It wasn't particularly satisfying, these monuments to war, but it seemed appropriate. He would book his flight out and leave today, if possible. Perhaps by way of Spain, using another identity. Madrid would be warm by now, and the smells of Spain were more pleasing than those of England.
Saturday, April 9th
Quantico, Virginia
He should have been at home, visiting with his wife and son, John Howard knew, but he couldn't relax enough. He'd just sit there simmering, and his family would know and feel it. It wouldn't be pleasant for anybody. Might as well be at work, though there didn't seem to be much he could do here, either.
He thought about Ruzhyo, wondered about him. How could a man be a cold-blooded killer? He had started out a soldier, and killing sometimes went with the territory, but somewhere along the way, somebody had recruited the man for wetwork. He had stopped being a soldier and become an assassin, a thing of the dark. Howard could understand that an adrenaline rush could pump you up for sneaking around in the back alleys two steps ahead of somebody chasing you, but the stone-hearted murders? That was different--
"Wool-gathering, John?"
Howard smiled at Fernandez. "Just thinking about our quarry."
"Wishing you knew where to find him?"
"That, too. But more wondering how he can do what does." He explained, expecting Julio to agree with him.
To his surprise, his friend shook his head. "Not a lot of difference, way I see it."
"Shooting men in the back of the head? You don't see the difference?"
"Would they be any deader if he had shot them in the front of the head?"
"Come again?"
"Those two we lost were soldiers, on guard duty. The risk goes with the job. If they'd been paying attention, they'd probably still be alive--or at least they'd have gotten to shoot back. But when you get right down to it, how is it different, really? Somebody shoots you for evil and might, or they shoot you for goodness and right --you're still cold, either way. Their reasons won't matter to you, will they? Dead is dead."
Howard stared at Fernandez as if the sergeant had just turned into a big caterpillar puffing on a hookah: Whoo are youu?
Fernandez caught the look and grinned. "You don't like spies and assassins, but they're as much a part of an army now as they ever were. You want to go into battle with the advantages on your side, or at least not against you. So you send a spy into the enemy camp to find out where they plan to march. He's doing the same to you, so the side with the quicker, smarter, faster spy gets a half step on the other side. That game is as old as war, isn't it?"
"Spies aren't the same as assassins," Howard pointed out.
"Yeah, that's true. But let me ask you a hypothetical question, Colonel. Suppose you could go back in time to Germany in the late thirties--"
"--and assassinate Hitler?" Howard finished. He had heard this one before.
"Yeah. Would you?"
"In a heartbeat. He was a monster. It would save millions of innocent lives."
"You'd still be an assassin, then, right?"
"Yes, but in this case, the ends would justify the means. Sometimes it does, Julio. I'd take the moral heat."
"No question, and I'd pop him, too. But how do we know what our quarry's ends were? Why he got into what he's into? And think about what you might have done in his place, out there in the desert. We went to collect him, and if he had come out shooting, we'd have clotheslined him, right? Deleted him cold?"
"Yes."
"So, tactically, he was surrounded, outnumbered, and outgunned. The way we saw it, he either gave up or died."
"We saw it that way. We were wrong."
"Yes, sir. He beat us, straight up, and he did it with the tools he had. I wouldn't have been able to do it. You wouldn't have, either, would you?"
"No."
"You'd have gone down shooting."
"Probably."
"Me, too. And we'd be dead. Ruzhyo isn't. And he's on the loose."
"You admire this guy?"
"Man beats me at my game, oh, yeah. I'm pretty good at what I do; so are you. This guy, he's a formidable enemy, and when push comes to shove, those are the ones we want to face off with, aren't they? You remember the shoot-out in Grozny?"
Howard nodded. He remembered.
"Those revolutionaries we took down weren't in our league. They never had a chance once we decided to scoop 'em up. Screwed, blued, and tattooed. You remarked on your disappointment on the flight home. How ... easy it was."
