by Tom Clancy
"Uh-huh?"
"Well, given how much you know about cars and all, I was, uh, wondering, that is, I mean… would you like to go along and help me check it out?"
Toni was stunned. Where had that come from?! Out of nowhere, that's where! Her brain stalled, as if somebody had slapped it silly. For a moment, she couldn't think, couldn't talk, couldn't even breathe. Then her little warning voice kicked in, and what it said was:
Oh, baby! He's asking you out! Slow, go slow, don't scare him off!
She managed a breath. "Yeah, I'd like that. A Miata, huh? One of my brothers had one of those once."
"Yeah," he said quickly, "I remember you told me that, so, uh, your advice would really be helpful. You know."
She wanted to grin, but she held her face to polite interest. He was like a fourteen-year-old kid asking a girl out on his first date—she could see it in his expression, hear it in his voice. He was nervous. Afraid she would turn him down.
As if that was remotely possible.
It made him all the more adorable, that he was rattled.
"I, uh, want to get an early start," he said, "so why don't I pick you up about seven?"
"Seven would be good."
"Uh, where do you, uh, live? I've never been to your place."
She gave him her address and directions, still full of wonder about this.
Don't go jumping to conclusions, girl. He just asked you to go look at an old car, not for a weekend in Paris.
Shut up, she told her inner voice.
"Probably you should wear some some old clothes," he said. "It might get a little greasy poking around in an old garage. I'm going to take some tools and stuff. I might be able to get the thing running. If you don't mind hanging around while I try."
"No problem," she said.
For a long moment—a couple of millennia anyhow—she stood there staring at him, feeling so bubbly she wanted to jump up and down and scream. Finally she pulled herself away. "Okay," she said. "I'll go work on the hack."
Once she was out of the conference room, her back to Alex, she could not stop the grin. Yes! Yes!
When he'd been thirteen, Alex Michaels had ridden the Tyler Texas Tornado—at the time, the world's largest roller coaster. He'd never forgotten that weightless, pit-of-the-stomach rush as the car fell over the first drop and gravity let go of him. If it hadn't been for the safety bar, he would have floated right out of the ride.
He felt like that now, as if he had just gone over the first drop of the 111. His stomach was fluttery, his heart was thumping along at least twice its normal speed, his mouth was dry, and he was breathing fast.
Jesus H. Christ. What did you just do? Did you just ask Toni Fiorella, your assistant, out on a date?
No, no, not a date! Just to go check out the car. She knows about cars—remember when she came to the house and saw the Prowler? She knew all about motors and hydraulics and like that! She had a house full of brothers who were into cars!
Uh-huh. Sure. Who do you think you're fooling here, pal? I was there, I remember you looking at her butt while you were on the phone talking to your daughter. And I remember silat class, too, buddy. When you and she are all entwined in one of those grappling moves. How she feels pressed against you, just before she throws your stupid butt on the ground.
He knew. He knew this was not a smart thing to be doing. Toni worked for him, and yeah, he'd gotten vibes from her that she didn't exactly find him hideous or anything, but this was dangerous territory. Toni was bright, adept, good-looking, and, oh, yes, it would be a lot of fun to get closer than they did in silat. There was nothing wrong with his imagination—he just hadn't let it play much since he and Megan had split up. But that last visit to the old house, that whole scene with Megan and her new boyfriend, that had pretty much put the final nail in the coffin, hadn't it? The marriage was dead, they weren't going to get back together, and when he'd calmed down later and thought about it, he realized he didn't want to get back together with a woman who could do to him what she had done. Megan had a nasty streak, and while it didn't come out that often, it was very mean-spirited when it did. He didn't want to be with somebody who could go postal on him at any time. That was no way to live, sleeping with one eye open.
He'd been behaving like a monk for a long time. He'd put all of himself into his work or his car, he'd run or biked thousands of miles to wear himself out, and it wasn't like it was a sin to take pleasure in the company of an attractive woman.
It didn't have to go any farther than that. He didn't have to risk losing Toni as a friend and coworker by pushing it into romance. He could keep his hands to himself, his pants zipped, and keep it platonic.
Right. Was that why you asked her to take a little drive down to Fredericksburg? To be Mr. Platonic?
Shut up, he told himself. Nothing has happened, nothing is going to happen. We're friends, that's all.
His inner voice laughed at him all the way back to his office.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Friday, January 14th, 8:20 a.m. Quantico, Virginia
When Toni Fiorella walked past her, Joanna Winthrop looked at the woman and was sure her suspicions were dead on target:
Miss Toni had the hots for their boss.
It wasn't that hard to see, given how Fiorella blossomed like a hothouse orchid time-lapse vid every time she was around Alex Michaels. He didn't seem to notice, no surprise. Men were usually stupid that way—among all the other ways. Still, he was a nice enough guy, and the truth was Winthrop had entertained a couple of fantasies in that direction herself. Well, at least before she'd started finding reasons to drop by and see Julio Fernandez. Michaels was okay, but Julio? Julio was a jewel.
