Net Force nf-1

by Tom Clancy

  Mrs. Markham's daughter Sarah lived in Philadelphia, and her son Bruce was the manager of a Dodge truck dealership in Denver. Her background was all in place, and any kind of computer check would vet it. She could bore the leg off a clothes-store dummy reciting it in her dull and scratchy voice, too. She carried no obvious weapons, nothing to give her away, save the disguised electronics that nobody would recognize for what they were if they happened to see them.

  Then again, the cane she pretended to need was a three-foot length of hand-crafted hickory, sanded furniture-smooth and lovingly oiled, made by Cane Masters, a small company in Incline Village, Nevada. Cane Masters specialized in building perfectly legal weapons for serious martial artists. An expert — and the Selkie was certainly that — could beat somebody to a dead pulp with a walking stick such as the one she carried, and do so without breaking a sweat.

  A mugger who looked at her and saw somebody's tired and helpless old granny and an easy score, well — that would be a big mistake. And possibly his last mistake if she chose to make it so.

  When she was at the first condo past the target's, she whispered, loud enough for the dog to hear but not the agents: "Scout, dump."

  The little poodle was very well trained. He stopped, squatted and left a little pile on the grass next to the edge of the walk. With some apparent effort, the old lady bent and half squatted, and scooped the poop up with a little cardboard-and-plastic container designed for that purpose. "Good boy, Scout!" she said, loud enough for the agents to hear this time. She proceeded onward, seemingly oblivious to the young men playing chess in the car across the street. She would bet dollars to dimes they'd be smiling. Aw, look at that, isn't that cute, old granny's little toy dog crapping on the grass.

  She didn't know if the guards were permanent — probably not, but it didn't matter. Two men in a parked car on a street were not much of a threat. Now they had seen her as she wished them to see her. She would be back in the morning, and again at night, for at least the next week, perhaps longer. Soon, the day and night sets of guards would file her away under "harmless." Mrs. Phyllis Markham was but one of several shadows who might become an unseen part of the target's life. Another one was an office temp who could soon go to work for the Marines Civilian Liaison Office at Quantico. There was a new driver for a Taco Tio lunch wagon that sometimes fed part of the FBI, and half-a-dozen other possibilities, if necessary. She would chose the ones best suited, after she had done a little more observation.

  And if it was Phyllis Markham who drew the assignment to delete the target, he would probably die quietly in his bed one night in the next week or two, with nobody the wiser. The old lady could circle around the condo after the deed was done, then walk right past the agents assigned to watch the target, and they would never have a clue.

  By the time anybody knew the target was dead, the poodle would be back in upstate New York at his kennel, and the old lady would have ceased to exist.

  "Let's go around the block and go home, Scout. What do you think?"

  The toy poodle wagged his tail. He was a sweet pup. And just like the T-shirt said, the more she learned about people, the better she liked dogs.

  Monday, September 20th, 8:17 a.m. Kiev

  Colonel Howard had just finished a field-strip and reassembly on the H&K G3A3Z assault rifle. This was a major piece of small-arms ordinance. It roared like a thunderclap and fired the big 7.62mm NATO round full-auto. The expended brass ejected so hard that anybody within fifty or sixty feet to the right and slightly back of a shooter risked having an eye put out by a spinning shell. Sometimes the empties flew so fast they whistled as air blew across the mouth of the fired cartridge.

  He wiped excess dry lube from the weapon and put it back on the table. Maybe he should clean his handgun, too?

  He pulled the S&W Model 66 from its holster and looked at it. It was a six-shot stainless-steel revolver in.357, with a four-inch barrel and Craig Spegel custom-wood boot grips. Hardly regulation, the sidearm — most of the teams carried H&K USP tactical pistols in.40, with high-density plastic slides and frames, laser sights and suppressors, and more than twice as many rounds per magazine as the old wheelgun carried. But it was his talisman, the Smith, and he trusted it. He could shoot it well enough to hit a man-sized target out to a hundred meters on a good day, and it never jammed the way an auto-pistol sometimes did. He opened the cylinder and checked the loads.

