Point of Impact nf-5

by Tom Clancy

  Of course, all this would tap into his money pretty good, forty grand for the house, probably fifty or sixty more for five bodyguards, just to get started. But it had to be done. He’d been lax before, but not anymore. All this had been a wake-up call, and he didn’t want to be caught by surprise. It had been a big game, really, but when customers started getting cooked by feds, the seriousness factor went way up. He hadn’t really believed he’d ever be caught, not really, and the idea of spending years in a federal prison somewhere fending off some big horny con named Bubba did not appeal at all. So it would cost, big deal. Money was the easiest part. If he put the word out, he could move fifty or sixty hits of the Hammer a week, easy. Couple, three months of doing that every week or two, he’d make expenses and a whole lot more. Clear, say, half a million in the next few months, then take a break?

  Cross that bridge when he got to it. It had been a close call, that business with the Zee-ster. He would not get that involved with the customers again. He was smarter than most people, he knew that, and he knew he could see things better, but when you were moving in a hurry, you had to watch your step. All kinds of things out there that could trip you up.

  The “office” com number went off. He frowned at it. Saw there was no caller ID sig lit. He knew who it had to be.

  “Polymers, Drayne.”

  “Robert. This is your father.”

  Jesus. Didn’t the old man think he could recognize his fucking voice after all these years? “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”.

  “I’m leaving your aunt’s to go back to Arizona tomorrow. I thought we might get together for breakfast before I go.”

  Drayne felt a cold finger along his spine. His father wanted to see him? That was very strange. “Sure. I know a couple of places near Edwina’s that are pretty good.”

  “Give me the name, and I’ll get directions from Edwina.”

  “Sure.”

  “We’ll meet at seven A.M.,” his father said. It was not a question.

  “Seven sharp,” Drayne said. Which, when speaking to his father, was redundant. He gave him the name of a good breakfast place just off the Coast Highway.

  Drayne frowned again as he severed the connection. Well. His father was leaving town, and it might be a year or two before they saw each other again. Breakfast was not such a big deal. Except that his old man had not invited him to such an event in what, ten years?

  Maybe he just wants me to help Edwina out, Drayne reasoned. Or maybe he felt the clammy hand of death touch him while he sat in the church and wants to tell me about his will.

  Drayne laughed aloud at that thought. That would be the fucking day.

  Washington, D.C.

  Toni, feeling better after an afternoon mostly spent sleeping, listened to Alex’s day. At least he thought her brain was working well enough to ask her advice about work. Of course, she had been his assistant for a long time, she knew the game.

  “So that’s what we’ve got on our friends at the DEA and NSA,” he finished. “What do you think?”

  She considered what he’d said. “Well, you know the classic motives for crime: passion, thrills, revenge, psychosis, personal gain. On the face of it, Lee wouldn’t have any particular reason to want Zeigler dead for any kind of personal vendetta, unless maybe he really hated his movies. I don’t think he was that bad an actor. From what you’ve said, he doesn’t seem like a thrill-seeker or a psycho. So what’s the personal gain?”

  “I don’t see any right off,” he admitted. “Killing a big movie star doesn’t win you friends or money.”

  She said, “You remember those calls you got offering you work with the pharmaceutical companies?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah.”

  “Well. From what you’ve said, there seems to be a lot of interest in this drug. We’re talking about big money. Maybe somebody convinced Mr. Lee he could cash in big time if he got the dealer and delivered him — or his formula — to the right party. He wouldn’t want Net Force getting to the guy first, so he wouldn’t want John to know the dealer’s name, right?”

  He stared at her. “Wow.”

  “Don’t you dare sound so surprised, Alex Michaels,” she said. “My mind does still work from time to time, when my hormones aren’t blowing my head apart.”

  “You said that, not me.” He grinned.

  She pretended to glare but couldn’t hold onto it. She smiled in return.

  “Anyway, it’s a good theory. Maybe Jay can make a connection, some record of contact or something.”

