Virtual Vandals nfe-1

by Tom Clancy

  Virtual Vandals

  ( Net Force Explorers - 1 )

  Tom Clancy

  Steve Pieczenik

  Diane Duane

  Here comes a Clancy first: a new series of novels for young adults starring a team of troubleshooting teens — the Net Force Explorers — who know more about cutting edge technology than their teachers!

  Tom Clancy, Steve Pieczenik, Diane Duane

  Virtual Vandals

  Acknowledgments

  We’d like to thank the following people, without whom this book would not have been possible: Bill McCay, for help in rounding out the manuscript; Martin H. Greenberg, Larry Segriff, Denise Little, and John Helfers at Tekno Books; Mitchell Rubenstein and Laurie Silvers at BIG Entertainment; Tom Colgan, of Berkley Books; Robert Youdelman, Esquire, and Tom Mallon, Esquire; and Robert Gottlieb of the William Morris Agency, agent and friend. We much appreciated the help.

  Chapter 1

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND; APRIL 2025

  The sky was a bright, cloudless blue, marked only by the thin white contrails of an aerospace plane’s jet engines passing high above. Matt Hunter squinted his brown eyes, staring up from his seat in the Camden Yards stadium. Must be just about ready to switch over to the rocket engines, he figured.

  An elbow in his ribs brought his thoughts back to Earth. “Nice job on these seats, genius,” Andy Moore complained. “We’re going to broil out here in the sun today.” The blond boy ran a hand over the fair skin of his forehead. “Anybody bring the sunblock?”

  “Out of luck from this end, junior.” David Gray rolled back his shirtsleeves, exposing muscular brown arms. “My sunblock comes courtesy of my African ancestors.” He shifted on his seat, however. “You’d think that after renovating this place, they’d put some comfortable padding out here.”

  Leif Anderson stretched back in his seat. “It’s comfortable enough from where I’m sitting.”

  Matt gave his friend a look. The seat that Leif seemed to occupy was actually empty, the space filled with a hologram. Leif was actually sitting in his parents’ apartment in New York City, no doubt sprawled in a very expensive — and comfortable — computer-link chair. Implants beneath his skin connected him to the world Net, allowing his image to be seen here in Baltimore, while he experienced everything that was happening in the stadium nearly two hundred miles away.

  “You’d better tune up your sim a little, Anderson,” Matt joked. “Otherwise, you won’t be catching any hologram home runs.” To his other friends, both real and holo, he offered an embarrassed shrug. “Hey, it’s the first home game of the season for the Orioles. These were the best seats I could get.”

  He shifted uncomfortably on the thinly padded bleacher seat. Any seat was worth the show they were about to see — and he didn’t mean the baseball game. Matt and all his friends had an interest in anything to do with computers. They were fascinated with the global computer Net that ran so much of the world, and with Net Force, the organization that policed that computer webwork. That was why Matt, Leif, Andy, David, and the others had joined the young people’s auxiliary, the Net Force Explorers.

  Getting in had not been easy — they’d had to survive a training course nearly as tough as that faced by Marine recruits. But then, Net Force had grown from a Marine/FBI task force, and shared its main headquarters with both groups in Quantico, Virginia, so it was understandable. And getting through that training had given Matt and his friends access to an unbelievable computer education. In a world where operating a computer was more like flipping a light switch, Matt and his friends knew how the magic boxes worked.

  The thing that had brought them to this game wasn’t the seats or the teams, but the stadium itself. Camden Yards had undergone a complete renovation, wiring in a huge computer system to operate a virtual reality — veeyar — simulator. Lots of sports arenas featured holographic projectors in the seats. But here, the whole field was set up for a huge-scale display.

  Leif sat up a bit taller in his seat as the opposing teams finished their warm-ups. “Here it comes,” he said.