  "Your hardware gets any cleaner you'll be able to do surgery with it, sir."

  He looked at Fernandez. "You know, a less indulgent commander would have thrown you into the stockade years ago and left you there."

  "Yes, sir. Your patience does you proud, Colonel."

  Howard shook his head.

  "Zero-eight-one-eight, sir," Fernandez said.

  Howard raised his eyebrows. "I wasn't going to ask what time it was, Sergeant."

  "No, sir, of course not, sir."

  Howard grinned again. He closed the cylinder on his revolver and reholstered it. All right, he was fidgety. They had a location on the terrorists, and a meeting was supposed to take place for the leaders of the group at 1130 hours. Once the woman trooper had gotten the drunk to an empty room where he had been expecting something much more fun than what actually happened, he had been relatively quick to volunteer that information.

  Which meant Howard and his troops wanted to be in place an hour and a half before then, by 1000. It was a fifteen-minute drive to the warehouse district where the meeting was set. Allow twice that for traffic problems, plus a half hour for X-factor, which meant they should roll at 0900. Most of the troops were already outside the embassy compound and assembled at the takeoff point.

  Which meant that they had at least forty minutes before they should crank up.

  Time flowed as it did when undergoing a root canal — slow. Very, very slow…

  Fortunately, Howard's appearance wasn't going to be a problem. A local bus had been secured, of the kind used to ferry workers to and from various industrial sites in the area. He and Fernandez would leave the compound in a limo and meet the bus, and he could sit in an aisle seat where nobody would notice him from outside, if they bothered to look. And since everybody inside the bus was working for him — about twenty-five troops — that wouldn't be a problem. Combat gear was on the bus. The troops would wear civilian coveralls. They would be just another group of workers going to a construction site in the warehouse district on the river. In theory, there should be no problems. The CIA chief, Hunter, had the routes laid out, and the local police were supposed to be advised to turn a blind eye. It ought to run like warm oil on clean glass.

  There was no reason for Howard to feel as nervous as he did, but that didn't matter. He had already paid two visits to the bathroom, and a third would be likely. The idea of eating made his stomach queasy, and the coffee he had already drunk had only added to his jitters. It might not be a major firefight in a jungle somewhere, but it was very possible bullets would fly and men would die. And it was his responsibility. He most assuredly did not want to foul it up.

  "Oh-eight-two-two, sir," Fernandez said.

  This time, Howard didn't reprimand the sarge. They knew each other too well. The colonel nodded. He picked up one of the H&K's magazines and checked the loads. Didn't want to overfill it, jam the rounds in so tight they wouldn't strip off and feed. That would be bad. Of course, he had counted them twice already. Probably the number hadn't changed since the last count.

  Dentist-chair time, moving as slowly as five o'clock rush-hour traffic on the Beltway.

  The way he felt right now, a root canal would be almost welcome.

  13

  Monday, September 20th, noon Grozny

  Vladimir Plekhanov sat on a mossy rock next to an old-growth tree, drinking cool water from the bottle he carried, enjoying a shaft of early sunshine that had angled in under the thick fir canopy. He took a deep breath, smelling the sharp scent of evergreen tree sap. He saw ants scurrying up and down the Douglas fir,
and watched them swerve to avoid the sticky ooze. One of the ants blundered too close and the rosin caught him. The ant struggled.

  Given another few million years, some creature that had once been human might find a bit of amber with that ant in it and wonder about its life.

  Plekhanov smiled, reached over and using his fingernail, carefully freed the struggling ant. The creature hurried along its way. What would it think, if it did think, about the giant finger that had come from nowhere to spare its life? Would it speak of it to its fellows? Of how the hand of a giant god had saved it from the deadly trap?

