Night Moves (1999)
Page 17
And had shot 15 percent better the first time he tried it.
For a man to improve his combat efficiency with a handgun by 15 percent just like that was nothing to wave off lightly. After a couple more magazines, that went up a couple more points, too.
At first, he'd tried to ignore it. But on subsequent visits to the range, he'd used the thing again. The armorer told him he could pull the back sight, grind the front post off, and bead-blast the Smith, mount the electronic replacement, and get it done in a few days. Hell, he'd said, begging the colonel's pardon, but at real close range you were gonna point-shoot that antique and not use the sights anyhow, and outside six or eight yards, the red dot would make the colonel a better shooter. What was the problem?
Howard hadn't said, but mostly the problem would be the taste of crow.
Julio would never let him live it down.
It had taken a month or so, but once he started down that road, it was impossible to go back, there was no arguing with the numbers. Same gun, same ammo, and he was more accurate and faster with the dot scope. So it was a done deal, he'd had this technological marvel mounted on top of a weapon whose basic form went all the way back to Samuel Colt's first designs, in what? The 1830s? Even the double-action revolver wasn't a new invention; it was used on Robert Adams's self-cockers only sixteen or eighteen years after Sam Colt's early revolvers. The scope and the Smith thus made for an interesting marriage: seventeenth-century technology and twenty-first.
And this was a May-December marriage Howard didn't want his sergeant to notice, just yet. Maybe when he did, things would be heated up enough so it wouldn't require an explanation.
He looked up and saw Julio coming back from the can. He shoved the revolver back into his bag. At the same time, one of the flight crew, the navigator, approached from the other direction. "Colonel?"
He looked at the navigator. "Yes?"
"We, uh, have a problem, sir."
Saturday, April 9th
Johannesburg, South Africa
The new light-rail shuttle train, carrying 674 passengers from Pretoria to Johannesburg, blew through the scheduled stop at Tembisa Station at almost 140 kilometers per hour. The engineer threw the manual override, took control from the computer, applied the brakes, and the train began slowing. It would have been all right----except for the second passenger train stalled just south of Tembisa.
The shuttle was still doing more than 90 when it plowed into the back of the stopped train that was supposed to be ten minutes ahead and moving at speed.
Both trains buckled, and more than two thirds of each left the tracks, accordioned like toys jammed together by a spoiled child.
Half the people in the rear car of the stopped train were killed instantly. Others were thrown from the smashed car to their deaths.
A few were electrocuted by downed power lines.
The engineer of the moving train stayed at his post and died there, along with scores of panicked passengers just behind him. His last words, as recorded by the black box, were, "Oh, shit!"
A fire, started by sparks from the impact or maybe electricity, set the interior of one of the stopped train's cars aflame. Smoke boiled forth and laid a black cloud over the scene.
Estimates of the dead were ballpark, but the number was more than 200. More would doubtless die on the way to area hospitals or later from injuries.
Nobody even worried about the third shuttle following ten minutes later. They should have. The engineer on this train frowned as he realized that his communications gear was out and that his vehicle was going too fast as it approached the station.
By the time he wrested control away from the computer, it was too late.
His last words would never be known, as the impact was sufficiently violent to destroy this train's black box, leaving only a burned-out husk.
Saturday, April 9th
Kona, Hawaii
The beacon switched off just as the L10-11C3 wide-body jumbo jet from Japan came in for a landing at Kona during a tropical shower. The pilot apparently overreacted as the plane yawed, and JAL Heavy dropped hard enough to collapse the rear landing gear on the port side. The big craft slewed starboard, spun, and slid sideways across the runway, square into a Hawaiian Air MD-80 waiting to taxi for takeoff for the short hop to Maui. The smaller bird spewed flaming jet fuel, ignited, and the resulting fireball set the larger craft on fire. There was a terrific explosion. Tourists waiting inside the airport were killed as shattered aluminum sleeted like shrapnel through the open-walled terminal, cutting down everything in its path.
Pieces of the jumbo jet and human body parts rained down as far as half a mile away.
Four hundred and eighty died in the crash, fourteen were killed outright in the terminal or on the aprons, and fifty-six more were seriously injured.
Saturday, April 9th
Perth, Australia
Despite heroic measures, eighteen polio patients breathing on respirators in the Dundee Memorial Hospital died when the backup generators failed after a power outage blacked out the city. The problem was worse because it was so dark in the building away from the battery-powered lighting that nobody could find some of the dead until almost an hour later.
Saturday, April 9th
MI-6, London, England
"Oh, Lord," Alex Michaels said. "He's killing people."
The video of the South African train accident came from a security cam at Tembisa Station. The plane crash was recorded by a tourist waiting for a passenger on the JAL jet. The Australian deaths were vox only, no video.
Just as well, Michaels thought. The idea of watching almost a score of people die trying to breathe might have been more than he could stand. At least the train and jet crashes had been quick for those who perished.
"Yes," Cooper said. "He's bollixed dozens of major systems. I don't see how it is possible."
Neither did Michaels, but like the apocryphal ostrich with his head in the sand, not seeing it didn't make it go away. Communications, transportation, even traffic signals were screwed up. Who was this guy? How could he do such things all over the world at the same time?
