Breaking Point

by Tom Clancy

  Irritated, Howard moved toward them. This was his business to take care of, he didn’t need the goddamned women getting in the goddamned way—!

  A car came across the field, lights on and horn honking, a big, powder-blue Cadillac. It plowed into a group of five men who stood there giving the driver the finger. The men flew like dolls in all directions as the driver gunned the engine.

  Not real smart to shoot the bird at a man coming at you in a car at speed.

  “Eat shit and die!” the driver screamed. Then he started to laugh.

  Four or five other people attacked the Caddy, slamming their fists and feet at it. The driver spun a donut in the grass, still cackling madly.

  Something wrong here, Howard thought. He shook his head, then looked at the man he had just decked. What was he doing?

  He looked down the hill and saw a dozen people fighting. One of them was a policeman. The cop pulled his gun, and a quick succession of shots—pop-pop-pop-pop-pop! —echoed up the hill. Gunshot victims fell, and added more screams to the din.

  Dazed, Howard looked up the hill. There were people there, too, but they weren’t fighting; they were watching, staring in surprise.

  Howard’s thoughts were fogged with rage, but something was trying to make its way through the anger: This was a bad place. Down the hill it was worse, but up the hill, it was better. Therefore ...

  “Come on!” he yelled to his family. “We have to get up the hill!”

  “Fuck off!” Tyrone yelled back.

  Little Nadine released her hold on the judge, who was screaming in pain. She stared at Howard. “What is going on?” she said, her voice high and frightened.

  “I don’t know. Gas, maybe. We’ve got to get out of here. Help me.”

  His wife kneed the judge in the nuts again. The man gurgled in agony. Howard grabbed her, pulled her off.

  “Leave me alone! He hit my son!”

  Howard jerked her backward. “Tyrone!”

  The boy turned, and the mask of primal rage on his face slipped a little. He raised his eyebrows. “Dad?”

  “Up the hill, son, up the hill. Go, go!”

  Tyrone nodded. Little Nadine grabbed his hand and they started running.

  Howard had to pin Nadine’s arms to her side and he half carried, half dragged her away from the meadow. She kicked and screamed at him for a hundred meters before she stopped. She was a lot stronger than he’d realized.

  Finally, when they were two hundred meters away, Nadine came back. “J-John? What—?”

  “I don’t know, hon. But whatever it is, the farther away we get, the better. Come on.”

  They caught up to the children, and the four of them kept moving. Howard looked back as they ran. The Cadillac was lying on its side, and a mob had the driver out and on the ground, kicking him. He was a dead man. More gunshots echoed from farther below. Horns honked. Cars crashed. People screamed in voices full of incoherent fury. This beautiful park, what the locals like to call God’s country, had gone mad.

  It was the Devil’s land, now.

  Howard reached for his virgil. Who to call? The local cops were down there shooting people. They needed help, and they needed it bad.

  Sunday, June 12th

  Quantico, Virginia

  Toni had come with him this time, and he was glad to have her here. Along with Toni was Jay Gridley. It was seven P.M. on a Sunday, but they wouldn’t be going home tonight.

  “All right, here is what we have so far,” Michaels said. “It’s still kind of sketchy. Late this afternoon, people inside what appears to be a rough circle ten miles across and centered in the Westmoreland area of Portland, Oregon, went nuts. So far, there are sixty-seven confirmed deaths—murders, self-defense, traffic and freak accidents. There have been hundreds of people hurt bad enough to require hospitalization, and thousands more lesser injuries. Whatever caused it seems to have stopped, but the city is in chaos. The numbers of dead and injured keep climbing.”

  “Lord, Lord. How is General Howard?” Jay asked.

  Howard had been the one who’d called it in. He’d gotten hold of the National Guard, then Michaels.

  “He and his family are fine. They were apparently right at the outmost edge of the phenomenon’s effect. A couple hundred meters closer in, and they’d have been in a lot more trouble. What have you got for me?”

