Tom Clancy's Net Force 6-10 (46 page)

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Authors: Tom Clancy

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BOOK: Tom Clancy's Net Force 6-10
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She had looked at him like that. She had let him see the naked desire in her eyes. She had told him, not with words but with every gesture, every glance, and every breath, that she wanted him, and he had agreed.
He looked down at her now.
“Joan,” he said softly.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him, a slow smile spreading across her face.
“Joan,” he said again, liking the way her name slid across his lips. He wanted to say something to this woman in his arms, to thank her, perhaps, to let her know how deeply she had touched him. He wanted to mark this moment before it slipped away.
He never got the chance.
As he reached for his next words, he was interrupted by the sound of somebody kicking in the hotel room door.
Joan reacted faster than Solly, scrambling out from under him and jerking the sheet up around herself while he reached for his glasses.
“What is the meaning of this?” he said, still fumbling with his glasses. “Who the hell are you?” He was trying to sound irate, not the easiest thing to do when you were lying naked in bed with a young woman not your wife. He shut up when he managed to get his glasses on and saw that the man standing there had a gun pointed at him.
“Get your clothes on, you little harlot!”
Solly’s gut twisted. Her husband? Lord, Lord, what was he going to do? If Marsha found out—!
“And you, you pervert. I ought to shoot you dead! God would bless me, and so would the po-lice!” The man had a funny accent. Was it French?
“Listen, mister,” Solly began. “There’s been some kind of mistake! I—I didn’t know she was married—”
“
Married?!
You son of a bitch! She’s not my wife! She’s my
daughter!
She’s
fourteen years old!
”
Solly’s vision swam with millions of swirling motes. He swallowed dryly and felt light-headed. Fourteen? She couldn’t be
fourteen!
“Daddy, I’m sorry—”
The man strode forward and slapped the girl’s face. It was a loud noise in the otherwise quiet room. “Put your clothes on! I’ll deal wid you when we get home! First, I got to call the po-lice and get this pervert arrested! They gonna put you
under
the jail, baby raper!”
Cajun,
Bretcher realized.
That’s what the accent is. Louisiana.
Joan hurried to obey, holding one hand to her slapped face.
Senator Solly Bretcher felt his life swirling around the drain, going down. Fourteen. He would be totally disgraced. They would crucify him. The press would eat him alive, and if they didn’t, his family would. He was a dead man.
As the man reached for the phone, Bretcher raised his hand. “Wait! Wait! Don’t do that! Maybe we can come to some . . . arrangement!”
The girl’s father looked at him. “What you talkin’ about?”
“Anything you want,” Bretcher said. “Anything!”

 

In the car, Joan laughed. “Fourteen?” she said. “That’s a stretch, Junior, even for me!”
Driving, Marcus Boudreaux, “Junior,” the man who had pretended to be her father, smiled. “Well, fourteen sounds so much worse than sixteen or seventeen, no? And he bought it. You saw his face, yeah?”
“No, I was too busy holding mine. You didn’t have to hit me that hard.”
He shrugged that off. “I had to make it look good. And like I said, it worked. That senator will do whatever we say.”
Joan shook her head. She was twenty-four but had always looked much younger than her age. Being flatchested, slim-hipped, and skinny had their uses. Convincing a frightened old man you were an adolescent was one that had earned her plenty before now—and had just earned her another ten thousand dollars.
“Now what?”
“Never you mind dat. You just take your money and go lie on the beach down in Biloxi. I’ll call you again if I need you.”
She shrugged. Ten thousand for a couple hours’ work? Beat doing fake pedo-porn on the net. And her tan could use some work. Why not . . . ?
1
Washington, D.C.
It was a Sunday afternoon, hot, muggy, and about to rain—typical D.C. weather for this time of year. A good day to stay home. Alex Michaels was doing just that. In his garage, currently without a project car and thus more or less empty, he was having a short but intense practice session with Guru. She was the one who introduced Toni to the Indonesian fighting art of
silat
. Now, all these long years later, she was still amazing.
She wore a ratty sweatshirt over a long batik skirt and rubber sandals, and looked about as scary as a stuffed teddy bear. A really old stuffed teddy bear. But if you bought that, you would find yourself in big trouble in a big hurry. One of the first rules of fighting was
Never assume that what you see is what you get.
She punched, and Michaels did the block-punch-block-punch-elbow sequence, that
pap-pap pap!
timing, like two sixteenth notes followed by an eighth note for the first three moves.
She nodded. “Not so bad. But watch the low line, be sure the first punch comes from the hip and cuts the angle as it rises. Punch for me.”
He did, and despite the fact that she was old enough to be his grandmother, her response was so fast he wanted to shake his head. She could hit him three times before he could blink and, while he was standing there surprised, easily drop him onto the concrete with a sweep or heel-dragging
beset
. A perfect example of technique mastery over physical strength.
“Again,” she said.
Ten minutes later, he was picking himself up from the floor after she had put him there with an effortless little sweep when Toni came into the garage. She had Little Alex balanced on one hip and looked like a Polynesian princess in a sarong, her hair wrapped up in a towel. “Are you beating up on Guru again, Alex?”
“Oh, yeah, right. You ever hear what the U.S. cavalry said about what you were supposed to do if captured by the Lakota Sioux? Whatever happens, don’t let them give you to the women.”
“How droll. You have a call.”
She handed him his virgil—the acronym standing for Virtual Global Interface Link—the handy-dandy pocket electronic device that was phone, fax, GPS, homing beacon, credit card, computer line, and other things he hadn’t even thought about, including a spy device that told HQ where you were. That the call came in on the virgil meant it was important, since the device’s com was also scrambled as well as Net Force’s programmers could manage.
Speak of the devil . . .
The tiny screen was lit with Jay Gridley’s picture as Michaels took it from his wife.
“Jay.”
“Boss. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“Just me getting my ass kicked.”
“Toni beating up on you again?”
“Guru.”
“Isn’t that embarrassing, Boss, getting thumped by a lady old enough to be your granny?”
Michaels grinned. “You’re welcome to drop by and stand in for me, if you’d like.”
“I’ll pass, thanks. I just called to update you on a couple of things. We got another e-mail virus making waves on the web. It’s just a filler—clog your system, dupe-and-send thing—nothing real nasty, but it’s got good coverage, so you’ll be hearing about it. From what I can tell, it’s a standard kid-hack kind of thing. No real damage, just counting coup. We should be able to backtrack the guy and nail him.”
“Okay.”
“The other thing is, we got a funny hit on one of our watchbots I thought you might want to know about.”
Michaels grinned again. “A ‘funny hit.’ Is that a computer geek technical term, Jay?” Net Force had been on a roll lately. Nobody had attacked them, and nothing major had hit the net or the web. Even hackers seemed to be taking the long hot summer off. Michaels knew better than to tempt fate by feeling smug, however. Every time he did that, something came along and Net Force got creamed.
“Are you making a crack about marriage dissolving my brain?” Jay asked.
“Not me. Not with my wife standing six feet away holding a squirming toddler she might throw at me.” He smiled at Toni as he said that, and waved and made a funny face at his son. He loved to see Little Alex smile.
Jay caught that on the virgil’s screen. “Um, right, Boss. Anyway, yeah, I can send it to your workstation. Nothing major.”
“Fire when ready, Gridley.”
Jay rolled his eyes. “Oh. Like I never heard
that
one before. Discom, Boss.”
Michaels shut the virgil off and went over to give his wife a kiss and a hug, and to hold his son for a moment. Then he would go see what Jay thought was important. At the least, it would keep him from getting thumped around by Granny Death here.
Let it be minor.
But he knew in his heart that they were due a major blast.

