Net Force nf-1

by Tom Clancy

  "The job is done," said the voice from thousands of kilometers away. It was Mikhayl, amusing himself by using the name Ruzhyo — thus, Mikhayl the Rifle. A violent man, but loyal, and most adept. The proper tool for the mission.

  "Good. I expected no less. Any problems?"

  "Nicholas unexpectedly decided to retire."

  "How unfortunate," Plekhanov said. "He was a good employee."

  "Yes."

  "Very well. You are moving into the new quarters?"

  "Yes."

  Even though the link was encrypted, old habits died hard. Their Spetznaz days were long past, but still deeply ingrained. Plekhanov knew that the hiding place was San Francisco, so there was no need to say it aloud. Should some nascent mathematical computer genius manage to miraculously obtain a recording of this conversation — and even more miraculously, decode it — what would he have? An innocuous dialogue between two unidentified men, bounced off so many satellites and through so many relays as to be untraceable, filled with generalities so bland as to mean nothing. A job? Someone named Nicholas retiring? A move? There was nothing there.

  "Well. Continue as planned. I will contact you when further work is required." He hesitated a moment, then realized one more thing needed to be said. Communism was dead and rightfully so, but the workers still needed approbation to feel a sense of accomplishment. A good manager knew this. "You did well," Plekhanov said. "I am pleased."

  "Thank you."

  That ended the conversation.

  Plekhanov leaned back in his chair. The Grand Plan was progressing exactly as he had intended. Like a snowball rolling down a hill, it had begun small, but by the time it was done, it would be vast and unstoppable.

  He pushed the intercom buzzer on his desk. A few seconds passed, and nothing happened. He pushed the button again. Still no response. He sighed. The intercom was broken again. If he wanted tea, he would have to go and tell Sasha. He was on the way to being the most powerful man in the world and he had to work in an office wherein the simplest devices were in need of repair. He shook his head. That was going to change.

  And that would be but the smallest of changes…

  Wednesday, September 8th, 7:17 a.m. Washington, D.C.

  Alexander Michaels had felt better. As his chauffeur maneuvered the car toward 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, he shuffled through the hardcopy printouts yet again, ordering his thoughts as best he could. The town car was bracketed fore and aft by bodyguard vehicles, governmental-gray cars whose drivers and passengers carried enough hardware to sustain a small war. The protocols were pretty clear about what must be done in the event of a high-level federal assassination. The genesis of these protective measures went all the way back to Lincoln. Most people didn't realize that the murdered President had not been the sole target of Booth and his fellow plotters.

  Michaels had been to the White House several times, although always as a backup to Steve Day, never on the hot seat himself. And he had every scrap of information the FBI had on the assassination on tap, all duplicated on a small disk capable of holding gigabytes of material, nestled inside a coded plastic case, ready to load into the White House's Secure System. Should something happen to him, anybody who tried to break open the disk's case would be in for a hot surprise when ten grams of Thermoflex went up with enough heat to melt the case, the disk and the fingers of anybody stupid enough to be holding both.

  The White House Secure System was a set of special computers without any links to the outside world, along with state-of-the-art antivirals and sweepers installed, so once his information was installed there, it would be safe.

  Still, he was tired, had drunk too much coffee, and he wanted nothing more than to find a bed far away from all this and sleep for a week.

  Well, too bad. That's not what you signed on for, now is it?

  The virgil cheeped.

  "Yes?"

  "Alex? You ready?"

  The Director. "Yes, sir. I should be there in about five minutes."

  "Anything new I should know about?"

  "Nothing substantial."

  "All right. Discom."

  The procession arrived at the West Gate. Alex alighted, was checked by the metal detectors, bomb sniffers and an HOS — a hard-objects scanner — this latter a new device designed to keep ceramic or plastic guns and knives from sneaking past. He checked his taser, got a receipt and visitor badge, then ran the gamut of Marine sentries at the door who checked his ID. The Situation Room where his meeting was scheduled was one of the older ones, one level down, under the Oval Office.