  An announcer’s voice rumbled through the stadium. “Welcome to the first home game of the Orioles’ 2025 season. But we have more than just a great game waiting for you. No, you’ll spend an inning in Baseball Heaven, thanks to our new veeyar system. Some of the all-time All-Stars of the game, the greatest sluggers in baseball history, will step into the batter’s box against an ace pitcher and a dream defensive team. Can heavy hitting defeat great pitching and fielding? Let’s find out!”

  For a moment, a shadow seemed to fall across the field as the last of the live players trotted off. Then, eighteen ghostly figures swam into existence in front of the opposing dugouts. They wore a variety of uniforms, all of them old-fashioned to Matt’s eyes, some of them belonging to teams that didn’t exist anymore.

  Some of the virtual players waved or tipped their caps to the crowd. Leif Anderson whistled and clapped. “None of this is scripted,” he said. “It’s all being randomly generated by the system’s computers, based on the players’ records, the chances they took swinging and fielding, even the way they reacted to the fans.”

  “Who’s the fat guy on the Sluggers team?” Andy Moore asked.

  Leif stared at Andy as if he’d burped out loud in church. “That’s Babe Ruth. The 1927 Babe Ruth — he hit sixty home runs that season. And a little farther down the line is Ty Cobb. He got on base more than four thousand times in his career — and got into more fights with the fans than anyone else I ever heard of.”

  “I hope you’ve got an info-dump whispering all this stuff in your ear,” Matt said. “Because if you’re blowing brain cells on hundred-year-old sports statistics…”

  Leif just grinned. “If you take a close look at those All-Stars out there, you’ll notice that at least half of them are wearing the uniforms of New York teams — the Sluggers have Ruth and Lou Gehrig from the Yankees, Frankie Frisch from the old New York Giants, and Don Drysdale was with the Brooklyn Dodgers. The Fielders have Joe DiMaggio and Bill Dickey from the Yankees, Keith Hernandez from the Mets, and Willie Mays and Christy Mathewson from the Giants. They all played for my hometown!”

  “Big yawn,” Matt said just to annoy his friend. “Why have they got all these ancient guys?”

  “There was a cutoff — nobody who played in this century,” Leif replied. “Some of these guys played into the 1980s, like Ozzie Smith, Mike Schmidt, and Johnnie Bench. Keith Hernandez played into the ’90s.”

  Matt laughed. “What I want to see is how they play now.”

  The All-Star defensive team took the field as one of the sluggers, a guy in a Philadelphia uniform, stepped up to the plate.

  “One thing computer players don’t need,” David Gray joked. “Warm-up practice.”

  “You got it,” Leif chuckled. “Every pitch, swing, strikeout, or error, we’ll see it because that player’s number came up on the computers.” He leaned forward eagerly in his seat, yelling, “Go, Mike!”

  Glancing over at Matt, he said, “Mike Schmidt. Serious slugger.”

  Christy Mathewson mowed him down with three strikes. Next up was Ty Cobb, who managed to get a single. Lou Gehrig followed with a screaming line drive, captured by Roberto Clemente in a diving catch.

  Babe Ruth was the cleanup batter on the Sluggers. He had an odd batting stance, his bat seeming to rest on his shoulder. That was how he stood while the great Mathewson whiffed two strikes right past him.

  “Is this the Babe or the Blob?” Matt asked.

  “Let’s just see what the Bambino does,” Leif replied.

  The virtual Babe Ruth stepped out of the batter’s box, taking the bat off
his shoulder. Then he simply pointed off into the bleachers, beyond the outfield.

  Leif laughed out loud. “That’s a famous gesture. The Babe is showing where he intends to send the next pitch.”

  At that moment, though, four figures rose from their seats in the top row of the center-field bleachers. It was as if they’d been waiting for Ruth’s signal.

  Matt wondered how he hadn’t noticed them before. The quartet was dressed in costumes at least as old-fashioned as the uniforms on the holographic players. In fact, they looked like characters out of an ancient black-and-white gangster flatfilm, the sort of thing that had preceded entertainment holos.

  Three of the weirdos were male figures, dressed in pin-striped suits with broad-brimmed hats. The fourth was a striking-looking blond woman in a long skirt and an old-fashioned sweater, with a little hat perched on her head.