  “These guys would be pretty good at covering their tracks,” she said, “if they’ve had years to practice it like Jay thinks.”

  “Still, it’s a place to look. Even though it is all moot if we can’t run the dealer down.”

  “You’ll find him,” she said. “I have great faith in you.”

  “You’d be the only one.”

  “How many do you need?”

  He smiled again. “Why, ma’am, I do believe one will be just exactly enough.”

  29

  Quantico, Virginia

  Howard was tired of running scenarios, more tired of sitting around. He was itchy to do something, and he was considering running some real-world field exercises just to clear the cobwebs from his brain. Get the troops sharpened up; even though there was nothing to get sharp about now, there would be, eventually. He hoped.

  “Love to see a man hard at work.”

  Howard looked up and saw Julio standing in the doorway of his office. “Lieutenant Fernandez. What brings you here?”

  “I believe that would be my size-eleven combat boots, sir.”

  “And is there a purpose for this visit?”

  “Why, good news, General Howard, sir.”

  “Come on in, then. I can use some news. Any news, good or bad, would be a change.”

  “I think you’re gonna like this.”

  Howard looked at the flat-black hard case Julio held. It was about three feet long, half that wide. “You have my attention, Lieutenant.”

  “Sir. You might recall the Thousand-Meter Special Teams Match for United States Military Services held at Camp Perry every November?”

  “Oh, I recall it, all right. That would be the match where Net Force’s sharpshooters always come in last place… behind the Marines, the Army, and even the Navy?”

  “Only because you won’t order Gunny to enter. He’d beat ’em. And we did beat the Navy that one year,” Julio allowed.

  “Because their shooter lost his hearing protection in a freak accident and blew out an eardrum is why.”

  “Still beat’em. Take it any way you can.”

  Howard nodded at the case. “This a secret weapon?”

  “Well, a weapon, yes, but not so secret. Just new. Take a look.”

  Julio set the case down on the old map table across from Howard’s desk, popped the latches on the case, and clamshelled it open.

  Howard walked over and looked at the components inside the case.

  “Why, it is a gun. It appears to be a bolt-action five-oh BMG rifle,” Howard said.

  “Yes, sir, but not just any five-oh. This is a prototype, one of only two built, of the upcoming EMD Arms Model XM-109A Wind Runner, designed by Bill Ritchie himself. Third generation.”

  Julio reached into the case and pulled out the stock and receiver assembly. “This here receiver is made of 17-4 PH stainless and, with improved heat-treating, now Rock-wells out at forty-five-plus. Sixteen pounds, wire-cut, tolerances you wouldn’t believe, and with the fully adjustable stock here retracted, a mere twenty inches long. Stock is equipped with a carbon-fiber polysorb monopod recoil pad and nice cheek piece incorporating no-tear biogel.”

  “You have to go looking for your shoulder after you fire it?”

  “No, sir, it kicks about as hard as a stout twelve-gauge. Of course, it will shove you back about a foot if you shoot it prone, and you will want to be lying down behind it and not firing offhand.”

  “I bet.”


  “Speaking from experience, sir. You’ll notice the M-14 bipod and mounted scope, the latter of which is a U.S. Optics adjustable, 3.8X-22X, very nice optical gear, sighted in for a thousand meters. And here is a nifty little red dot switch, automatically adjusted for parallax, that gives you short-range capabilities. Short range in this case being three to four hundred meters. Put the dot on the target, that’s where the bullet goes, plus or minus a few inches.

  “Might as well throw it as shoot that close, though.

  “The new model Son of Wind Runner here uses a five-round magazine like the older models, and has a Remington-style adjustable trigger, set to three pounds. Uses your standard MK211 caliber.50 multipurpose cartridge as the primary tactical round, though match-grade handloads are the ticket at Camp Perry, of course.” Julio held up a box of ammo. “Like these.”

  He opened the bipod and set the receiver and stock up on the table. He reached back into the case and came out with the barrel.