  Another pair of Marines inspected his badge as he exited the small elevator, and a trio of Secret Service agents in suits nodded or spoke to him as he headed toward the Situation Room. He knew two of them, one of whom had been with the Bureau back when Alex had been stationed in Idaho.

  "Morning, Commander Michaels," his old Idaho friend said.

  "Hey, Bruce." The term "Commander" still made him uneasy. He hadn't even wanted this job. He sure as hell hadn't wanted it at the cost of Steve Day's life. The silver lining here was that being in charge gave him the best chance of catching Day's killers. And he was damned sure going to do that.

  A final check, the thumbprint scanner, and the door opened to admit Alex.

  Inside, Director Carver was already seated at a long table shaped like the office above the room, sipping coffee from a china cup. Standing to his left was NSO Assistant Director Sheldon Reed, making a call on his virgil. A middle-aged secretary in a tweed skirt and white silk blouse sat at a small table off to the side, a steno pad in front of her and a voxax unlinked recorder next to the pad, that next to a computer station. A Marine in dress uniform poured coffee from a silver pot into a cup balanced perfectly on a saucer, then set the steaming brew down next to Carver on the right — that would be Alex's seat, and the server would know he took it black. Hardcopy reports duplicating the ones Michaels carried were inside sealed folders that lay upon the table in front of each chair.

  Carver smiled his professional smile at Alex and nodded at the seat next to him. Alex was halfway there when the door opened and the President and his Chief of Staff, Jessel Leon, entered the room.

  "Good morning, gentlemen." The President nodded at the secretary and smiled. "And Mrs. Upton. I've got a busy schedule, so let's get right to it. Walt?"

  "Mr. President. Around midnight, Steve Day, the Commander of the FBI's Net Force, was assassinated. You know Alex Michaels — I've bumped him into Day's chair. He'll lay out the situation as we now know it."

  "Helluva way to get a promotion," the President said, nodding at Michaels. He sounded a little nervous. Worrying that maybe he'd be the next target? "Okay, let's hear it."

  Michaels took a deep breath, as quietly as he could. He walked to the computer, opened the coded disk packet he carried and handed the disk to the secretary. She inserted the disk, and ran the viral scan. It took all of five seconds. "You're set up for voice command," Mrs. Upton said to him.

  "Thank you," Michaels said. "Computer, image one, please."

  A holographic projector in the ceiling clicked on, and a three-dimensional image of the assassination scene, photographed from a police helicopter less than eight hours ago, blossomed in the middle of the table.

  Michaels began to lay it out. The explosion, the attack, the dead and suspected dead. He did it methodically, taking his time. He had the computer show other views as he talked. After ten minutes, he paused and looked around the table. "Any questions so far?"

  "Any other unusual activity regarding federal officials last night?" That from the President. Yes, that was a prudent question. Who might be next?

  "No, sir."

  "Anybody step forward to claim responsibility, terrorist groups, like that?"

  "No, Mr. President."

  "Anything on the bombs?" Reed asked.

  "The charge under the manhole cover was a U.S. Army antitank mine, and the explosive's taggants identified it as part of a batch that supposed
ly went into the ground in Iraq during the Gulf War. Likely dug up by some farmer with a metal detector and sold on the black market. Or maybe diverted by a quartermaster before it ever got to Iraq. No way to tell at this point."

  "The limpet on the door was untagged, but our lab says it's Israeli small-marine surplus, about five years old."

  "Probably pick up one of those at a good-sized gun show," Reed said. He smiled to show it was a joke. He sounded nervous, too. Not really afraid, but a little edgy. Understandable.

  Michaels continued: "No prints or DNA dregs on the expended brass, all of which were identical. From the bullets removed from the victims and cars, the ammunition appears to have been factory-loaded Federal 147 gr. 9mm Luger FMJ round-nose, and would have been subsonic from either a pistol or a submachine gun. Extractor marks on the casings show that both types of weapons were used. So far, recovered tags from the gunpowder show the lot numbers to be parts of shipments that went to Chicago, Detroit, Miami and Fort Worth."