  The tallest man in the little group pointed back at Babe Ruth. “Ah, pipe down, ya big fat slob!”

  Matt frowned as Leif stood up, trying to get a better look at the hecklers. Ty Cobb went racing into the outfield, screaming insults back at the hecklers. Yet his voice was almost inaudible.

  “Something is wrong here,” Matt said. “We shouldn’t have been able to hear that guy.”

  Yet the taunting voice was still echoing throughout the stadium — as if the tall figure in the outfield had somehow taken over the public-address system. But that was impossible — wasn’t it?

  Matt was in for a worse surprise. What the foursome in the bleachers did next was completely impossible. They reached under their seats and pulled out guns — big guns, heavy guns…and weirdly enough, guns as antique as the costumes the quartet was wearing.

  Matt had only seen Thompson submachine guns in holos. They were big, heavy, clumsy things. But the four in the stands handled them as if they were light as feathers. The weapons thundered out as the intruders sprayed the field, cutting down the holographic ballplayers.

  Joe DiMaggio couldn’t outrun a machine-gun bullet. Nor could Willie Mays or Roberto Clemente. Ty Cobb was also cut down. The tallest of the gunners ignored the nearby, easy targets. He set his sights on Babe Ruth himself, sending the Yankee slugger flying back in an ungraceful dance of death.

  Harsh laughter echoed across the field. “Too easy!” the tall gunman hooted. “The target was so big!”

  They’ve got to be holo characters, Matt told himself. The drums on those machine guns can’t hold more than a hundred rounds. And they must have fired at least twice that.

  Holos or not, the quartet of thugs was emptying the stands. A huge V-shape in the bleachers had cleared as real and virtual spectators bolted from their seats to get out of the line of fire. Frightened people clogged the stairs and walkways, clawing at one another as they tried to flee.

  Matt’s lips twisted in a scornful smile as he watched the stampeding crowd. “Some idiot is going to get his or her neck broken, running away from that little laser show,” he began.

  Then Matt noticed the still forms slumped in their seats all through the triangle of death.

  He turned in sudden concern. “Leif—” he began.

  His friend had actually climbed up on his seat to get a better view of the chaos in the stands. He was still up there, a perfect target, as a hologram bullet passed through his chest.

  Leif tumbled off the bleacher seat, his eyes wide, his mouth distorted in a silent scream. He landed soundlessly on the floor — not very realistic, Matt found himself thinking. But with all the mayhem going on, the stadium’s veeyar simulation system was probably getting overloaded.

  Matt pushed those thoughts away as he dropped to one knee, yelling, “Anybody here in virtual, pull the plug! Get out of here!”

  The holographic images of several of his friends, and many of the strangers within earshot, quickly winked out. Matt barely noticed. All his attention was on his downed friend Leif. There was no sign of a bullet wound, Matt noted with a sigh of relief. But Leif definitely wasn’t in very good shape.

  His face seemed waxy, white as chalk. Leif’s eyes were wide and staring, but they didn’t show any signs of consciousness. The pupils had shrunk to pinpoint size.

  Matt recognized the symptoms. Shock. It was a common response to physical or mental trauma. It was also a nerve problem when something went wrong with computer implants.

  Basic training in the Net Force Explorers meant a full course in first aid. But there was nothing Matt could do to help his friend. Leif wasn’t here, he was two hundred miles away. Matt couldn’t even get a pulse through the failing veeyar link.

  He dug into his back pocket, hauling out his wallet. Flipping aside his IDs and Universal Credit Card, he came to the foilpack keypad that came with every wallet. Matt activated the power and hit the “phone” option. The flexible circuitry inside the tough polymer material switched to the precoded cellular phone format.

  Matt muttered a brief prayer as he held the wallet to his ear. There was the connection tone! He’d been afraid that with the stadium systems all fouled up, he wouldn’t be able to get a line at all.

  First things first. Matt punched in the area code for the East Side of Manhattan, then Leif’s home phone number. “Come on!” he muttered as electronic noises bleeped in his ear. Then the connection was made — but no one was home.

