to stop and rest. He’s broke, he’s alone. And the kicker is—none of it is his fault. He couldn’t control any of it.”
She shook her head again. “The point, Tommy? The point is,
now
he’s got something to whine about. Now his life
is
harder than everybody else’s.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t want to tempt fate, Tommy. You never know but that God might be taking a coffee break and He will hear you complaining and give you something to show you the difference between nice Italian shoes and no feet.”
Thorn smiled and nodded. “Point taken.”
“Good. Maybe there’s hope for you. Listen, I hate to slap your hand and then run, but I have to go. You take care, all right?”
After she had gone, Thorn had thought about what she’d said. She wasn’t an intellectual, but despite the fact that he probably had twenty IQ points on her, she had nailed him dead on. Which made you stop and think.
Then, not five minutes later, Colonel Kent had stopped by, and because that bored deity must still have been hanging around, God had helped Thorn put his foot back into his mouth again. There were a few problems, the colonel had said, but he was working on them.
He had finished his report, and was about to leave. Thorn said, “Don’t worry, Colonel, I know you haven’t had time to bring in your own people yet and get up to cruising speed. I know you have to work with the tools you have, and sometimes they just won’t cut it.”
The ex-Marine blinked and looked at him as if he had just turned into a giant beetle. “No, sir, that’s not valid.”
Thorn shook his head. What had he said? He was just trying to give the guy a way to save face, and now the man was busting his chops? “I’m not sure I take your meaning, Colonel.”
“Sir, with all due respect, a man who blames his tools is a poor workman. You recall that sniper in Colorado a couple years back? Shot sixteen people in the space of a couple of days?”
“I remember.”
“Do you recall how he was stopped?”
Thorn searched his memory. “Shot by a civilian, wasn’t he? A farmer?”
“Yes, sir. Only the civilian was Duane Morris, a retired Marine, a twenty-year man, and a former member of the USMC pistol team. He drove his pickup truck into Denver to collect a relative at the train station, so he was across the street when the killer got out of his car with his assault rifle.
“Soon as he saw the shooter, retired Master Sergeant Morris jumped back into his car and pulled out a Thirty-eight Special snubnose revolver he kept under the seat there. This gun has crappy sights, no more than a groove on the top strap, a two-inch barrel, and is generally thought to be ineffective past across-the-table range by a lot of folks. Outside of five yards, they say, you might as well
throw
it as shoot it, because you will more likely hit your target that way. It would not be the weapon of choice in a long-range gun duel.
“Sergeant Morris stepped out of his vehicle just as the shooter cranked off his first round, taking a fourteen-year-old-boy in the leg. He snapped that snubby up, and as he did, the killer saw him and swung his rifle around to take him down. Morris aimed and fired before the killer could get off a second round, and his bullet impacted the scum-bag in the forehead, an inch to the left of being centered right between the eyes. Dropped him dead before he hit the pavement.”
Thorn nodded. “Yes. And . . . ?”
“Morris was sixty-four years old, wearing glasses as thick as Coke bottle bottoms, using a tool not designed for the task at hand. The investigating police officers paced off the distance between Morris and the sniper. Fifty-eight yards. That, sir, was one hell of a wide tabletop. Easy with a rifle, not quite as easy with a long-barreled target pistol with a scope, highly unusual with a gun having a pipe just a hair longer than the middle joint of your forefinger. A fluke, a lot of folks said, but it was not. Morris practiced with that little handgun often. He could hit a pie plate at fifty yards all day long. The tool had the capability, and the man using it had the ability to use it properly. That’s what made the difference.”
Thorn nodded. “All right. I see your point.”
“Yes, sir. I hope so. We have the tools. The main limiting factors are the people we set to use them. Properly taught, they can accomplish any job we need accomplished. If I can’t cut a piece of string with the knife I’m holding, then I need to sharpen it, not blame the knife for being dull.”
Once
he
was gone, Thorn decided that maybe it might be a good time to go to the gym. However, given the way his day was running so far, he might just stab himself in the foot. He shook his head. Well. He certainly hadn’t impressed these folks with his wit and wisdom today, had he? Maybe he’d better cancel his appointments and stay in his office where he wouldn’t say or do anything foolish for the rest of the day.
Washington, D.C.
Jay readied his assault on Hugo Hellbinder’s secret base from behind a fat-boled banana tree. The infrared laser of his silenced .45 HK Mark-23 painted the hapless guard to the left of the entrance with a foreshadowing dot that Jay, with his specialized night-vision gear, could see, but was otherwise invisible to the human eye.
The guard on the left had to go first because he was closest to the alarm. There’d be maybe a second or two to take the other guard out after the first fell. No problem.
The humid night air of the jungle was warm and full of distractions. One of the guards slapped at a mosquito, and the other leaned over to tie his shoe.
Now . . .
Jay took the shot.
There was a soft
whap
as the subsonic .45 hit the unfortunate guard on the left, the invisible infrared giving way to hot blood as the guard’s spine shattered. The other guard cried out, “What? Not
me!
