Point of Impact nf-5

by Tom Clancy

  Drayne often wondered, if his old man found out what he was doing, would he turn him in? Some days he was sure that former Special Agent in Charge Rickover Drayne, RD to his friends, most of whom were feds, would do it, no question. Other days, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe the old bastard had a soft spot for his only son. Not that Drayne had ever been able to see it.

  As far as the old man knew, Bobby worked for a small chemical company that produced plastic polymer for use in industrial waste containers, earning a decent salary, just a hair more than his father had made in his last year before retirement. This was done so the old man would think all that tuition money for the chemistry degree hadn’t been wasted. He might have his differences with his son, but at least he could say the boy had a legitimate job making decent money.

  Of course, that was as much for Drayne’s protection as for making his father proud. He had gone to some lengths to create the PolyChem Products company, duly incorporated in Delaware, to set up a modest history in a few selected computer banks, and to make sure he was listed as an employee. Just in case his father checked it out. He wouldn’t put it past the old man to do that. Paid taxes on the paper job salary he showed, too, and FICA and all that shit. IRS didn’t care what you did as long as you paid taxes. He could have declared his income from dope sales and paid the feds their cut, and the IRS would never say anything to the DEA about it. People had done it before.

  The government, in whatever form it manifested, was plainly stupid. He could dick around with them all he wanted, and they’d never catch him.

  Drayne wandered into the bathroom and cranked up the shower. It was a big sucker, room enough for four or five people, all pale green tile and glass bricks, with a dozen shower heads set all over: high, low, in-between. With the jets turned on full blast, it was like being stabbed by wet needles. Used a shitload of water — he had a pair of eighty-gallon water heaters in the garage — but when you came out of it, you felt clean and rejuvenated, that was for sure.

  He stepped into the shower and gasped at the force of the spray.

  Tad would be out for probably eighteen or twenty hours, maybe longer. He’d still be on the couch when Drayne got back. Maybe even still breathing. And he’d spend most of the next week or so on the couch, lying on the floor, or, if he made it that far, a bed. Recovering from the Hammer was a chore. It got harder each time.

  Drayne stopped thinking and let the hot water take him.

  The Bronx, New York

  Toni sat in the chair next to Guru’s bed, watching the old woman sleep. Mrs. DeBeers had been lucky, the doctor told her. The stroke was mild, and she was in otherwise remarkable health for an eighty-three-year-old woman. There was only a slight effect on her grip and speech, no real paralysis, and they expected she’d make a full recovery. There were still tests they had to run and medications they had to administer and monitor for a couple of days, but pretty much they thought she was out of the woods.

  The doctors only told her that because Guru had listed her as next of kin, even though that wasn’t true.

  Toni was more than a little relieved. Guru DeBeers had been a part of her life since Toni had seen her, at sixty-five, clean the clocks of four neighborhood toughs who tried to give her a hard time. Toni had been amazed at the sight and had known immediately she wanted to learn how to protect herself against physical attacks that way. Men tended to take women for granted physically, and even at thirteen Toni had known she did not want to be at the mercy of some man who decided he wanted something from her she didn’t want to give. The training in pentjak silat, starting with the simple bukti negara style and progressing to the more complex serak, had been a part of Toni’s world ever since. She still went over to see her teacher whenever she went home to visit her parents, and the trip across the street had never gotten dull.

  Old as Guru was, it was impossible to imagine her gone.

  “Ah, how is my tunangannya today?”

  Toni smiled. Best girl. There was the smallest slur to Guru’s voice, hardly noticeable. “I’m fine, Guru. How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve felt worse. Better, too. It would be nice to have some coffee.”

  “The doctors won’t let you do that, not after a stroke.”

  “I have outlived three sets of doctors so far. I will outlive this set if they wait for coffee to kill me. And if does kill me, at least I die happy.”

  Toni smiled again, and reached into her purse. She brought out a small stainless steel thermos.

  The old woman’s smile was radiant, if a trifle saggy on the left side of her face. “Ah. You are a dutiful student.”

