Springboard

by Tom Clancy

  Both the phantoms had already cleared leather with their own sidearms, but were still bringing them up as Kent cooked off the second round.

  When you had done this particular action five or ten thousand times, it was almost a reflex.

  “Arrgh!” one of the bad guys said. He sounded more like a pirate than a Western desperado.

  “You got me, you sidewinding varmint!” the other one said.

  Both fell.

  Kent smiled. Back in the Old West, especially the frontier towns, the locals had, according to the history he’d read, cursed worse than fleets of drunken sailors. The foulest, most Anglo-Saxon four-letter words peppered every conversation, and linked together in obscene strings that would singe the hair off a Marine D.I. The image most people had of cowboys came from old black-and-white movies, made in the days when such language was not allowed on the silver screen. The Old West was not quaint, save in fiction.

  He checked his score screen. Two shots, two A-zone hits, time 0.73 seconds. Not that fast for a cowboy action fast-draw expert from a tied-down holster, but not bad from a service rig in street clothes.

  He still had five rounds left, but he dropped the magazine—the floor had a rubber mat here so the magazine wasn’t damaged when it hit—and shoved one of the spare magazines home in a tactical reload. He clicked the safety on and reholstered the piece.

  Next to him, Fernandez said, “That one-handed point-shooting will get you in trouble at longer range, Colonel.”

  Kent looked at the score screen. Fernandez had also hit both his opponents, but was three-hundredths of a second slower.

  “That may be,” Kent said. “But at short range, it beat you.”

  “It’s early. Get ready. Sir.”

  Kent grinned.

  Hanging Garden Apartments

  Macao, China

  Wu emerged from the bathroom in a thick white terry-cloth robe, feeling cleaner and very much relaxed. The hot shower he had taken accounted for the cleanliness. Mayli, the beautiful and accomplished undercover operative he employed, accounted for the feeling of relaxation. She lay naked upon the bed, grinning at him like a well-fed cat. Her perfume, something spicy and subtle, mixed with the scent of her own musk.

  Wu had a family, of course. There was his dutiful wife, who was in Beijing, probably attending to their six grandchildren. He also had two sons and a daughter, each of whom had provided him with the politically correct pair of those grandchildren.

  But Wu had needs, and his wife had long ago stopped caring to adequately meet those, so he took his carnal pleasures elsewhere. Mayli there on the bed was able to handle those needs with one hand tied behind her. Sometimes both hands tied . . .

  Wu grinned at the thought. He was not without wit.

  “Are you going to shower?” he asked.

  “Later.”

  “Anything new on our computer whiz?”

  She shrugged. “Yesterday he was approached by Data-Soft U.S., via a cutout in Hong Kong, and offered a job. Two hundred thousand dollars American a year, a car, an apartment in Renton, Washington, profit-sharing, a medical plan. Help getting out of the country, and resident status once he arrives. A not-unattractive offer. I wouldn’t really mind living in the States as the wife of a well-paid computer nerd.”

  “And what did he say to this?”

  Wu moved to the bed and sat on the edge. He shucked the robe and turned his back toward the woman. “Work on my left shoulder a bit, would you? I strained a muscle during training.”

  She slid over and began to knead at his deltoid. She had very strong and skilled hands.

  She said, “He has not replied to the offer yet. But he won’t take it.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I told him not to.”

  “And he thinks this highly of you?”

  “He has mentioned marriage.”

  “I thought you wouldn’t mind living in the U.S.?”

  “I wouldn’t. But I told him he was worth more and should hold out for a better offer. I will need a large house, an automobile of my own, and an extravagant lifestyle.”

  He smiled. Of course.

  Her fingers dug into the muscle, hard. It hurt, but it was a good hurt.

  “Ah.”>

  “How did you hurt your shoulder?”

  “Climbing the rope.”

  “You stay in excellent shape.”

  “For a man my age?”

  “For a man of any age.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “Of course. That is part of what I do best. Still, it is true—you have mirrors, you know this.”

  He smiled. That was the thing about working with a professional. No illusions. His star was rising, and Mayli, nobody’s fool, knew it. She would benefit as long as she was of use to him, and he would benefit from her, in a number of ways. It was good to know where you stood in a relationship. He did not trust her, not past a certain point, but until that place was reached, she would serve. It would not hurt to have an agent in the United States, and once he had accomplished his tasks, there was no reason why Shing could not be allowed to chase the American dollar on their shores with his new wife.

  “How is that?” she asked.

  He turned around and reached for her. “Better,” he said.

  Rue de Soie

  Marne-la-Vallée France

  Merde! Merde! Merde!

  Seurat threw his comset across the room, the small device making a muffled thump as it hit the soft leather chair he kept in the corner and tended to use mostly for such moments. Only when he was alone did he permit himself such luxury, and even then he mitigated his anger with forethought.

  Replacing a comset with every bad piece of news would be shamefully wasteful, even when the news was this bad.

  CyberNation had been attacked!

  He hurried towards the garage, grabbing his wallet and a set of keys for the old 914 he favored for going into Paris. The small, mid-engine Porsche was easier to navigate in the narrow streets of the big city.