  “Your barrel here is a twenty-eight-inch fluted match-grade graphite from K&P Gun, with an eighty-port screw-on muzzle brake, the holes set at thirty degrees. You secure the barrel to the receiver like so, using an Uzi-style nut and a self-locking ratchet, right here.”

  Julio put the barrel into the receiver and tightened it. It didn’t take long.

  “Total weight, thirty-four pounds. Insert a loaded magazine, and there she is, ready to rock’n’ roll.”

  “Very nice,” Howard allowed.

  “The original XM 107 was designed for use by the Army, particularly the Joint Special Operations Forces, and the Explosive Ordnance Disposal teams. And, theoretically, the Infantry, though the groundpounders didn’t get too many copies. SOF uses ‘em against soft or semi-hard targets out to seventeen hundred meters, and EOD uses’em to blow up unexploded ordnance from a long way outside proximity fuse range.”

  “Like I said, a nice toy. How much?”

  “These things are like hen’s teeth, sir. The waiting list is a mile long, and how can you put a price on this kind of quality?” He stroked the barrel with one hand. “There are only two of them exactly like this in all the world.”

  “Let’s try, shall we? How much?”

  “Well, with our discount, a hair over five thousand dollars each.”

  “That actually sounds pretty reasonable.” Then, knowing Julio for all the years he’d known him, he said, “A ‘hair over’ you said. How thick a hair we talking about?”

  “Call it three thousand and change,” Julio said. He grinned.

  “What? For eight thousand dollars, this beast had better dance and whistle ‘Dixie,’ Lieutenant!”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know about that, sir. But EDM Arms guarantees one-minute-of-angle accuracy at a thousand meters right out of the box.”

  Howard raised his eyebrows at that. “One MOA? Guaranteed?”

  “Just as you see it. I thought that would get your attention. But that’s only to keep the lawyers happy. EDM Arms has got verified five-round groups at a thousand meters of one-half MOA. They say they got a couple groups that good at seventeen hundred meters, even a little longer.”

  Howard looked at the weapon again. “Good Lord. That’s a tack-driver.”

  “Yes, sir. And Bowens, our newly recruited ex-Army shooter, has been doing just that with this very piece, starting yesterday. Talking about a pie-plate-sized group from a mile away. He didn’t want to let me take it long enough to show it to you.”

  Howard grinned.

  “So, come next month, Net Force’s little piece of the National Guard is going to shoot the living asses off the Navy, the Marines, and the Army.”

  “If one of them doesn’t get his hands on the other one,” Howard said.

  Julio grinned real big.

  Howard stared at him. “You didn’t.”

  “Well, sir, yes, sir, I did. If something broke on this here weapon — highly unlikely, I know, given the fine, fine quality, but if something did break — we’d want proper backup, wouldn’t we?”

  Howard shook his head. “I’ll have to beat the budget to cover this.”

  “Not the way I figure it. We do it right, we can make our costs on side bets. I can get three to one against us, easy. I wouldn’t be surprised to even make a small profit.”

  They both grinned at that.

  “Anyway, I thought you might like to take it to the outdoor range and put a few through it. That is, if you aren’t too busy here.” He looked around.

  “You missed your calling, Lieutenant. You should have been a comedian.”

  “Yes, sir, I believe I could have sparkled in such a profession.”

  Howard looked at the weapon. Why not? He didn’t have anything better to do.

  “You coming along?”

  “No, sir, I have diaper duty, starting in—” he looked at his watch “—forty-six minutes. Best I not be late.”

  Howard chuckled. “No, I understand. It has been a while since I had such duty myself, but one cannot stress the importance of it enough.”

  “If one’s wife is Lieutenant Joanna Winthrop Fernandez, one can sure as hell stress it high, wide, and repeatedly,” Julio said. “You want me to show you how to break it down? Where the cartridges go?”

  “I believe I can manage on my own, thank you.”

  “Have fun.”

  “Oh, you, too.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Howard looked at the rifle after Julio was gone. Well, why not? He was the commander of Net Force’s military, he ought to know how the hardware worked, right? It was training. He could justify that,

  Besides, blowing holes in a target three-quarters of a mile away sure beat sitting here doing zip.