"I remember."
"This ice man we're after, he's not easy. He's in our league--hell, maybe better than we are. Catching him will mean something, won't it?"
"Damn straight."
"It's not a war, John, but it's not a walk in the park. You're pissed off because the guy whipped us, not because he shoots people. The samurai killed a lot more people than the ninja ever did. It's not about body counts. It's about winning."
Howard couldn't stop a small grin. "When did you get to be such a ... Taoist philosopher, Julio?"
"I'm about to be a married man with a child. It makes a man think."
"Well, go home and take care of your bride-to-be. You aren't doing any good here."
The warning chime on Howard's computer peeped. A flagged subject.
"Go ahead, computer," Howard said.
"Subject A-1 located," the computer said.
Howard reached for the computer. Damn! They had him!
Well, if they could get there fast enough. Wherever there was.
PART TWO
Base, Angle, Leverage
20
Saturday, April 9th
Old Kent Road, London, England
Peel stood watching Bascomb-Coombs, once again not having a clue what the man was doing. But BC liked an audience, so he gave him a running commentary.
"Here we go. We insert the passwords we have ras-called from the gatekeepers, thus... and we are in. A straight shot to the inner doors, which we also open with no effort at all...."
He tapped at the keyboard, his fingers dancing like little elves over the thing. He hummed to himself and laughed softly.
"Poor sods. They've rebuilt their walls and made them twice as thick and high as they were, but it doesn't matter, you see. There still must be the pass-through, and no matter how narrow the gates, if you have the keys, you are unstoppable! Voila!"
He turned from the computer screen, all awash with complex lines and clots of numbers and letters that Peel did not comprehend. "How is your desire for power, Terrance?"
"Excuse me?"
Bascomb-Coombs pointed at the keyboard. "Come over here and press this key, and for a few milliseconds you'll be the most powerful man in the world. You will have more of an effect on more people's lives than anyone else on the planet."
Peel stared at the man but didn't move.
"Ah, you hesitate. You must know the dictum, 'With great power comes great responsibility'?"
"Churchill?"
The scientist smiled. "Spider-Man, actually. Sure you don't want to do the deed?"
Peel shook his head.
"Well. Onward and upward, then." He tapped the key once, smartly. "That ought to give the rabble something to think about."
Saturday, April 9th
MI-6, London, England
"Commander Michaels?"
Michaels looked up from his desk. He didn't recognize the man standing there, he was just another of the young and clean-cut types running around the place, dressed in a suit and tie. Could have been an FBI agent, save that his clothes were cut better. "Yes?"
"DG Hamilton wanted me to deliver this to you, sir."
He handed a silvery disk about the size of a quarter to Michaels. "If you'll thumbprint here, sir?" He held a print reader out. Michaels pressed his right thumb against a small gray panel on the device. The messenger looked at the readout and was apparently satisfied with the print match. "Thank you, sir."
Michaels looked at the tiny comput
er disk. If you were worried about your computer system being burgled and you didn't trust your electronic protection, there were ways to circumvent your fear. The easiest method was to disengage your computer from all contact with other machines, strip out all communications right down to the hardwiring. If it was unplugged and not firewired or optically linked to any other computer in a network, local or external, you were safe.
Nobody could sneak in your house if you didn't have any doors or windows.
Of course, you couldn't get out, either, and that was a problem.
So if you isolated yourself, you accepted input only via secure and scanned disks. And if you needed to reach out to another computer, you sent them a hand-carried disk. It was slow, it was cumbersome, but it was safe.
Michaels stuck the disk into his reader and had his viral software crunch it. Even though it was supposed to be secure, you still checked, always.
The software--the best antiviral/antivermal/Betty Crocker program MI-6 had--dutifully reported that the coin-sized disk was clean, no sign of viruses, worms, or unwanted pastries.
Michaels ran the disk. Things were looking up on a few fronts. The airline reservation and flight control computers were, by and large, back up and running smoothly. That was the good news.