In fact, she could probably break some time away from work tomorrow to get together with him and do a little computer stuff. He still wanted to learn, and she was getting more and more comfortable hanging around with him. The guy didn't seem to have any ego, at least as far as women were concerned, and he just kept surprising her with what he said and how he said it.
She grinned to herself. Yeah, let Toni pine after the boss. They were probably better suited for each other. Winthrop was finding that lately she had developed a real hankering for… Hispanic food.
Friday, January 14th, 5:45 a.m. High Desert, Eastern Oregon
It was still dark outside the one-man funnel tent, dark and cold too, but at least the snow had started falling again.
John Howard wasn't exactly toasty in his mummy sleeping bag, but he was warm enough, and the face shield had kept his nose from freezing off. He didn't want to peel himself out of the bag and get up, but he had to go pee and there was no getting around that. It wouldn't be light for a while yet, but he didn't have to go looking for a place—he was all by himself. Like his grandfather used to say, he was so far out, the sun came up between here and town…
He'd planned to do a winter survival weekend in Washington state after the scheduled joint Net Force/military exercises in the Pacific Northwest, but there was some kind of problem with the biochemical depot at Umatilla. Apparently one of the destabilized nerve-gas rockets had sprung a leak. It wasn't much of a leak, on the order of a microscopic spray, and it was contained and not dangerous, but the Army had been running around trying to put a media lid on it, and of course, had failed utterly to do so. As a result, the civilians nearest the depot were terrified that a cloud of poison was about to roll into town and kill every man, woman, child, and dog, and folks were being sent to visit relatives way out of town, so Net Force and the Army had canceled their exercise. The Army figured that it wouldn't look good to have a bunch of guys in combat gear running around and going hut-hut-hut! all crisp and active. That would sure as hell scare folks, none of whom would believe for a second that this was just a drill and pure coincidence. Even so, Howard hadn't wanted to skip his own personal survival trip, so he'd decided to drop down into Oregon instead. The differences in the terrain between eastern Oregon and eastern Washington on either side o
f the Columbia weren't all that major.
Howard slid out of the sleeping bag, already dressed in long underwear, pants, socks, and a heavy wool shirt. He removed the spare socks he'd stuffed into his boots to keep the scorpions and spiders out—even though it was winter, this was a good habit to get into. He pulled the boots on after he looked for hitchhikers anyway—damn, they were chilly!—grabbed a jacket and hat, and scooted out of the tent.
The early morning sky was perfectly clear, with stars glittering in hard, sharp, fiery points. You could see the Milky Way out here, and all kinds of constellations that you'd never spot in the city. And the colors of the stars, reds, blues, yellows. Truly a beautiful sky.
He stood, ambled a few yards off along the path he'd packed down before he'd turned in the night before, and wrote his name in a snowbank piled up against what looked like a frozen and pretty-sad-about-it creosote bush.
Back inside, he lit his hurricane candle, and set up his single-burner propane stove. The mouth of the funnel tent was just tall enough to sit upright in. The tent was made of double-walled rip-stop Gortex, which kept the snow out, but still allowed most of the moisture inside to escape, so you didn't wake up with your own condensed water vapor raining on you. In the old days, he'd have gathered firewood and started a small outdoor fire to boil water for coffee and rehydration of his food, but the current land-use philosophy was for "no impact" campsites. No cutting down trees or clearing brush, no trenching your tent for runoff, no open fires, and only a minimal latrine—and even that had to be covered and tamped before you broke camp.
He grinned as he started a snowmelt pot of water heating. He'd been on a couple of outings where the "no impact" rule had been so strictly adhered to they'd had to bag and seal their own solid waste and pack it out. That had been worth a few laughs: Here, Sarge, I saved you some Tootsie Rolls for dessert. Yeah? Well, that's funny, ‘cause I got some chocolate pudding right here for you too, Corporal…
It was amazing what soldiers would joke about.
It was about twelve degrees outside right now, and the ground was hard as a rock and frozen to boot, so digging wasn't going any deeper than the snow, but he had biodegradable toilet paper pads that would disappear the first time they got wet, and by spring any signs of scat would be long gone. It wasn't likely anybody was going to be out here playing in the snow before springtime…
He had a little hike ahead of him today, just ten miles. But on snowshoes and with a backpack it would work him some. He had a GPS if he got lost, though he'd try to locate his next campsite the old-fashioned way, with a compass and landmarks. It wasn't as easy as the GPS, of course, where all you had to do was punch a couple of buttons and it would tell you exactly where you were and how to get to where you wanted to go. But batteries could go dead, satellites could fall, and a compass was reliable if you knew how to allow for magnetic north and all. If you lost your compass, there were the stars, including the sun. And if it was cloudy, there was dead reckoning, though that was a little more iffy.
Truth was, he hadn't been lost in a long time. He had a good sense of direction.