  "Good luck tracing that," Reed said. "And those guns are probably in the bay by now."

  "All right, we have the facts, such as they are," the President said. "How about a theory. Who did it, Mr. Michaels? Who are they going to come after next?"

  "Computer, image twelve," Michaels said.

  Another holoproj appeared, also from the air, but this one showing a different scene, recorded in daylight.

  "This is an FBI archive image of the scene of the killing of Thomas ‘Big Red' O'Rourke in New York City last September. The method of attack was remarkably similar. A bomb went off under the Irish mobster's armored limo, the doors were blown off by limpets, O'Rourke and his bodyguards were killed by multiple rounds from 9mm pistols and submachine guns."

  "There have been other killings like that, haven't there?" the President said.

  "Yes, sir. Joseph DiAmmato, of the Dixie Mafia, in New Orleans last December, and Peter Heitzman in Newark this past February. The FBI's Organized Crime Unit believes the hits were ordered by Ray Genaloni, head of the New York City Five Families, but the investigation is still pending."

  "Meaning you don't have anything concrete yet," Reed said.

  "Nothing a federal prosecutor wants to take into court, no."

  The President nodded. "So it looks like what we're talking about here is mob related? Not some kind of terrorist activity?"

  Michaels was careful with his next words. "Sir. At first glance, it would seem a strong possibility."

  Carver said, "If I may, Alex?"

  Michaels nodded, happy to let his boss take over. He hoped his relief didn't show too much.

  Carver said, "Commander Day was head of the FBI's Organized Crime Unit for several years. During that time, many of the top people in the major New York families were arrested, and half of those were convicted and put away. Genaloni's father and older brother were among those imprisoned. The mob wouldn't lose any sleep over Steve's death. And they tend to have long memories."

  " ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold,' " the President said. "Isn't that a Sicilian proverb?" He looked a bit more relaxed than he had. The mob wouldn't be gunning for him.

  He stood, glancing at his watch. "I hate to cut this short, gentlemen, but I have pressing matters elsewhere. It looks like this is some kind of mob thing, and while I regret the loss of Commander Day, I can't see that national security is at risk here." He glanced at Reed, who shook his head.

  Or their own asses, Michaels thought.

  "Okay, Walt, I would like to see this cleared up. Keep me apprised. Gentlemen. Mrs. Upton."

  With that, the President and his Chief of Staff left.

  Carver moved over to where Michaels stood near the computer. "Well, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

  "No, sir."

  "All right. We'll start some heat Genaloni's way," Carver said. "The man won't be able to pee without somebody watching him from inside the bowl. I want you to get your computer people digging."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Talk to Brent Adams at OC. He'll be told to cooperate. We aren't going to have a turf war here — I'm giving this one to you. The President of the United States has just told us he wants to see this cleared up, and it did not sound like a request to me."

  "No, sir."

  "That's it. I want situation reports daily, sooner if anything breaks. Anything else you can think of?"

  "No, sir. We'll keep you in the loop."

  "Good man."

  Not until he was back in his car and well away from the White House did Michaels allow himself to relax. This high-level stuff was risky. He would rather be in the field, training new agents, anything, than playing with politicians and security advisors. Here, a misstep, one word out of place, and you'd be counting paper clips the rest of your career. So now, aside from his personal agenda, he had it straight from the top: Find out who killed Steve Day.

  Find out — or else.

  Fine. No problem. That was exactly what he planned to do, and he had the resources to do it.

  4

  Wednesday, September 8th, 9:30 a.m. Quantico, Virginia

  Toni Fiorella was in the small gym practicing djurus when two members of the newest class of FBI mainline recruits came in. There were maybe a dozen people already working out — lifting weights, using the flywheel bikes or punching the heavy bag, but most of them were regulars, instructors or people assigned to Training HQ. The trainees tended to stay in their own gym, which was just fine with her. Newbies, most of them fresh out of law or accounting schools, tended to think they knew everything, and that the Bureau should feel honored they had chosen to grace it with their wonderful presence.