” He started to roll to the side, his animation flexing slightly as he blended into the wall behind him for a second before Jay’s second shot ended his worries.
Sorry, pal. The rules of the game. Spear-carriers get wiped out fast.
He’d lifted the scenario from an old vid he’d played as a teenager, one of his favorite spy games. The weapons, the sounds, even the imagery—including the occasional computer-glitch blending of enemies with the landscape—was just as he’d remembered it.
It should be, after all the time I spent reverse-engineering it
.
Sure, he
could
be using VR to simulate some static mind puzzle, some way of more accurately mirroring the RW activity he was engaged in, but as always, that wouldn’t be nearly as much fun.
He readied himself for the rush to the entrance. There was a camera on the inside of the doorway—it had warned them he was sneaking in on one of his early attempts. A quick shot upward before stepping through the door, and it’d be gone. Then he’d work his way back to the underground bridge, to see if he could fight his way across.
Sooner or later he’d complete the game mission and at that point, the second part of the code would be cracked. In theory.
He retraced his steps perfectly, taking out guards and cameras, not missing a shot. Everything was going well until, abruptly, the scenario froze.
So did Jay.
A doorway opened into the space, right in the middle of the bridge. Time stalled: Bullets hung frozen in the air, a guard tilted at a forty-five-degree angle in the process of falling, his video-game body painted with pixelated blood.
Through the door stepped Saji.
He frowned—she
never
bothered him at work—particularly when his don’t-call-me was on. She was one of only two people who
could.
He’d given the codes only to Alex and Saji.
I’ll have to remember to give them to the new guy,
he thought, before he wondered what was so important that she would actually
use
the access codes.
Something wrong? Somebody sick? Or, worse, somebody dead?
There was certainly
something
. She had that look to her, a determined set to her VR character.
“This is nice,” she said in a voice that meant exactly the opposite. She waved at the frozen blood spray from the back of the guard.
“I’ll put something else on.” Jay started to switch to a more neutral scenario, but she shook her head.
“I’ve got one,” she said, indicating her doorway.
He followed her and stepped into a zen garden. There were rocks, bonsai trees, and a beautiful stream gurgling in the background.
The detail was amazing. A mosquito buzzed by, and was eaten by a bird that swooped down to catch it. Eddies and currents in the stream moved in endless, almost-random patterns. A cool breeze touched his cheek, and the smell of pine needles wafted over him.
She indicated a bench, and he sat on it, a smooth wooden surface that had been there so long that the front edge had been worn smooth.
“Nice VR. This is great—even I don’t usually get this detailed. Where’d you get it?”
She smiled, and his heart stilled for a moment—if she could still smile at him like that, the news couldn’t be that bad.
Unless she’s dying. She did have a doctor’s appointment today.
His stomach lurched.
“I’m glad you like it—it’s mine.”
He almost forgot to be worried. Saji had done this? Where had she been hiding her abilities? The VR they’d worked through during his therapy had never been this sharp. This was
good.
“Really?”
She laughed. “Yes really. It’s my meditation spot. I’ve worked on it for years.”
“It’s great,” he said. “Amazing. Really.”
She grinned. “Glad that the top VR jock at Net Force approves!”
Then: “Because I’ve got something to tell you.”
This was it. What could be this important? What could be such serious news that she’d come to work and get him—in VR—and show him her most private meditation?
“Saji? Is everything okay? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. You might need to take a deep breath, though.”
“Me?”
His face must have shown his confusion, because she smiled, and then took his hand. “Well, yeah. You’re going to be a father.”
He felt an immense sense of relief—she was
okay
—
And then:
Me? A father?
It was like being hit in the head with a hammer.
He realized she was waiting for him to say something—anything.
“Wow,” he said, stunned. “I mean,
wow!
” he added, putting some excitement into the word. “That’s . . . that’s . . .
great!
” He grinned.
Saji seemed relieved. She grinned back at him.
She took his hand and squeezed it.
“I wanted to wait until you got home, but I just couldn’t. I’m so excited, Jay! We’re going to have a baby!”
He grinned back at her, enjoying her excitement.
He wasn’t completely sure about his own, but he knew he’d rather take this leap with her than anyone else.
A baby. He was going to be a father. Whoa. Talk about unreal scenarios.
9
Quantico, Virginia
Risks were unavoidable in Eduard Natadze’s line of work. He knew that and accepted that. What he would not accept were unnecessary risks—especially those caused by sloppiness or overconfidence.
He expected no trouble from his current target. He knew Jay Gridley’s habits backward and forward, and knew that the computer jock posed no challenge for him. But still he took no chances.
He had made sure that he was not carrying a photo of Jay Gridley, or anything else that would connect him to Net Force’s top computer jock. The only thing he did carry was an electronic receiver, but even that was simply a standard player with a couple of nonstandard tunings he could wipe with a touch. He didn’t expect to be stopped and searched—they did not do such things here in America—but still, he took no chances. Besides, he did not need any photos. He had already studied his quarry and would know the man when he saw him. He would recognize the automobile the man drove, its license number, and he knew all the likely routes from Net Force HQ to Jay’s home.

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