State of War nf-7

by Tom Clancy

  “Sounds pretty simple.”

  “It’s not particle physics. If you can stick your finger in your ear, you can use these things.” She paused. “Are you a betting man, General?”

  He raised an eyebrow at her.

  “I’ll wager ten dollars that nobody but your wife notices you’re wearing it unless you tell them — and another five that even she doesn’t notice.”

  “You must be pretty sure of yourself.”

  She nodded. “Like I told you, it’s not visible from the front, and you can’t see it from the back. The only place someone can spot it from is directly to the side, and even then, most people don’t look at your ears.”

  He grinned at her. “Do you make that bet with all your patients?”

  She nodded. “All of the ones who get this model. In fact, I usually bet them twenty bucks, not ten, but you’re a tougher case. Cops, federal agents, those folks who automatically mark you for purposes of ID, they’re the most likely to notice it, and they are exactly the kind of people you work with.”

  “Great.”

  “Even so, it’s better than going ‘Eh, sonny, what’s that?’ all the time, isn’t it?”

  He felt a little stab of vanity. “Yeah, well, that’s easy for you to say.”

  She suddenly went very serious. She looked at him silently, not smiling at all. After a moment she gave a small nod and turned her head to the side so he could see her right ear. Then she turned to show him the left.

  She had hearing aids in both ears.

  “One of the reasons I went into this field was because of a nasty virus I had when I was a child. It caused a high fever and burned out part of the wiring in both ears. I’ve worn hearing aids since I was eleven.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Zuri,” he said.

  “Don’t be. I’m not. Not anymore, anyway. These things really do work great, General.”

  Howard sighed. She was right. A little piece of plastic and circuitry and a computer chip sure beat the other option, no doubt about it.

  He stood up and shook her hand. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. See you in a couple of days.”

  Howard nodded and headed out the door, whistling as he left.

  Ames’s Hideaway Southeast of Odessa, Texas

  Ames stood in the middle of a dry and dusty plain, alone. All around him was emptiness and desolation.

  From where he stood, there were no signs of civilization whatsoever. No roads. No cars. Just the tire tracks his own driver had left, and they were already crumbling in the sand.

  A hot wind was trying to take his hat off. The summer sun played upon the mostly barren ground. Tumbleweed, the only sort of life he could see, bounced slowly along the sun-baked sand.

  If you didn’t know any better, you might think a man out here alone would be in trouble.

  Ames smiled, feeling a certain sense of, well, superiority. He had a secret.

  Everybody knew about Cheyenne Mountain, near Colorado Springs. The bombproof military operations center had been obsolete for that purpose before it was ever finished. By the time the excavation was done, and before they had even built the massive doors, the Soviets had targeted the complex. Rumors were they had enough megatonnage of ICBMs aimed at Cheyenne Mountain that, if the shooting ever had begun, the complex would have become a radioactive crater.

  The best part was that the government had known all this, and they went ahead and built it anyway.

  The cold war had produced more than a few such “secure” sites. Some of them probably would have survived a nuclear engagement, if for no other reason than that they really were secret. The ones the Soviets knew about, like Cheyenne Mountain, would have been destroyed, of course.

  There had been a handful, however, that had been carefully and secretly constructed. Usually — but not always — this was under the guise of mining or heavy industry. The locations were never bandied about, and, through great diligence and great luck, their very existence was kept secret. Some of those would have probably made it.

  Ames knew about three of these. One was outside Washington, D.C., for congressmen and senators. There was another one in Mississippi, and Ames knew that one would always be safe. Nobody in their right mind would waste missiles on the Holly Springs National Forest in northern Mississippi. Not unless they knew for sure there was something worth shooting at there, anyway, and probably they didn’t. Fifty-odd years after it was built, most of the locals didn’t even know the bomb shelter was there.

  The third site was in central Texas.

  Some miles southeast of Odessa, this third one had been designed to house close to two hundred people. Ames guessed that the intended guests were probably big oil barons who had contributed significantly to certain politicians’ election campaigns. It had been stocked with water, food, medical supplies, diesel engines and fuel, and power generators to run the lights, and air-conditioning, refrigeration, air filtration, and sewage systems. It would keep that many people alive and well for six months. The fewer people inside, of course, the longer they could survive.

  Built in the mid-1950s, it had a fair-sized library. It also had dozens of radios and little black-and-white televisions, all with vacuum tubes, most of which still worked. And it had a gold mine of vinyl records — LP albums and 45 rpms that had never been played and were probably worth thousands to collectors.

  The contractors had dug an underground garbage pit a quarter mile away from the compound. Electric golf-style carts could haul trailers of trash to it via a concrete tunnel buried thirty feet under the ground.

  It had cost millions to build and stock, and it had never been used. The cold war ended. The threat of nuclear winter didn’t go away completely, of course, but it had been greatly reduced. And the underground hideout had become a great white elephant.