The bad news was, they hadn't been able to backwalk the hack that had caused the problem in the first place. It just... stopped past a series of firewalls and foolpits.
"Good afternoon, Alex."
He glanced up at Angela. She was in a green T-shirt, faded and kind of tight jeans, and tennis shoes. His surprise at her outfit must have showed. She smiled and said, "Casual Saturday."
"Ah."
"Anything new?"
"Afraid not. I was just going over the disk your boss sent over. The airlines are back on-line."
She strolled in his direction, leaned in to look over his shoulder.
He felt her right breast brush against his back.
Apparently Casual Saturday meant no bra, too. Damn.
She quickly leaned back. "Well, that's good news, at least."
The young man who had delivered the disk came into the room, not exactly running, but close to it. "Commander, DG Hamilton would like to have a word. You, as well, Cooper."
"Trouble?"
"I couldn't say, sir."
Trouble.
Saturday, April 9th
The Yews, Sussex, England
Lord Goswell sat in his study, sipping a gin and tonic, looking through the French doors. Seemed as if it might rain again. Maybe it would come down hard enough to drown the bloody rabbits; certainly his shooting hadn't been much good there. Perhaps he needed to have his eyes done sooner rather than later.
He heard one of the maids chattering madly at somebody in the hall. He smiled as he sipped his drink. He pulled his pocket watch out and looked at it.
"What is the problem, Applewhite?"
The butler came into the room, looking apologetic. "Sorry about the disturbance, milord. The maid and Cook were distraught."
"Whatever for?"
"It seems the telly has gone down. And the telephones are also on the blink."
"Really?"
"Yes, milord. Can't even pick up most of the radio channels on the battery unit or in the automobiles."
"Well, that would be distressing then, wouldn't it? Think it's the Russians dropping bombs?"
"I hardly think so, milord."
"Well, I'm sure his majesty's government will see to whatever the problem is soonest."
"Yes, milord."
Applewhite went back to calm the maid and Cook, and Goswell rattled his ice cubes around in his drink. Had to hand it to that scientist fellow, he was dashedly good at the computer business. Not only had the airlines been knocked down again, but worldwide communications had been whacked solidly, most of the satellites taken off-line. And the telly and radio signals that depended on the network of satellites had been disrupted, along with telephonic operations. Quite a stroke. And, of course, operations in the U.K. would come back much sooner than the rest of the world, if Bascomb-Coombs's calculations were correct--and so far, they always had been. A brilliant fellow, he was.
A pity he would have to die. Good help was so hard to find.
21
Saturday, April 9th
In the air over the Virginia coast
Net Force's military arm had cranked up one of the old overhauled and refitted 747s for the hop to England, and John Howard sat in the thing, wishing it was an SST. The sooner they got to the U.K., the better. Of course, he might as well wish for a time-travel machine so he could have gotten there yesterday. Government agencies went on diets and binges as often as attendees at a fat farm, and Congress had been in moderate belt-tightening mode when Net Force had been funded. It could have been worse, though. They might have come up with some old DC-3 prop jobs the DEA had confiscated from drug runners instead of the 747s.
He wanted to get his hands on Ruzhyo right now, but at least he was on the way. He'd have to work the logistics with the Brits when they got there, but they had an arrangement with his majesty's government, and having Alex Michaels already in England wouldn't hurt. Howard couldn't imagine the British would give them any flak about collecting a former Spetsnaz killer. Of course, they didn't have the death penalty over there, and if they went through formal extradition, that could be a problem. A lot of countries had gotten on their high horses about that, refusing to turn escaped scum over to the U.S. unless they agreed not to fry the bastards.
Well, it wasn't going to come to that. There wouldn't be any paperwork filed on the killer through his majesty's legal system. If he didn't come back with them to face American justice, then it would certainly be because he was beyond any earthly justice.