  His musings were interrupted by the arrival of the Ukrainian. The man appeared muscular, fit, dressed in hiking shorts and boots and a tight T-shirt. His footsteps made no sound on the soft path, but he did not look at ease as he moved. He spotted Plekhanov and nodded. "Greetings," he said in Russian.

  The older man returned the salutation in the same language.

  The Ukrainian came to stand next to Plekhanov's rock. He looked around. "Interesting imagery," he said.

  Plekhanov snapped the cap back into place on the water bottle, and stuck it into his pack where it lay on the rock next to him. "I spend too much time in RW civilization — why bring it with me into VR?"

  "A bit quiet for my tastes," the Ukrainian said. "But to each his own."

  "Have a seat."

  The Ukrainian shook his head. "I need to get back soon."

  Plekhanov shrugged. "You have news for me?"

  "The Americans have discovered the location of those planning the attack upon their embassy in Kiev. They will be acting upon this information shortly."

  Plekhanov looked at the ants on the tree trunk. "Took them long enough. Perhaps we should be less subtle in our clues."

  It was the Ukrainian's turn to shrug. "I don't understand why we did not simply allow the attack to go forward."

  Plekhanov smiled. "Because damaging a perfectly good Ukrainian building serves no purpose. Why drain any more from your already sparse treasury to repair it? Why risk killing your innocent countrymen?"

  "The plotters are also my countrymen."

  "But hardly innocent. That band of fanatics is a loose cannon, overfilled with explosive powder. Sooner or later, it would have gone off and done as much damage to those nearest it as any target. We need such things removed from our deck — and the Americans will do that for us. The Americans have spent their time and money uncovering the plot, and it has also made them nervous in the process. They will be worried about such things, spending yet more time and funds to protect their other embassies. We kill several birds with one stone here, my friend. Do you still play pocket billiards?"

  "Da."

  "Then you know that sinking a single ball means little, especially early in the game, unless one positions himself for the next shot."

  "This is true."

  "If we are to run the table, we must consider our next position with each play."

  The Ukrainian bowed slightly, a military gesture done mostly with the head.

  "As usual, Vladimir, you are correct." He glanced at his watch. "I must get back."

  Plekhanov held up one hand, gesturing toward the trail. "Please. Good to see you again."

  "I'll call later."

  "It is not necessary, but thank you."

  After the Ukrainian had gone, Plekhanov watched the ants for a short time. He inspected his pocket watch. He had time before he needed to get back. Perhaps a quick walk on that side trail he had been meaning to explore? Yes. Why not? Things were unfolding more smoothly than even in his best-case scenarios. Indeed they were.

  Monday, September 20th, 7 a.m. Quantico

  Alexander Michaels sat in the stern of the houseboat, watching a brown pelican dive for fish. Pelicans were saltwater birds, he believed, but he liked their look and so had included them in his scenario. He was on a southern Louisiana river, a large bayou, actually, and the brown water flowed sluggishly toward the distant and unseen Gulf of Mexico. A small, flat-bottomed green-anodized aluminum bateau approached from a side channel, the harsh drone of its outboard motor enough to shoo the diving pelican away. Michaels stood, walked to the railing, leaned against it, and watched the boat come.

  Jay Gridley sat in the rear of the flat-nosed bateau, one hand on the motor's control arm. He throttled the motor down so that it popped and burbled, swung the little boat sideways as it drew near and allowed it to drift to a gentle stop against the houseboat's stern. Metal thunked against fiberglass. Gridley threw a nylon rope up to Michaels, who caught the rope and wrapped the end around a brass cleat under the rail. Gridley stepped to the short ladder and clambered up onto the houseboat.

  "Permission to come aboard, Cap'n?"

  Michaels shook his head in mild amusement. "Granted."

  Once he was on the craft, the younger man looked around. "Funny, I'd have thought you'd be in the Prowler."