  So Ames had bought it. A real steal at six million and change, with both sides of the arrangement convinced they had suckered the other. Ames smiled at that. He had spent almost that much simply restocking and updating the supplies.

  It had come with a huge pantry of canned goods, much of which were still useable, even after more than five decades. He had added smart-freezers and refrigerators stuffed with high-quality produce and meats. If he ever had to come here for an extended period, the only thing he would miss would be fresh fruits and vegetables. With freeze-drying, however, he could keep all kinds of foods not quite as good as fresh, but better than canned, almost forever.

  Ames also installed a commercial-quality gas stove with a thousand-gallon propane tank to fuel it. He hid a satellite dish or two and put in state-of-the-art electronics, including televisions, computers, and sensor and communications gear. When he was all done, his little hideaway was perfect. Safe. Isolated. Secret.

  Even if you knew it was there, it was almost impossible to get there without being spotted, by land or air. On top of that, its security system included both radar and heavy equipment sound detectors, and Ames had surrounded it with a minefield full of nonlethal noise poppers.

  He was confident no one would be sneaking up on him, but he wasn’t worried if anyone did manage to defeat his security. The place itself was impregnable. Built of hardened concrete and rebar with walls six feet thick, it was a veritable fortress. Best of all, it lay under twenty to thirty feet of very solid ground.

  Safe and secure, but comfortable, too. Like everything else in his life.

  He looked around again, feeling very satisfied, then headed for the secret entrance to the stairwell. It was far too hot to spend much time out here, especially since it was much nicer inside.

  11

  The Middle Ages

  Sherwood Forest, England

  Perched in a large old oak tree, Jay Gridley studied the castle in front of him. It had all the usual features: a wide moat, a high stone wall, an iron portcullis raised just beyond the drawbridge. He could see large iron pots between the crenellations at the top of the walls, pots that he knew could be filled with boiling o
il. There were also dozens of firing slits in the thick walls. Those narrow, protected openings would allow long- and crossbow men to loose a rain of shafts and bolts on any who attempted to storm the castle.

  But Jay had no plans to storm the castle. He had something far different in mind.

  He smiled. What was it that Saji had said about not being able to see the forest for the trees? And here he was, looking from a tree in the forest.

  He sobered, then, thinking about Saji, and how much he appreciated her help. It had taken her comment to get him thinking. She had been right, too. He hadn’t been looking at the entire bank when he’d tried to follow the money here. He had been focusing on the area where wire transfers were sent, and that was a mistake.

  The vault was, of course, heavily armored. Banks protected their customers’ money, after all. If they lost it, they would be out of business. Which meant that trying to get to where the money was would be practically impossible, even for him.

  He smiled again at the thought. He knew himself well enough to realize that the phrase “practically impossible” was like a challenge to him. There was a part of him that was still tempted to go that route, just to prove that he could.

  He shook his head, laughing at himself. No, he needed the information, and he needed it fast. He needed to do this the easy way.

  Besides, he could always come back later and crack the vault.

  He climbed down from the tree and went over to a leather-covered chest near the base of the old oak. Opening the chest, he took out a brown robe. His forest green doublet, which worked well to hide him in the trees, wouldn’t be suitable for what he was about to attempt.

  Before changing, he unstrung the longbow he carried and laid it on an oiled skin. A pity he couldn’t bring it with him, but it just wouldn’t fit with his disguise. He admired the carefully worked and sanded wood before wrapping the oilskin around it.

  Amazing things, longbows. With their superior range and penetrating power, they’d given the English the Battle of Hastings, which had pretty much kept the entire nation from having thereafter to speak French.

  He pulled on the brown robe, picked up a heavy wooden quarterstaff that leaned against the oak, and moved toward the small settlement outside the castle.

  As he neared the village he smiled and nodded at people who nodded back.

  Just another friendly friar going to pay respects, that’s me.

  As Saji had said, once he revised his view to look at the entire aspect of the problem, he’d seen openings. Once he’d spun this VR scenario with the bank as a castle, he had noticed something interesting. Toward the back, and outside of the main fortified walls, was a smaller building, a humble village chapel. Many people came here, including townspeople, clergy, knights, and merchants. Which meant Jay could get in there, too.

  It hadn’t taken him long to identify the real-world equivalent of the building, and he realized that it was indeed a part of the computer he was trying to penetrate.

  Banks strived very hard to provide convenience to their customers. These days, convenience meant access. They couldn’t make the access to the money itself too easy or the money wouldn’t be safe. That was the very problem that Jay had been fighting. They could, however, make it easy for customers to access things like bank balances and account histories.

  This chapel housed that information, behind a much less daunting firewall.

  If he was right, this chapel would give him access to the information he was after. It wouldn’t be in the same form, necessarily, and it wouldn’t have as much information as he would have liked, but it should have enough for his purposes.

  He hoped.

  Jay walked toward the small gate in the side of the castle wall. A pair of monks sat at a table outside, welcoming people. As he neared the table, he heard people giving their passwords to the friars. The silver-haired one on the left would nod if the password was right, and the person would be allowed to go inside the chapel to pray — although in the real world they were accessing their banking records. Not withdrawing their money, just checking on its status.