  Jay said, “If we assume this is coming from some very powerful broadcast station, then it’s a matter of figuring out which one, and who is running it. I played a hunch and put in a call to HAARP, talked to a guard there. They are supposedly on hiatus, except for some calibration tests.”

  “That’s what Morrison told me,” Michaels said.

  “Well, Morrison is up there right now running one of these tests. And guess what—according to the guard’s logs, he was running other ’calibrations’ on the same days those two villages in China went bonkers.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. Awful coincidental, ain’t it?”

  “Toni? What do you think?”

  “I think maybe you ought pick up this Dr. Morrison for a serious chat.”

  Michaels nodded. “I’ll get a federal warrant and some marshals on the way.”

  “You don’t want to toss this one over the fence to the mainline feebs?” Jay said.

  “Not yet,” Michaels said. “This looks like our mess. We should clean it up on our own if we can.”

  Maybe Morrison wasn’t involved with this, but given the situation in Portland, they couldn’t afford to take the chance. The next incident might happen anywhere—New York, Chicago, even Washington, D.C. While the thought of senators and congressmen beating each other to bloody pulps sounded fine as a joke punch line, the reality of it was different.

  Getting a warrant would be easy enough, and there were probably federal marshals somewhere in Alaska who could serve it. And while he was at it, he would give General Howard a call. After his personal experience, John might like to go along to have a few words with Morrison himself. In his position, Michaels knew he would.

  22

  Sunday, June 12th

  Gakona, Alaska

  Ventura looked at his watch. It had been six hours since the real test had ended, but Morrison felt he had to play out the fiction of conducting his calibrations. In the end, Ventura knew that wouldn’t matter, but Morrison felt the need. It was late, and Ventura, while not tired, was feeling somewhat edgy. There had been no contact from the Chinese, and he didn’t much like sitting in one place for so long, not this far into the game. The trailer had a stale smell to it, and the night had cooled some, because an electric heater kept kicking on and off.

  As the HAARP system did its automatic thing, Morrison himself was lying on the ugly brown fake-leather couch at the end of the room, fast asleep.

  Ventura’s com vibrated soundlessly against his hip. He touched the mouthpiece of the small wireless headset he wore hooked over his left ear. “Yes?”

  “We have company. Two cars, four men. They just passed Rim One.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “Tan Fords, unmarked, new, blackwall tires, what looks like government fleet plates. Three men, one woman, couldn’t get much more than that. Cunningham will get a better view with his digital scope when they go under the rail overpass.”

  “Got it.”

  Ventura felt chill bumps rise on his neck, the gooseflesh warning him of danger. Who would come here in the middle of the night? He looked at his watch again. If they were traveling the speed limit, they’d be reaching the overpass ... right ... about ... now ...

  The phone vibrated.

  “Go.”

  Styles said, “From the front, three men, one woman. Clean-cut, mid-thirties, matching dark windbreakers, blue maybe. Hold on, they are going past ... Angle is bad here, I can’t see their backs. I got a flash of what looked like some kind of logo on the jackets from the side, can’t get it all, last letters look like H-A-L ... That’s it. Plates are like Zach said, U.S. permane
nt fleet.”

  Sounded like feds. H-A-L. Last few letters of “Marshal,”

  as in reflective yellow letters on the back of a windbreaker : U.S. Marshal. Of course, if it was him coming to collect Dr. Morrison, this was the kind of thing he’d do. Disguising your kidnap team as cops or firemen or federal agents was clever. Who stops a fireman on the way to a fire? Or a cop on his way to an accident?

  Unless, of course, they were real feds.

  “Got it. Discom.”

  Ventura called the leader of the two men watching the gate into the compound. “Let them pass, but see if you can get an ear on the guard at the gate if he lets them in.”

  “Copy.”

  Ventura broke the connection, walked to where Morrison lay sleeping. “Wake up, Dr. Morrison.”