  “Your call cannot be answered at this time,” a pleasant-sounding female voice purred in Matt’s ear. It was the Andersons’ computer system, offering him a choice of voice-mail options.

  Matt cut the connection, waited for the tone, and began dialing again. This time the number was shorter — the New York municipal area code plus 911.

  “Emergency services,” a computerized voice came on.

  “Medical emergency,” Matt said, trying to keep his words clear. He gave Matt’s address and apartment number. “Victim is alone and in shock — possible damage to subdural computer implant and neural injuries.”

  Matt choked. Just a few minutes ago, he’d been joking with Leif about blowing brain cells on useless information. If whatever happened here had caused serious damage, Leif might actually have lost brain cells.

  Leif hadn’t moved or spoken. His holographic image became fuzzy, then faded away. Matt stared in worry.

  A real voice replaced the computer interface, asking for more information. Matt tried to answer the questions, and added a fact that might hurry any rescue. “Leif is a member of the Net Force Explorers, and so am I.” Matt then rattled off his Net Force Explorers ID number, and the number for his wallet-phone.

  At least that will get some help for Leif, he thought, cutting the connection to New York. Then Matt punched in the local emergency code. There were probably hundreds of people calling in this weird virtual attack to the Baltimore police. But one more won’t hurt, Matt thought. Maybe this will be the call that convinces the local cops that this isn’t just some sort of huge prank.

  Matt found himself again making a report to a computerized voice-mail system. Sure, he thought, Emergency Services must be getting flooded with calls. He kept his story short and to the point, mentioned the Net Force Explorers, and cut the connection.

  What had he missed while he’d been trying to get help?

  The Gruesome Foursome still stood at the top of the bleachers, hosing the field and the seats with their tommy guns. Matt got a queasy feeling as a make-believe bullet passed through his arm, but it seemed that the virtual attack could only harm virtual spectators tied into the stadium’s simulation system.

  Armored figures suddenly appeared in the emptied bleachers.

  Police spotters, Matt figured, popping up in holographic form to get a look at what was going on.

  Hadn’t they been warned about the holographic bullets? Maybe they thought their virtual armor could handle it…but they were wrong.

  Several police observers went down. Then they all shimmered and disappeared.

  Matt could hear sirens converging on the stadium, and police copters appeared overhead.


  The tall gangster’s laughter resounded across the nearly empty ball field. He aimed his virtual tommy gun into the sky, but the holographic bullets didn’t harm real live police equipment.

  “All right, people,” the pin-striped gunman’s voice blared through the PA system. “Show’s over.”

  His laughter, and the ratcheting roar of the machine guns, cut off as if a knife had sliced through the air.

  Most of the people around Matt crouched or lay behind the flimsy safety of the bleachers. But Matt Hunter stood, glaring at the oddly dressed foursome who had caused so much devastation in a few short minutes.

  Then the intruders were gone, without so much as a flash or shadow to mark their going.

  Whoever they are, Matt thought, they have an excellent system behind them. Talk about your clean getaways….

  Chapter 2

  As a strong contingent of Baltimore police entered the stadium, Matt’s wallet-phone rang. Even though the connection was staticky, Matt recognized the voice on the other end. It was Captain James Winters, the Explorers’ liaison to Net Force. That wasn’t a public-relations job. Winters had been an active field officer when he came up with the idea of the Net Force Explorers — and in the captain’s mind, they were his troops, just as much as the Marines he’d commanded in the last Balkan blowup.

  “The local police contacted us as soon as they realized the Net was involved,” he said. “And I hopped in a chopper as soon as I heard some of my people were involved.”

  Matt grinned into the receiver. That was the captain all over — the Net Force Explorers were “his people.”

  “I want you and the others to hold yourselves in readiness to cooperate with the Baltimore police,” Winters said. “They’ll be glad to have an account of this incident from some trained observers.”

  That was the captain all over, too, Matt thought. He expected the best effort from his people.