  Thousands of CyberNation’s residents had been dropped into blackness across Europe, with outages and other interruptions of service. Milo Saens, his chief security expert, had related several disturbing ramifications of the incident in addition to the most important one:

  The failure was the result of sabotage.

  Seurat slapped the garage door opener and jumped down the small flight of steps leading into what had once been a wine cellar, but which now included a space for his cars.

  He opened the door of the 914 and slid in, jamming the key into the slot. He entered the comp code as well; a necessary evil that allowed him to drive on streets with other cars of later make.

  Now the car would be recognized by the city traffic computer for what it was, and should he deviate from traffic laws in the presence of other cars, the onboard computer would force him to the side of the road.

  A small smile played across his face. He’d be forced over if he let the computer do so. Seurat was not one to put his fate into the hands of others, safety laws or no. A carefully hidden switch on the autocomp would disable its ability to override his driving if he so chose. For the moment, he left it engaged. As with so many other facets of his life, it was useful to appear as one of the herd.

  The two-liter engine roared and the acceleration pushed Seurat back in his seat as he ran through the first two gears. He lived on the new Rue de Soie—the Silk Road—part of an expensive development of both new and refurbished homes, and none of them cheap. He found it very amusing that his house was but a short trip away from Euro-Disneyland. Had it been possible, he would have bought a home on Rue de Goofy—just to irritate the traditionalists still trying to keep the language “pure.”

  What a waste of time and effort that was.

  It had taken him months to find this particular 914, and even longer to restore the car to the condition in which he kept it, but the effort had been worth it.

  Patience. It was all about taking th
e time.

  The attack on CyberNation had ended. Saens, who had called on his comset, had explained that the network would be back up in minutes; had Seurat waited but a little while, he could have gotten a full briefing in a secure CyberNation chatroom without leaving his home.

  But the drive to the city would give him time to think, to plan out the best response for what had happened. Like his distant ancestor, Charles Seurat liked to work deliberately and thoughtfully.

  The attack had been bad. According to Saens, it had blacked out most of the continent, with tendrils of the blackout spreading to the U.S., South America, and Asia. Reports were still coming in.

  Worse, prior to the actual shutdown, the attackers had spoofed servers for passwords and had removed some of the careful barriers that separated bits of CyberNation—protected chatrooms had suddenly been joined by on-line sex groups, personal information of all sorts had been dragged out into common areas, and other doors that were normally closed had opened.

  It hadn’t lasted long, according to Saens, but any amount of time was too long.

  Throughout his life, Seurat had found that every strength held a weakness. CyberNation—with true liberty, equality, and brotherhood for all—was a nonphysical ideal. That removed most of the grime and grit of the world and made it impervious to destruction from physical attack, but its noncorporeal state made it susceptible in other ways.

  Like this.

  The question was not, “Who would do such a thing?” There were many who were jealous, more who were simply malicious, and there were those who were afraid of CyberNation and what it stood for. No, the question was, “Who is capable of such a thing?”

  CyberNation had security second to none. Whoever had done this thing was more than expert.

  The CyberNation leader knew that he wouldn’t be needed to repair the network—his people were already working on that.

  But more than the network needed repair. Those who had lost service could lose faith—might even lose belief in the new nation that was supposed to shelter them. If the citizens of CyberNation could lose their perfect world for any reason—well, it wouldn’t be perfect, then, non?

  They would want an explanation—and satisfaction.

  And so did he.

  Seurat signaled to exit to the Boulevard Périphérique, the ring road that circled the center of the city, and accelerated, overtaking a large hauler. The truck driver shook his fist at Seurat as the little sports car sailed past. It was currently de rigueur to hate older fossil-fuel cars. Seurat didn’t know if it was due to jealousy or environmentalism, although he suspected the former. Not everyone could afford to operate an older car.

  Once on the ring road, he stayed in the right lane. The Porte d’Orleans was just one exit ahead. Another hauler was ahead of him, this one painted with signs extolling the virtues of fresh produce.

  The lingering thread of his thoughts hung there, waiting.

  Satisfaction.

  What would be the best way to give his people what they craved? How could he promise safety and freedom for all? He was the leader of something more than a mere nation. For a moment he saw himself on the spectrum of world leaders: How it must have been throughout the ages for such, trying to satisfy the people they led, promising them what they needed, while trying to deny reality. To offer safety, even where it did not exist.

  He supposed that they had found what he did: Sometimes it worked, sometimes it did not. C’est la vie.

  Ah, yes, vive la CyberNation—when it works!

  This had to be resolved, and quickly. They had an enemy, one who was adept enough to damage them. This could not be allowed.

  He must be found.

  And destroyed.

  Ahead finally sat the Nouvel building, a postmodern masterpiece that he and the other leaders of CyberNation had chosen for its aesthetics as much as for its functionality and fully integrated net-backbone.

  Nearby, parked under the light of a street lamp, was a newsvan.

  Ah. No surprise there. The media was ever alert. Like sharks, they came at the merest whiff of blood in the water.