  “Huh? What—?”

  “Listen carefully. My people report that there are two cars that look like they belong to the feds on their way here.”

  The phone vibrated yet again.

  “Go.”

  “Our shotgun mike picked up the exchange. Guys in the car say they are U.S. Marshals, come to serve a federal arrest warrant. They asked where they could find Morrison. The guard told them, and let them pass.”

  “Got it. Pull back to Rendezvous A, call the other teams and tell them.”

  “Copy.”

  Ventura made another call. “Mercury falling,” he said.

  “Copy. We’ll be there.”

  “Discom.”

  Ventura looked at Morrison. “These guys convinced the gate guard they were U.S. Marshals. They’ve come to collect you.”

  Morrison shook his head. “No way. They can’t know I had anything to do with this. I covered myself.”

  “Convince me.”

  “Nobody actually took anything from the computer files; it only looks like they did. I got into the HAARP system from a Mac store in San Francisco, using a floor demo model connected to the net. I had a password, but I banged on the door a few times to make it look good before I used it. I damaged a few files on the way in. It was a crowded Saturday morning, nobody noticed me, I didn’t speak to anybody in the shop. Even if somebody could backtrack it through the store’s server, it ends there—I was just another customer browsing the hardware and I used voxax to light the system. No hands, so no prints, no DNA. Nobody could possibly connect it to me.”

  “All right. So if they aren’t real feds, then they must be from the Chinese.” He shook his head. “But that doesn’t scan.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Chinese know I’m with you, and they know who I am, at least partially. But they only sent four people. They must be banking on us buying the trick, and that’s too many eggs in one basket. Unless ... this is a feint. A ploy designed to keep our attention while they try something else. Yes, that makes more sense.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Leave. That little scooter is quiet and in the dark; they won’t see us. A pickup car is waiting at a spot where nobody will notice it.”

  “There are plenty of outside lights until you get well away from the buildings,” Morrison said. “And the pad is also lit up like a Christmas tree. They’ll notice us.”

  “No, they won’t. Come on.”

  As he followed Ventura from the trailer, terror gripped Morrison in its clammy hand. He needed to visit a bathroom, bad, and it was hard for him to breathe without wanting to pant. None of this had been in his plan, none of it. It didn’t feel real. It felt like some kind of demented dream.

  Since there was no way the FBI or Net Force could know who he was, it had to be the bastard Chinese coming for him. And he had no doubt that if they caught him and put him in a cell with somebody who even threatened to pull out his fingernails or crush his testicles, he’d tell them anything they wanted to know.

  And it wouldn’t take long in the telling, either.

  The technique for disrupting the human brain into a temporary psychosis wasn’t something easy to figure out, but once it was grasped, it was easy enough to do. The trick that had eluded researchers for all those years was that while they had all the pieces to the puzzle, they just hadn’t been able to put them together. Or even known they should. The broadcast frequencies had to be varied precisely, they had to run for a very specific duration, and they had to be repeated at exact intervals. It took a computer to run the sequence—it was too involved for a human hand—and if one variable was off even a hair, the technique simply wouldn’t work. The odds of happening on the proper code by accident were astronomically high, even to achieve the partial results Morrison had managed. He didn’t deny to himself that he had been lucky, as well as good. And the truth was, driving people mad had never been his goal—controlling their actions in a more deliberate manner had been, and he had failed in that. It was as if he had gone searching for diamonds but had found opals, instead. Still valuable stones, but not what he had sought, and—Hey! Where was Ventura going?

  “The scooter is over there,” Morrison said. “We’re heading the wrong way!”

  “No, we’re not. We need to do something first.”

  Ventura had his pistol out, and they were moving toward the power building. Morrison had his little gun in the pocket of his jacket, but it offered him little comfort. If they got past Ventura, he didn’t believe he was going to be able to stop them. He could die here. Tonight. Soon.

  The headlights of the approaching cars shined through the trees. They were almost here!