They were in the office that MI-6 had provided, and the building around them hummed with frantic energy that matched their own. He looked at Toni. "We need to talk to our people at home."
"Unless you have a fast carrier pigeon, good luck," Toni said. "The landlines that work via the Atlantic cable are jammed, and anything going up to satcoms is scrambled worse than Humpty Dumpty."
"I can't believe it. He's managed to shut down virtually everything tied into a major computer net. The power is beyond anything we've ever seen," Cooper said.
That was for damn sure. Worse, why was the hacker doing it? What did he stand to gain? Was he a terrorist? Michaels knew he needed to do something. But--what? What could you do when the tools you normally used were all broken?
Better come up with some new ones, Alex, or this guy is going to bring the whole planet to a screeching halt. Maybe he's already done so. You can't get good intel, so how would you know?
"We got these vids and reports on our shielded and hardened lines," Cooper said. "We'll get as much input via them as possible. I'll go and see if we can obtain time on one to contact your agency in the States."
She left, and Michaels stared at the desk. "We've got to do something," he said.
"I know."
But--what?
22
Saturday, April 9th
London, England
Ruzhyo stood in front of the post office across from Westminster Cathedral. He was aware of the frantic scurrying around him. There had been a major computer and power failure, it seemed. He had been buying stamps when the electricity failed, and the machine had gone blank and eaten his coins. He had left the building and noticed that the traffic signals were out, and that there was a kind of puzzled worry in the air. Policemen arrived and began directing traffic at the intersection. He listened to snatches of conversations from passersby
and got the buzz of what they knew and didn't, and he wondered about it. But that did not distract him so much that he missed the man angling in toward him from the left, dodging traffic as he hurried across Victoria Street.
That the man was coming toward him--for him--was certain. The man was young, fit, smiling, but that meant nothing, Ruzhyo had smiled at some of the people he had deleted. It was disarming, a big smile, it allayed suspicion. How dangerous was a man grinning at you?
Such a man could be deadly, Ruzhyo knew. But was this one so?
Though dressed like a layabout in a leather jacket and jeans, the young man moved like a soldier, Ruzhyo thought. He had a definite military bearing to his step. This one had spent time in uniform, no question. Either that, or he was wearing a back brace.
Ruzhyo considered his options.
What should he do? Run? Stand his ground?
He looked around. No others were focused on him, at least not that he could see. If it was just the one, what did that mean? The smiling man showed no hardware, and though he certainly could have a pistol hidden under his motorcycle jacket, his hands were swinging loosely, making no move to draw a gun.
Ruzhyo was unarmed, save for a small pocket knife, not a particularly formidable weapon. True, he could kill with the knife at grappling range, if need be, but if it came to that, the situation would be bad.
If he was bracketed by a collection or deletion team, one good enough that he could spot only the one who was making no effort to hide, then he was already caught or dead. They would be keyed on the smiling man who was almost all the way across the street now, and a gesture from the smiling man would end the game.
Ruzhyo put his own hand into his right trouser pocket and found the small knife. It had a three-inch blade he could flick open with his thumb as fast as a springloaded switchblade. But even so, if he was targeted, and if he took his hand out of his pocket with a weapon, he'd probably be dead before he could get the knife cleared. If he had been a designated shooter on a delete team, he would be aiming at the head--a central nervous system hit being the only certain way to be sure of an instant stop. A rifle bullet through the brain generally brought things to an end.
Were there crosshairs laid upon his brow? A jittery laser spot dancing on the back of his head?
He looked around again, but could not spot the shooter. Nor did he see any others on the street paying him undue attention. Were they there? Had he gotten so old he had lost his ability to spot death watching him? Or was the leather-jacketed man alone?
While he was ready to go if beaten by players better than he, Ruzhyo found this scenario bothersome. He hadn't thought it would be this easy for them. He had expected to give a better account of himself in the final moves. Perhaps he was too far gone, too burned out, and perhaps this was his final play.
The smiling man achieved the curb and stopped three meters away, well outside the range for a quick lunge with a short knife.
"Mr. Ruzhyo," the man said. It was not a question. His right hand had drifted down to the hem of his jacket by his hip. There was a weapon there, a knife or a gun.
"Yes." No point in denying it. This man wouldn't be taken in by a protestation of mistaken identity. If he'd had the knife out and opened, it would be no contest. Ruzhyo could move five or six meters and stab a man clawing for a pistol nestled in a concealed holster before the man could draw his weapon. This was not an especially challenging feat. Any good knife fighter could do it; it was a simple matter of speed and reaction time. But with the knife in his pocket, it was a different proposition. Maybe he could get there first, maybe not. Probably he could take his killer with him, at the very least. But if there was a shooter in a car or hiding in a building already lined up? Well, in that case, any sudden move would end with Ruzhyo facedown on the concrete, probably dead before he got there. It would be a clean, quick end. It was tempting to see.
"Hello, sir. I'm Corporal Huard. Major Terrance Peel sends his regards and wonders if you might be free for dinner this evening?"
Peel? How did he know Ruzhyo was in London? And what did he want?