  “It’s not fresh,” Toni said. “I didn’t have time to go by your place and grind your grand-nephew’s beans and make it. I got it at Starbucks more than an hour ago. I’m sorry.”

  Guru shrugged. “It will do. Raise the bed.”

  Toni operated the controls, and the motor hummed and raised Guru into a more-or-less sitting position. Toni poured the coffee into the thermos’s cup and passed it over.

  Guru inhaled deeply through her nose. “Espresso?”

  “Of course. The darkest they had.”

  “Well, stale or not, it is welcome. Thank you, my best girl.” Guru brought the cup to her lips and took a small sip. “Not bad, not bad,” she pronounced. “Another hundred years or so, and Americans might learn how to make a decent brew. And certainly it is better than nothing.” She took another sip, then smiled again. “And how is our baby doing?”

  “Fine, as far as I can tell. Mostly he elbows me in the bladder or rolls around and tries to boot my stomach inside out.”

  “Yes, they do that. And he is tiny yet. Wait until you are eight or nine months along, and he kicks you so hard your pants fall down.” She chuckled.

  “There’s a pleasant thought.”

  “You are worried because you cannot train,” Guru said.

  Toni shook her head. How could she know exactly what was going through her mind?

  “I had four children,” Guru said. “All after I began my training. Each time, I had to alter my practice.”

  “So I’m discovering.”

  “You can do djuru-djuru sitting down,” she said. “Your langkas will need to be sharpened, but there is no reason to stop upper body movements.”

  Toni nodded. The Indonesian martial art forms Guru taught were divided into two parts, upper body, or djurus, and lower body, or langkas. You usually lumped them together and called the whole thing a djuru, though that was not technically correct.

  “I have some things in my house for you to take home with you when you go. I have packed them into a big box by the front door.”

  Before Toni could protest, Guru continued, “No, it is not my time yet, and I am not giving you your legacy before I go. These are merely things I think you will enjoy and that I no longer have a need for.”

  “Thank you, Guru.”

  “I am proud of you as a student and as a woman, best girl. I expect I will live long enough to cuddle your child.”

  Toni smiled. She certainly hoped so.

  11

  Quantico, Virginia

  The woman was young, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three, and dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt, and running shoes, nothing that unusual about her appearance. She was nobody you’d cross the street to get a better look at, but nobody you’d cross the street the other way to avoid because she was hideous, either. Average-looking.

  The woman approached an automated bank teller, put in her card, and stood back. Apparently there was some malfunction. The woman smiled, then, without preamble, drove her fist through the teller’s vid screen. Shattered glass flew every which way, and even before it finished falling, the woman was grabbing at a garbage basket on the sidewalk. She picked up the basket and began hammering at the teller, smiling all the while.

  * * *

  Alex Michaels leaned back in the chair and said, “There’s something you don’t see every day.”

  Jay Gridley said, “
Actually, it happens quite a lot, according to Bureau agents I’ve talked to. Although the level of violence is usually much less. People tend to spit at the screen or camera, slam it with the edge of their fist once or twice, even kick at it. Sometimes they scratch the glass with their car keys. Nobody’s ever seen one quite this… ah… active before.”

  “What happened after she trashed the videocam recording it?”

  Jay said, “According to witnesses, the destruction continued until she really got pissed off, whereupon she somehow managed to rip the machine free of its mountings, scattering several thousand dollars in twenty-dollar bills all over the sidewalk. A small riot ensued as concerned citizens sought to… ah… recover the money for the bank.”

  The boss laughed. “I bet. How much of it was turned in?”

  “About fifteen percent.”

  “Well, at least there are still a few honest citizens left. So we have another drug berserker who destroyed a bank machine. Why is this more special than the others?”

  “The woman is Mary Jane Kent.”

  “Related to the arms and chemical companies Kents?”

  “Yes, sir. She’s the secretary of defense’s daughter.”

  “Oh, my.”

  “Slumming in those clothes,” Jay said. “Way I hear it, she could paste her diamonds all over herself and show less skin than in jeans and a T-shirt. With enough left over to make a cape.”