  This whole process of finding the security hole had been a perfect example of why VR worked better than just peering through a flatscreen or at a holoproj. His instincts, his eyes and ears, all worked better in an environment like this than in one of pure text.

  He stepped up to the table.

  The older monk spoke. “And your account number, my son?”

  Jay gave him the number of the account he was tracking.

  “Your password?”

  Jay spoke the Sanskrit word “om,” drawing it out as Saji had taught him. She had told him once that some Zen masters believed that the word contained all the sounds in the universe happening at once.

  In the real world, tens of thousands of passwords slammed into the on-line banking program simultaneously.

  In the VR world, time stopped. The monks froze, and everyone in the village stood motionless. A woodcutter near the smithy paused in mid-stroke, splinters of firewood to the left and right of his axe, hanging in the air. The flames in the blacksmith’s forge stood out as sharply as a three-dimensional marble statue.

  Only Jay could look around. Only Jay was free to move.

  And then time clicked back in, reality’s hiccup over.

  The silver-haired monk nodded, as though nothing had happened.

  “You may pass, my son. God be with you.”

  Jay bowed his head, a smile on his face. “And with you as well, brother.” He entered the small gate to the chapel within the castle.

  He made his way to a vast array of pigeonholes alongside one wall of the chapel. Huge Roman numerals marked the account numbers of each of the bank’s members.

  Way to go, Jay, he thought. Outsmarted yourself again, didn’t you? You know you hate Roman numerals.

  He paused the scenario for a second and made an adjustment.

  There, he thought. That’s better.

  The account numbers were now in Arabic numerals. Much easier to follow. He located the pigeonhole with his account number. Within lay a single sheet of parchment that contained a summary of all the account activity for the last few months.

  He picked it up and scanned it. There was the name of the account holder: Otis E. Levator.

  He smiled at the name and turned his attention back to the details. It sure looked like Mr. Levator had been getting some serious cash from CyberNation over the last few months.

  Jay grabbed the parchment and headed for the exit of the chapel. Time to change scenarios and track down old Otis. He left and headed out beyond the castle wall. Once he was back in the forest, he modified the virtual world around him.

  One of the joys of being a net demigod was the ability to wave one’s hand and change reality. Too bad it only worked in VR.

  Tuscaloosa, Alabama

  This new environment was also a forest, but one far different from the majestic old oaks of Sherwood. Jay had also traded in his Robin Hood outfit for a frayed flannel shirt, a pair of raggedy denim overalls, and worn combat boots. A pack of six bloodhounds bayed beside him, straining at the leashes he held in his hand.

  Jay took a handkerchief from his pocket. It looked a lot like the parchment from the previous scenario. He waved it under the dogs’ noses, giving them the scent.

  The hounds sniffed the handkerchief, whuffled, and got more excited.

  “Let’s git ’im, dawgs,” Jay hollered, and set them free of their leashes.

  The pack took off, following the scent, with Jay chasing after the baying hounds.

  This scenario was an old favorite of his, running through the Alabama backwoods like some old moonshiner chasing white lightning thieves from his still. He smiled at the image.

  After a few minutes, the dogs’ barking changed in pitch.

  He moved faster, pushing through saw-grass plants and low bushes. Ahead he could see the dogs surrounding a small shack.

  He called up the ID program for the shack a
nd frowned. Someone had been clever. This little shack wasn’t Otis E. Levator’s home after all. It was a mail delivery box at a Postal Plus — one of the tiny commercial post offices at mini-malls everywhere. They were all sterile, with a built-in irradiator that was guaranteed to keep your letters germ-free.

  Another cutout.

  “Thanks a lot, Otis.” To the bloodhounds, he said, “Okay, pups, you can shut up now.”

  The dogs obeyed.

  So what he had was some clown’s idea of a clever pseudonym. Elevator. Probably something to do with moving up in the world. But that was all that he had.

  Now what?

  Jay left the dogs behind and went into the shack. He did a VR shift—

  Postal Plus Shipping Service

  Jay didn’t bother loading one of his custom scenarios. Not much point in it. He was pretty sure there was nothing to be found here. Instead, he just ran a standard VR website visual of the place, and tapped into the security on the shipping store’s computer.

  The address left by the mysterious Elevator was also a post office box, only this one was U.S. Mail.

  Well, that was just great. All that work seeing the forest for the trees, all that time hacking a bank to get this—

  He looked up and noticed something. Hello?

  A security cam hung down from the ceiling. The operator of the mail place must have had some problems with people vandalizing mailboxes late at night. That was pretty typical of a place like this. Whatever the reason, he had installed a video surveillance device.

  Jay recognized it as a pretty standard device. The cam took a mid-ranged resolution video of the lobby, capturing images of everyone who came in. Usually the files were stored for a week or so before being either destroyed or archived.

  Now if only the data was kept on this hard drive…