The young soldier offered Ruzhyo a card. It had an address on it.
"About seven o'clock all right?" Huard said.
Ruzhyo nodded.
"Will you be needing directions or a ride?"
"No."
"Right, then. See you later."
Huard smiled, turned, and marched off. Ruzhyo watched him until the man was out of sight. Nobody else joined him. It made him feel a little better that Huard seemed to have been alone. But even so, he should have spotted him sooner.
Ruzhyo looked at the card. Peel. How interesting. It had been nearly two years since he had met the man. The major had trained one of the paramilitary units for Plekhanov, after having been thrown out of the British Army for... What had it been? Torturing an IRA prisoner to death? What was he doing now? And how had he known Ruzhyo was here? On this corner, at this time? He must have had his men following him. Why?
And why hadn't he noticed a tail sooner?
He put the card into his pocket, the address already committed to memory. He would go and find out.
Saturday, April 9th
Somewhere in the British Raj, India
Jay wasn't alone this time. He had brought a native guide to stand watch. Well, it was actually a "motion detector" program, one that would squeal if anybody--or any thing--entered his scenario uninvited--and warn him in time to get his gun ready. At least he hoped it would warn him in time. Having the program look like a turbaned native guide was as good as anything. And he had altered the scenario a little more, in that he was no longer carrying the old double-barreled elephant rifle lovingly handcrafted by a Victorian English gunsmith. Now the weapon he had on a strap digging into his shoulder and leveled, ready at his hip, was a shotgun. And not just an ordinary shotgun, but a South African Streetsweeper, a short-barreled, semiautomatic, drum-fed twelve-gauge, with twelve rounds of double-aught buckshot alternating with twelve sabot slugs in the magazine and one more in the chamber. If something moved in front of him, all Jay had to do was point the gun and start pulling the trigger, and he could put up a screaming maw of deadly metal teeth that would chew up anything in their path. Nothing alive could eat that much lead and keep coming. The gun was heavy, but it was a comforting weight on that strap digging into his shoulder.
"Keep a sharp eye out," Jay said.
"Yes, sahib."
Jay bent to look at the ground, using the new skills he had learned from Saji in the New Mexico desert and mountain scenario. Cutting sign, and looking as much for what wasn't there as much as what was. He knew that the tiger must have gone this way because, in the perverse logic of computer VR, it couldn't have gone this way. And since he knew that, he should be able to track it. You couldn't move through this kind of brush without leaving a sign.
The smelly jungle heat washed over him like a dead man's final breath, cloying and nauseating, but he ignored it. He could have made a more pleasant scenario, a nice ski lodge in the Alps, or a sunny ocean beach at Malibu, with wheeling seagulls and bikini-clad starlets bouncing past, but this was the place where the tiger had jumped him, and this was the place he had to get back on the figurative horse. If he didn't, he knew he would always be afraid. And you couldn't webwalk if you were afraid; there were too many set-piece scenarios you had to live in, too many jungles out there to avoid them all.
The fear tasted like warm zinc in his mouth. He sweated, he trembled, he felt his wind nearly catch in a sob every other breath. Once upon a time, he had been Super Jay, faster than a speeding bullet and more powerful than a locomotive, able to laugh at any and all dangers in any dark corner of the net. But not anymore. The tiger's massive claw had wiped that invulnerability away. It had shown Jay the darkness at the end of the road. The darkness where everybody had to go eventually, a thing he had known intellectually but had not really in his heart of hearts believed.
He believed it now.
He hated the tiger for that. For making him afraid. For forcing him to acknowledge what everybody knew but nobody really talked about. Jay didn't believe in a benevolent god waiting to greet him at the pearly gates to some mythical heaven, no more than he believed in a malevolent ruler of some never-ending hell. His faith had been in himself, in his own abilities, and the tiger had taken that from him. Saji's talk of Buddhism had helped, and he felt drawn to that religion because it was so pragmatic and based in earthly reality, but it hadn't erased the fear.
He saw a mark in the jungle floor, a slight depression on a patch of old leaves and twigs long since rotted to damp humus. He glanced up at the guide, who stood scanning the jungle, then back at the mark. Not very deep for such a huge tiger, but it was part of a track, he was sure of it. It had gone this way.
Which meant that Jay was going to have to go this way, too.
He raised from his crouch. "Come on, Mowgli. Through here."
"Yes, sahib."
So far, the scenario was holding steady; that was something.
He wondered how long he could maintain the surrounding imagery if he saw the tiger? Not very long, he figured.
Jay took a deep breath, adjusted the shotgun's strap, and started forward.
Saturday, April 9th
The Yews, Sussex, England
Peel smiled at Huard. Inside his office, the former church, the younger man looked somehow out of place. Probably hadn't been in a church since he was a lad, not that Peel could claim too many such visits himself. Outside of attending regimental weddings and funerals and this place, religion hadn't been his cup of tea.
"And your impression of the fellow?"
"Well, sir, he didn't seem all that swift. I mean, he didn't see me until I stepped in front of him, almost on his toes, and he just stood there with his hand in his pocket like he was playing with himself. I'd say he's lost most of his moves since he was with the Russians. If he ever had any moves. Sir."