 

Jay smiled and shook his head as he disconnected. He’d seen a lot of different sides of Alex Michaels over the years, but this goofy dad thing was a new one. He couldn’t help wondering what kind of father
he
would make.
He shook his head again and let those thoughts go. Fatherhood was for the future—if ever. Right now, he had a hacker to track.
He was working from home. After they got back from the honeymoon, he and Saji had moved to a larger place, one that allowed each of them to have a work space. At the moment, Saji was in her office, offering advice to an on-line class of students beginning the study of Buddhism. She’d be working for another hour, so he had plenty of time to do his own job.
The wirelessware he had at home was the same as what he used at Net Force HQ—the latest generations of haptic gear, including optics, otics, reekers, droolers, and weathermesh—so he had full sensory capability when he went on-line. He put on the gloves, the headset with its ear and nose plugs, and the eyecups, adjusting them so they were comfortable. He already wore the tight-fitting mesh suit.
The piece he had sent to Commander Michaels was but a tiny hint of something he knew—he
knew
—was much larger. But knowing it was not the same as finding it. Like the scenario he was about to dive into, there were a lot of submerged logs in the swamp, and while not all of them were alligators, you had to be very careful when you poked at them with a stick. . . .
He grinned at the thought. “Scenario on,” he told his computer.
Bayou Baritaria, Louisiana
Jay cruised slowly through the murky waters of Bayou Baritaria, the air boat’s throttle nearly closed, watching carefully for submerged logs. Even without an underwater prop, hitting one at speed would be bad—not so much for the air boat as for
him
. Air boats were tough. The
“- thick 5086 marine aluminum that made up the boat’s flat hull was coated with an additional layer of a Teflon-based polymer, and would slide over pretty much anything, up to and including dry land. A land speed record had been set some time back in the late nineties with an air boat—on asphalt at over forty-seven miles an hour. Bad for the coating, but it worked.
However, hitting anything submerged at speed would put
him
in danger, in case the boat flipped, or spun toward one of the huge cypress trees that stood sentinel, gray Spanish moss draped thickly over their branches.
Only way to tell north on these trees would be to look for the dead Yankee.
Jay recalled a factoid he’d read somewhere, that all statues of southern Civil War generals faced north. They’d lost the war, but never really given up down here.
Beams of sunlight shone through the thick canopy of the swamp, touching here and there upon the murky waters, which, of course, teemed with water moccasins and leeches. The air had that dank, spoiled, rotting-vegetation odor that overlaid everything, a fecund, earthy stink. In the background he could hear the high-pitched whirring of cicadas.
A mosquito hummed by, and he swatted at it.
He grinned. Few took the time for VR details like that. That was the difference between a pro and amateurs: the little things.

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