  The Texas Panhandle, North of Amarillo

  Jay Gridley walked along the trail, cutting sign. This was an exercise Saji had taught him when he’d been recovering from his electronically induced stroke, how to track somebody. A bent twig here, a blade of grass lying there, the signs were there if you knew how to look.

  In the real world, he was backtracking e-sig, net and phone and globeSat connections, but here, he was after a bad man on foot, Hans, a notorious drug seller.

  It was hot, and Jay paused to take a swig of tepid water from his canteen, the fabric of which was wet to allow some small cooling from evaporation. He thought that was a nice touch, even though he wasn’t sharing the scenario with anybody. Those little things counted. Anybody could plug off-the-shelf view- or feelware into their computer and walk through VR; a pro had higher standards.

  He took off his broad-brimmed planter’s hat, wiped his sweaty forehead with a red bandanna, replaced the hat, and stuck the handkerchief back into his pocket.

  There, just ahead, he saw something. Or rather, he didn’t see something. He bent and looked at the hot ground from only a few inches above it. There weren’t any real tracks, but the dry ground was too smooth. Carpet-walker, turned and headed that way.

  Jay kept walking. Ahead and in a little declivity was a stand of cottonwood trees and what looked like willow. Water, a pond, or an underground stream come up to the surface, he figured. He could almost smell the moisture.

  Sure enough, there was a small stream, maybe as wide as Jay was tall, clear water bubbling over a rocky bottom. The stream wound away, and Jay stepped into the water and started to follow it. A man looking to hide his tracks would use such cover, probably staying with it until he found a rocky enough spot to exit where he wouldn’t leave footprints.

  Jay enjoyed the feel of the water around his ankles as he moved slowly along. Half a mile ahead, he paused. There, to the right, were six or eight big rocks leading to a patch of gravel. That’s where he’d leave the water, if he wanted to get back on his previous heading.

  It took him more than a hundred yards before he spotted something. Another flat patch of dirt, too smooth. There were no wind riffle marks, no raindrop patterns, none of the natural weathering signs that ought to be there. Jay grinned. Bad man Hans had been here; he w
as sure of it.

  In the distance, Jay saw a small village. That it had a Germanic look to it didn’t really fit the Texas panhandle, but it was okay to mix scenario now and then. It kept you from getting into a rut.

  He’d bet diamonds against dog doo that Hans was in that village, smug in his belief that nobody could track him there.

  Why didn’t these fools ever learn they couldn’t screw with Lonesome Jay Gridley? Must be some kind of genetic defect that ran in bad guys.

  He picked up his pace a little. He didn’t need to worry about the signs now, he knew where Hans was. All he had to do was go and identify him. Once he was sure of that, the game would be over.

  30

  Washington, D.C.

  Toni felt terrific. She and Alex had a great night together, and when she awakened this morning, she’d been rested and much refreshed. Being able to help him with the case he was working on, that had been something, too. For a few moments there, she hadn’t felt totally useless. She hadn’t lost all her chops. Maybe that was a good sign.

  After Alex left for work, she felt creative. She decided to go and work on her scrimshaw for a while.

  At the bench, she turned on the gooseneck lamp, gathered her tools, and was about to get started when she saw the purple capsule lying there where she’d put it and forgotten all about it.

  She reached for the cap, looked at it, and decided what the hell, as long as she had it in hand…

  She put the cap on the table in her work field and adjusted the lamp to shine on it. Focused the stereoscope on it…

  Ah. Here was a major discovery. It was a purple gelatin capsule with some kind of pale powder inside it. Oh, boy. Way to go, Sherlock.

  Maybe something inside was more interesting. If she opened it very carefully…

  “Shit!” she said, as the powder, which was a kind of bubble gum pink, spilled all over the table. She dropped the halves of the cap and grabbed a little paint brush she used for dusting the ivory. She swept the pink powder into a little pile, then onto a sheet of paper. There it was.