  “The family has a bit of money.”

  Jay nodded. There was an understatement. The Kent family had become modestly rich during the Spanish Civil War in the ’30s, running guns into Spain via Portugal. They made out like bandits in World War II, and had done quite well in assorted revolutions and border wars, since. The men in the family generally took turns managing the family fortune and tended to became ambassadors, cabinet officers, or U.S. senators; the women did charity work, ran foundations, and tended to marry badly. Every now and then, a couple of the scions would switch roles, and the girl would manage the company while the boy ran a foundation.

  Certainly, the rich had their problems, too, but Jay couldn’t feel too sorry for somebody with half a gazillion dollars tucked away waiting for them to come of age. It was one thing to start poor and earn your way to luxury, another thing to be born with a platinum spoon in your mouth.

  He said, “She beat the crap out of four of LAPD’s finest before she ran out of steam. A passing doctor happened along during the struggle and sedated her. Hit her with a hypo full of enough Thorazine to knock out a large horse, according to the reports, and it slowed her down, but not completely. She isn’t talking about what drug she took or where she got it, but she was apparently on a shopping trip, and she used her credit card until it maxed out. That was why the bank machine wouldn’t give her any cash.”

  “Ah,” the boss said. He thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “Just how much does a billionaire’s daughter have to spend to max out a credit card?”

  “Take a look.”

  He handed Michaels a ROM tag, and the boss thumbed the pressure spot and looked at the number that appeared on the tag.

  “Good Lord!”

  “Amen. Enough to buy a yacht and an island to sail it to,” Jay said. “I got most of the credit card company’s tags. If we can backtrack her and find out how and where she spent her money, the DEA guy you sicced on me says they are willing to put more bodies on the street to check everything out. It’s not much, but it’s what we have.”

  Michaels nodded. He looked at the tag again.

  “Never fear, boss, Smokin’ Jay Gridley is on the case.” He gave Michaels a two-finger Cub Scout salute and headed for his office.

  Michael’s com chirped, and the caller-ID signal told him Toni was trying to reach him. He grabbed the headset. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “How’s Guru doing?”

  “Doing okay,” Toni said. “Doctor says she’s gonna be all right.”

  “Good. I know you’re relieved to hear that.”

  “Yes, I am. Anyway, I’ll be catching a shuttle back this afternoon. I should be home when you get there.”

  “Great. You want me to stop and pick up something for supper?”

  “Nah, we can just call the Chinese place when you get home, if that’s okay.”

  “If you promise not to get the octopus/squid special again,” he said.

  She laughed. “I get cravings, what can I say? It’s part of the pregnancy.”

  “Me eating in the other room is going to be part of the pregnancy, too, you keep slurping that slimy stuff down.”

  She laughed again. “How’s work?”

  “The usual. Got a lead on that drug thing we talked about. It’s not much, but Jay is running with it. Other than that, it’s pretty quiet around here. A yawn in the park. Be nice if things picked up a little.”

  “Careful what you wish for. I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too. Fly safe.”

  “I will. See you tonight.”

  She hung up, and he blew out a relieved sigh. With all the pregnancy stuff, having her silat teacher kick off would have been another brick on Toni’s load, and she didn’t need any more weight right now.

  A nice, quiet evening at home with Chinese take-out would be fine by him.

  “Sir. You have a call from Richard Sharone on line five.”

  Michaels shook off his daydream of supper and Toni. “Who is Richard Sharone, and why should I talk to him?”

  “He’s the president and CEO of Merit-Wells Pharmaceuticals.”

  Michaels blinked. Why would the head honcho at one of the world’s largest drug companies be calling him?

  Oh.

  Michaels stared at the com’s headset. He might not be the sharpest needle in the package, but he wasn’t completely dull. What did Net Force have to do with drugs? Nothing, until the DEA asked for their help with this esoteric dope they were trying to find. First it was NSA, now the overlord of a drug company. Man. Somebody wanted this stuff bad.

  Probably get a call from the Food and Drug Administration next.