You didn't kill Net Force people and get away with it. Not on Howard's watch.
He was dressed for travel and not the field, but he had his smaller gear pack on the empty seat next to him, and now he pawed through it. He tended to recheck his gear frequently when he went on a mission, even though not much was likely to have happened to it since he'd checked it five minutes earlier. It was a nervous habit, and he'd realized a long time ago he was going to do it, so he didn't worry about it any longer. Better safe than sorry.
He looked around and saw that Julio was all the way back toward the tail, heading for an empty washroom. Good. It wouldn't do for Julio to see what he'd done to his good luck talisman, not yet anyway.
He removed the charm from the pack and looked at it. Talisman was a funny way of thinking about a handgun. But this was an ancient Smith & Wesson .357 model 66 stainless steel revolver, unlike the polymer H&K tacticals the rest of his unit had been issued. For years, he had carried the piece as it had come stock from the box--well, except for a little action smoothing by the armorer and a set of hand-filing, after-market grips. A six-shot wheelgun, plain iron sights, no bells and whistles. He was comfortable with it, it had been on his hip every time he had gone into a firefight, and like the old Thompson subgun he had inherited, there was a kind of energy wrapped around it. He wasn't particularly superstitious, didn't avoid black cats or worry about ladders or mirrors, but he did believe the Smith had some magic about it. Part of that was that the Smith was a trusted, dependable design, functional, nothing complex to go wrong. Not that he was a technophobe or some kind of Luddite, but Howard had always liked the simple-is-better philosophy when it came to hardware. The RA and Navy SpecForce elites, the Rangers, the SEALs, the green hats, had all kinds of new computer-augmented personal weaponry. Things like carbines with TV cams on them you could stick around a corner and shoot without being seen; pieces with built-in trackers, lasers, grenade launchers, the whole package, expensive as hell, and he could have put in for them, but Howard's Strike Teams carried plain-Jane--if top of the line--9mm subguns. They went bang when you pulled the trigger, you could get the ammo anywhere in the world if you ran out, it being the most common military handgun round, and he figured it was
the operator's job to make sure the bullet was on target. Sure, they had the modified SIPESUIT armor, and it had plenty of tactical computer stuff built in, LOSIR corns and headset graphics and GPS and all, but if those failed, you could at least still shoot your weapon manually. The principle of KISS for the lethal hardware had always appealed, and he'd never been shy about letting people know he favored it.
So when he looked at his trusty six-gun with the Tasco Optima 2000 dot scope mounted where the notch-and-post sights used to be, it felt, well, a little weird. And after all the years of shaking his head and calling the polymer sidearms "Tupperware guns," his new acquisition might be thought by those who knew him to have shaded right on into the hypocritical.
It wasn't all that complex, the scope. What you had was a tiny, clear plastic window mounted an inch and a half or so in front of a tiny red diode that projected a red dot onto the window. Unless the safety cap was over it, the sight was always on, and the battery was good for a lot of use. The way you turned the thing off was, you put the cap on it, and the tiny computer in the scope put it to sleep. How it worked in practice was also simple: You popped the cover off, held the gun up, both eyes open, and the little red dot floated in the air in front of you, just over the piece. Wherever you put the dot--once you had it zeroed--that was where the bullet went, assuming you didn't jerk too much when you dropped the hammer. No parallax. And unlike a laser, there was no beam or glowing dot for an enemy to see and target--the dot wasn't visible from the muzzle side, and if it had been, it was a seven-minute-of-angle pinhead, anyhow.
The unit weighed about as much as a round of starfish ammo, didn't add much bulk, and was a lot easier to line up than standard iron sights. It was almost indestructible, too, according to reports. While Howard didn't need glasses to read his newspaper yet, the front sight on his short-barreled pistol had seemed a little fuzzy the last few months. When the rangemaster showed him this little toy on one of the range pistols, he'd tried it, just for the hell of it.
Night Moves (1999) Page 16