  She shifted into a right-front stance, most of her weight on her forward foot, knee bent, did the windshield-wiper-like two-handed block to control the center, left, right, then shot her right elbow upward in a short, tight strike to an imaginary opponent's head. She slapped the elbow with her left hand to simulate the hit, slid the left hand under the right arm, where it stood ready to sweep away an opponent's return punch, then shot the straight right and left punches that followed.

  This was the first djuru, and a very simple sequence.

  One of the newbies, a tall, muscular man in blue spandex bike shorts and a matching FBI-trainee T-shirt, looked at Toni, then chuckled and said something to his buddy.

  The second newbie was a short and compact man, a bit on the pudgy side, with a thick bar of eyebrows. He laughed in return.

  Toni ignored the two, did the left punch and chambered that arm by her hip, then stepped forward with her left foot, to mirror the moves she'd just done.

  Day's death had affected her more than she would have thought, and Alex's state of mind was also weighing heavily on her. She'd come to the gym to burn off some of her frustration at not being able to reach out to Alex the way she wanted. The workout wasn't helping much, and she wasn't feeling particularly charitable just now.

  She finished the series of steps and strikes, made the backfist turn and started back the way she'd come, starting into the second djuru's pattern. In Bukti, there were eight short forms, or djurus, that many sambuts—prearranged fighting sets — and techniques beyond counting based on those few simple routines.

  Spandex and Eyebrows had faced off against each other; they danced back and forth, sparring. Even though she knew she should have been concentrating on her form — her guru would have frowned at her lack of attention — she watched the two men peripherally. Spandex threw a lot of high round and spinning kicks, most of them to the head, while Eyebrows barked several kiais, the karate-style guttural yells used for focus, as he backpedaled and ducked or blocked the kicks.

  She figured Spandex for one of the Korean styles, Eyebrows for a Japanese or Okinawan fighting form. Both men looked fairly adept, though Spandex was better.

  She saw Spandex grin, then launch a flying-spinning back-kick.

  Right out of a bad action movie, she thought. She kept her pace even, trying to pretend she didn't notice them. H
er expression gave her away, though — she couldn't stop the smile completely.

  Spandex caught it, and he was not pleased.

  He did a quick bow to Eyebrows to show he was done, then turned to face her. "Something funny, ma'am?" He had a strong Southern accent. Alabama, Mississippi, maybe.

  Ma'am. Well, he wasn't paranoid, because she was laughing at him, however hidden she tried to keep it. And, truthfully, she hadn't really tried very hard to hide it. She had to watch this, the feeling of superiority she got when she saw one of the other Oriental fighting styles. Everybody thought their own system was better; she knew hers was.

  Toni was about to the end of her set anyhow. She stopped. She knew she didn't look particularly imposing in her old black sweats, wrestling shoes and sweaty headband. And at five-five and a hundred and thirty pounds, she was almost a foot shorter and probably seventy pounds lighter than Spandex. But his tone irritated her.

  "No," she said. "Nothing funny."

  "Really? I thought maybe you were, you know, amused by my form or something."

  "No. It's not amusing," she said. She started to turn away.

  Eyebrows decided this was a good time to jump in. He said, "My friend here has a second-degree black belt." He waved at her, as if to take in the form she'd been practicing. "I bet he could teach you some things."

  "I'm sure he could," Toni said. Yeah, how to move wrong. But she kept her mouth shut as she headed for her towel. Might as well shower. She wasn't going to be able to concentrate with these two bozos flexing and being macho. She'd grown up with a houseful of brothers; she knew once the testosterone got to flowing, it was like the full-moon tide, there was no stopping it. Pretty soon, these two would be spitting on the ground and adjusting their crotches, or as close as they could get to it indoors.