  “This is Commander Alex Michaels. How can I help you, Mr. Sharone?”

  But he was pretty sure he already knew.

  Net Force Shooting Range, Quantico, Virginia

  John Howard stood on the line at the firing range, ready to start. He said, “Eight meters, single. Go.”

  A three-hundred pound crazed biker blinked into existence eight meters down the alley. The biker held a tire iron, and he lifted it and charged right at Howard, no hesitation.

  Fast for a fat man, he was, too.

  Howard slipped his right hand under his Net Force windbreaker, cleared the jacket, caught the smooth wooden grips of his side arm, and pulled the weapon from the custom-made Fist paddle holster. He brought the Phillips & Rodgers Model 47 Medusa up and shoved it one-handed toward the biker as if punching him.

  The biker was less than four meters away now, three, two…

  Howard pulled the trigger, once, twice…

  The gun roared and bucked hard.

  Two rounds hit the biker five feet away. The running man collapsed and slid to a stop inches from Howard’s spit-shined, patent-leather-bright shoes.

  Cut that a little close, John.

  The biker disappeared, like turning off a lamp.

  Which, in essence, was what happened. The hologram was, after all, just a particularly coherent brand of light. But the computer cams that watched it all calculated the flight path of Howard’s two.357 slugs as they zipped down range, and having decided they would have struck vital areas on a real human target, gave him the ersatz victory.

  Score one for the good guys.

  Howard reholstered the handgun and looked at the score screen. He saw the image of the biker there and noted the pulsing red spots where the bullets hit. The one marked with #1 was in the heart, the #2 round was slightly higher and to the right. With the best.357 Magnum or.40 rounds, one-shot knockdowns hovered right about 94 to 96 perce
nt with a solid body hit, as good as a handgun got — and it didn’t even have to be to a fatal area. The first shot would have done the trick, and probably a real attacker would be dead or well on the way there by now. Dead wasn’t the thing, though, it was the stopping power that was important. You could shoot somebody in the leg with a.22 and it might nick a big blood vessel and eventually kill him. Thing was, eventually wouldn’t do you much good if the guy kept coming, beat you to a pulp with his tire iron or crowbar, then went home and died in a few days, a few hours, even a few minutes. No good at all. When you shot somebody, you wanted them to fall down right now; anything less was bad. They lived or died, that was something to worry about later. You didn’t have time to ponder on it in the moment.

  Handguns were lousy weapons for instant stops, relatively speaking. A shotgun was better, and a good rifle better still. He smiled as he remembered the old story about a civilian who carried a handgun. A friend asked him, “Why do you have a pistol? Are you expecting trouble?” And the guy answered, “Trouble? No. If I was expecting trouble, I’d be carrying a rifle.”

  Then again, it was kind of hard to slip a scoped.308 sniper rifle under your Gore-Tex windbreaker. And the first rule of a gunfight was…

  Come on, John. You gonna shoot or stand here day-dreaming?

  “Reset,” he said.

  The screen went blank.

  “Ten meters, double. Thirty-second delay. Go.”

  This time, the scenario computer gave him two attackers. One looked like a pro wrestler holding a long knife, the other an NFL lineman with a baseball bat. They charged.

  Howard drew, gave the wrestler two, shifted his hand, and gave the lineman two. The last of the four cartridges in the revolver left the barrel at about the same time the lineman got within bat range.

  Both attackers fell.

  Howard thumbed the cylinder latch open with his right, pointed the gun at the ceiling, and used his left hand to slap the extractor rod hard enough to punch the empties out of the chambers. The hulls fell to the range floor. He pulled a speed loader with six more cartridges from his left windbreaker pocket. Reloading the P&R was trickier than doing it with his old S&W. There were spring-loaded clips in each chamber of the black-Teflon-coated P&R, to allow for using various calibers — the thing would shoot.380s, 38s, 38 Specials, and 9 mms, as well as.357 Magnums — and you had to keep the extractor partway out to make the speed loader work, and even so, it was slower than the Smith was.