  Well, no matter. Someone had handed him a sour lemon, and he was going to make a refreshing drink from it.

  He slowed his car and, instead of going into his private underground parking spot, he pulled over on the street outside the building. As he stepped from the car, lights came on from near the newsvan, forcing him to squint slightly as he walked toward them. He squared his shoulders and smiled. He would spin them a story, and they would serve him as he would have it.

  Hanging Garden Apartments

  Macao, China

  Lying naked and sweaty upon the bed, Mayli looked up at Locke as he dressed. She smiled. “You know that Wu would probably kill you if he knew we were doing this.”

  Locke smiled in return. “Me? I doubt it. Besides, I am certain that he does know. General Wu did not rise to his current position by being a fool. I imagine that he is having you and me watched—I would in his place. I’d guess he doesn’t care what we do together—as long as we do our jobs.”

  Her smiled vanished, turned into a pout.

  He laughed. “What? You think he is so jealous of your favors that he would kill his partner for indulging in them?

  Wu is a pragmatist. Nothing you and I did today will lessen what you and he do tomorrow. If anything, it might make it better—I’ve shown you some tricks even you didn’t know. Those would be to his benefit, no?”

  She sat up suddenly and threw a pillow at him. “Beast!”

  He laughed as he reached out and caught the pillow in one hand. “That’s not what you said earlier.”

  She smiled. “I cannot stay angry with you, can I?”

  “No. I am too lovable.”

  “No, not lovable. But . . . something.”

  Locke tossed the pillow back at her, not hard, and went back to tying his tie. He had heard that plenty of times: Why do you fancy me? I don’t know, it’s hard to say, exactly. . . .

  As for Wu, Locke was not only sure he was having him followed, he was pretty sure this apartment, for which Wu paid, was bugged. Audio at the least, maybe video. Locke hadn’t bothered to look for the microphones or cameras, but in Wu’s position, he would have made very sure he could verify what Mayli told him about Shing—at least enough of it to feel some confidence. There was probably a recording of Shing and Mayli rolling around on the bed in Wu’s desk, and no doubt he had watched such a thing if it existed.

  Locke’s own performance with Mayli? Certainly nothing to feel insecure about—and no doubt at all much superior to Shing’s rootings . . .

  “When will you return?”

  He finished the Windsor knot and straightened the gray silk tie. Against the lighter gray of his tailored shirt and darker silk jacket, the tie was perfect. There were still some excellent tailors in Hong Kong, and with the British gone for decades, easier to get one whose work you liked. A five-thousand-dollar suit didn’t look that much better than a three-thousand-dollar one to most, but those who knew such things could spot the differences. Clothes might not make the man, but among the rich and powerful, they were badges that identified you as somebody with taste and means.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But maybe I’ll call you when I do. If I can’t find anybody better.”

  By the time she had thrown the pillow at him again, he was already on his way to the door.

  5

  Jakarta, Java

  Indonesia

  Jay Gridley sat in the back of an open-wall ragtop jitney with fifty other passengers; an oppressive, cloying, heat and humidity wrapped the bus like a sodden blanket. Had they been moving, there would at least have been some hot wind, but the vehicle was, like the hundreds of others he could see on the road, jammed to a full stop. Even the people on bicycles and Segways weren’t moving, and the air was as still as a tomb.

  Around him, the passengers talked to each other in Malay or Bahasa or English, apparently unaffected by their
lack of progress.

  Jay shook his head. Whatever VR scenario he conjured, the military’s super-computers were not easy to navigate. The hardware, software, protocols—everything was a pain. Even with full access, delving into these things was as difficult and complex as anything Jay had ever done. The place was a rat’s nest of back alleys and twisted roads, with buildings looming over the narrow streets, far too many people—read information packets—and a host of other complicating factors Jay hadn’t even begun to sort out.

  His respect for Major Bretton ratcheted up several notches. If the man could negotiate this mess at all, he was good.

  Next to him a local man, probably seventy, and dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and a sarong, smiled, showing better teeth than Jay expected.

  “Selamat. You Thai?” the man asked. His voice was raspy and full of phlegm.

  As it happened, that was partially true. “Yes.”

  “You have children? I have five—four sons and a daughter, plus nine grandchildren.”

  “I have a son. Only one.”

  The old man laughed, a cackle. “You young. Plenty of time.”

  He pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and offered it to Jay. “Smoke?”

  Jay declined.

  The old man lit the coffin nail and inhaled deeply. Gray tendrils rose in the hot and still air. The smoking explained the raspy, phlegmy sound to old man’s voice. Even though Jay had created the scenario, he sometimes fell into a kind of schizophrenic state where things for which he was responsible, such as the old man’s voice, came as a surprise to him, as if somebody else had built the program.

  “Is it always like this?” Jay asked. He waved to encompass the gridlocked traffic.

  The old man shrugged. “This a good day. Some times, much worse.”

  Great. Just what he needed to hear.

  The old man looked out through the open sides of the jitney. “Rain is coming soon. Cool things off.”