  Michaels shrugged. "It would spoil the RW version for me if I did that. Car'll never run as good there as it would here."

  "That's true. Well, it's not a bad scenario. Commercial software?"

  "Yes." Michaels felt a little uncomfortable saying that, but the truth was, while he could have written his own program — he was, after all, a computer-literate operative — he had never been that absorbed in VR per se. True, it was more interesting sitting on the deck of a big houseboat, drifting past cypress trees hung thick with Spanish moss, than tapping commands into a keyboard. But it was not his thing, despite his position in Net Force. Probably people would have thought it odd, his take-it-or-leave-it attitude about VR, but Michaels liked to think it was kind of like a carpenter's attitude toward his tools — you didn't love your hammer or saw, you used them to do your job. When he wasn't working, Michaels didn't spend much time on the net.

  He waved at a deck chair. "Have a seat."

  "Thanks."

  After Jay sat, the younger man said, "We've come up against a bunch of dead ends so far. The sabotage links bounce off in all directions, and that's real interesting."

  "Go on."

  "Well, what that means is that the rascals came from more than one locus, like we figured, so the actual piece is played by an orchestra and not a solo artist. Thing is, while we have multiple loci for the initiators, all of the firewalls are the same."

  Michaels knew enough about systems to know what that meant. "So we're talking about one programmer or team, and a wide distribution of software."

  "Yep." Jay looked up as they passed by a huge live oak whose branches hung low over the shore of the bayou. A fat reddish-brown king snake sunned itself on a big limb. "Or, given the setting you have here, maybe ‘sho'nuf, y'all' is more appropriate?"

  Michaels smiled. "You recognize the programmer's style?"

  "No. The firewalls are off-the-shelf Netsoft bullet-proof; anybody could install ‘em. But the trails leading to the walls? They're all different, but they're different in similar ways. They have a… rhythm. We're talking about a single conductor directing the orchestra, I'd bet my paycheck on it."

  "Not a major surprise," Michaels said.

  A small town appeared on both sides of the bayou. A drawbridge linking the halves of the split town loomed ahead of the drifting boat. Downriver, a pair of weathered shrimp boats churned against the slow current toward the bridge. A warning horn blasted from the drawbridge as the center span clamshelled up. Traffic stopped on both sides of the interrupted road, parked behind red-and-white-striped barriers.

  Michaels stood and walked to the pilot's chair inside, on the port side of the houseboat. He cranked the engines, waved at the bridge tender, throttled up and hurried the boat toward the opposite side of the bayou from the boats coming upriver.

  Behind him, Jay said, "Build the bridges kinda low in this scenario, don't they?"

  "He's not raising it for us. It's for the shrimp boats," Michaels said.

  In reality, the passage was a rerouting of a multigigabyte information flow from one node to another server,
a switching operation necessary when large amounts of data needed to move in bulk without interruption. The drawbridge was as good an image as any.

  Once they were clear of the bridge and fishing craft, Michaels steered the houseboat toward the center of the bayou, then cut the engines and let it drift. He moved back to the stern. Normally, he'd be paying more attention to the channel around him, but he'd chosen this scenario in part because it didn't require his full attention on the straight and wide sections of the waterway.

  Gridley said, "We're running the signature and looking for matches, but there are hundreds of thousands of professional programmers out there."

  "Assuming he even is a professional and not some gifted amateur," Michaels said.

  Gridley shook his head. "Guy's gotta be a player. Rascals are too clean to be some kid or duffer."

  Michaels nodded. "All right. Keep looking. Anything else I should know?"

  "Not really. We've got rovers everywhere, looking for more trouble. You know Tyrone Howard?"

  "The colonel's son?"

  "Yeah. I talked to him netmail. He's checking with his friends. They spend a lot of time on the air, they might notice something. He and his buddies are even checking out CyberNation."

  "CyberNation?"

  "A new VR abode. Supposed to be a whole country online."