  He voiced the thought: “They’re almost here!”

  But they were at the power building. Ventura said, “You stay put. I’m going to go have a short conversation with the power supply.”

  Ventura vanished inside the building.

  Morrison tried to calm down. He forced himself to take long, slow breaths, but it didn’t help. His heart was racing so hard he could feel it pulse all over his body. Come on, come on, come on—!

  The lights died, and the heavy thrum of the diesel generators began to fade.

  Ventura appeared from nowhere. “They want lights, they are going to have to crank those babies back up. Let’s go.”

  “What about nightscopes? Won’t they have those?”

  “I would, but it won’t matter if they do. I have a little something for any spookeyes that might go on-line.” He patted his pocket. “Come on, time to leave.” He smiled. It was the most joyful expression Morrison had seen Ventura make.

  It was like a glass of cold water in the face. The realization that came with it was: “You’re enjoying this!”

  “Of course. It’s what I do, Doctor. Stay with me.”

  They ran.

  Ventura felt the adrenaline surge in him, and he didn’t try to stop it. Riding the hormonal high was like climbing onto a half-wild stallion. If you could stay there and point him in the right direction, it would be a thrilling trip at breakneck speed. Bend him to your will just enough, and you could fly like the wind. Lose control, and you would surely perish.

  This was the zen of life and death, and the part of him he kept hidden from the world. It was the stretch, the reach, the ultimate test, the perfect way to be totally in the moment. The past was dead, the future not yet born, there was only the now! Fail, and you die. Succeed, and you live.

  Ah, but to make it a real test, you had to level the playing field. Four against one was not fair, not when the one was Ventura. He had the advantage. They had to capture Morrison alive, so they were hobbled. Therefore, he would give them a chance. He could have taken Morrison and fled immediately. Turning out the lights wasn’t necessary—they wouldn’t be looking for two men on a scooter, they would be expecting their quarry to be in a trailer. Even if they were nothing but a probe designed to keep him busy while the real attack was mounted, Ventura was aware of this possibility, too. He was way ahead of them, he knew it, and in no real danger. So he delayed. Killed the power, which gave him darkness, but which also gave them a warning: I know you are here. Let’s play. Come and find me.
<
br />   There was no joy in slaying an unarmed man. The challenge was in bypassing his trained guards to get to him. It was the stalk that mattered most not the shot, the path and not the destination. Once in the proper position, any fool could pull a trigger. Getting to the proper position was the trick. Always.

  “This way,” Morrison said.

  “How can you tell? I can’t fucking see anything!”

  The two cars pulled to a halt, and Ventura heard doors slamming and voices raised.

  “Trust me,” Ventura said. “I know exactly what I am doing.”

  His phone vibrated.

  “What?”

  “Another player approaching. Black man in a new Dodge van, Alaskan plates, looks like a rental car. Just passed me.”

  Ventura frowned. Who was this? Just a coincidence? Some fisherman running late for his hotel reservation, or part of the backup plan? And a black man? That would be unusual. The Chinese didn’t much like black people. Of course, they didn’t much like anybody who wasn’t Chinese. A lot of people in the West didn’t realize that Eastern societies were the most racist on Earth. They not only despised and looked down on Westerners, they despised and looked down on each other. The Chinese hated the Japanese who hated the Koreans who hated the Vietnamese, and all variations thereof. The only thing worse than being a foreigner was being a half-breed.

  Well. Whoever he was, it didn’t matter. As long as Ventura knew where the man was, he was no problem, just one more piece on the board he needed to track. “Keep me advised,” Ventura said. He tapped the headset off.

  “Let’s go for a little ride in the cool summer night, shall we, Doctor?”

  Morrison stared at him, and that wide-eyed sense of amazement that arrived when he’d realized that Ventura was having fun here was still on his face.

  A man like Morrison couldn’t understand it, of course. Men like him never did.

  23

  Sunday, June 12th