At six a.m., he pulled his virgil and keyed his morning check-in code. He could also find his way out using the virgil, and could go to vox to call for help if he needed it. If something happened and he couldn't call out, Net Force or other rescuers could also find him via the little device, which had a homer with a dedicated battery in it. It wasn't as if he were Lewis and Clark, a million miles away from civilization. Still, it was cold and he was all by himself out here in the middle of the high desert, with fresh snow piled a foot and a half deep. If anything happened to him, help wouldn't get to him right away.
There was a real risk to being here. Which was, of course, the point. The way a man found out what he was made of was when he tested himself against real danger. VR only went so far, no matter how real it felt. You always knew you weren't gonna die in VR. But in real life, sometimes things went to hell, and you had to survive on your wits and your skills. This little three-day trip was not that big a deal. He'd lived off the land on his own for a couple of weeks, in terrain ranging from desert to jungle. There was a great sense of accomplishment in knowing that if you survived a plane crash in the middle of nowhere, you could probably survive long enough for help to arrive. Assuming anybody wanted to find you…
How did you come to climb that big old mountain, fella?
Well, sir, it was in my way…
The water started to boil, and Howard dug in his pack for the freeze-dried coffee crystals.
Somewhere, he'd heard about an order of Zen monks or some-such, who lived high up the slopes of an Oriental mountain. They had a little café there, and when climbers would stop in, they would sell them coffee. There were two prices: a two-dollar cup of coffee—and a two-hundred-dollar cup of coffee. When asked the difference, the monks would smile and say, "A hundred and ninety-eight dollars." The brew, the water, the cups, all were exactly the same, but there were always those who were willing to spring for the more expensive cup. They swore it tasted better.
He could understand that. What he was about to drink wasn't in the same class as freshly roasted and freshly ground premium beans strained through a gold filter and served in fine china by a well-practiced and attentive waiter, but the first cup of coffee on a survival camp out was always better than the best restaurant stuff. Always.
Friday, January 14th, 11 p.m. Bissau, Guinea-Bissau
Hughes rolled over in the king-sized orthopedic bed and watched as Monique waded through the ankle-deep white carpet toward the bathroom. It was a nice view, her naked backside, and he enjoyed it until she slipped into the bathroom and closed the door quietly behind her. He grinned. She was no more a natural blonde than her boobs were real, but neither of these things detracted from her expertise as a lover. After three sessions with her—last night, a quickie at noon, and tonight—he was completely spent, tired, and more relaxed than he had been in years. This was one of the perks of wealth, a well-practiced mistress, and he toyed with the idea of hiring Monique full-time. He could afford her now, and soon would be able to afford thousands like her.
But—perhaps not. It might be better to avoid any more entanglements until his major goal was achieved. Even an entanglement as much fun as Monique.
He glanced at his watch. Just after eleven o'clock. What would that make it in D.C.? Was it four hours ahead here? Five?
It didn't matter. Platt was back there, merrily adding gasoline to various fires, setting up the project's end-stage. Hughes hadn't called the cracker while he'd been here, but that wasn't necessary at this stage of the game.
Negotiations had gone well with Domingos, even better than he'd expected. The main reason the man hadn't closed the deal with Platt had been a simple matter of money—Domingos wanted more. Hughes had anticipated all along that the President would up the ante, and had been surprised when he hadn't done so earlier, so this was not an unforeseen bump in the road. It had merely come later than expected. For the sake of appearances, Hughes had dickered, pretended to be insulted, and had offered a stiff resistance to any change in the basic agreement. After sufficient time for Domingos to convince himself that he was the equal of a platoon of Arabic horse traders, Hughes had allowed himself to be worn down and persuaded. Another thirty mil was thrown into the pot, bringing the payout to the President to an even hundred million dollars U.S. Or, if he preferred, he could have it in French francs, Japanese yen, or British pounds. Or dinars, rupiahs, rubles, or Guinea-Bissau's own pesos.
Dollars would be fine, the President had allowed.
Hughes grinned again as the bathroom door swung open and Monique walked through the thick carpet toward him. The view was even better from the front, he decided, what with her dyed-blond pubic thatch shaved into that little heart shape. Even the breast implants had been hung by an expert medico, for they looked—and felt—quite real.
Spent as he thought he was, he felt a bit of a stirring in his groin.
<
br /> "Ah, you are awake, I see."
"Not all of me."
"Oh, but I am certain I can remedy that, oui?"
He chuckled. If anybody could raise his hopes, certainly Monique could.
"Let's see, shall we?" he said.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Saturday, January 15, 7:25 a.m. Henry G. Shirley Memorial Highway
(1-395, near Indian Springs, Virginia)
"You want to stop for some coffee or something?" Alex asked. He waved at a service station off to their right.
"No, I'm fine," Toni said. "I had my two cups already."
The day was chilly, but clear, and traffic was light. The inside of the van was a hair too warm.
He smiled at her, a little awkwardly, she thought.
"Yeah, me too," he said.
Toni had the impression that he wished he hadn't done this—invited her to go along with him to look at the Miata. They were in the company car designated for his use, a politically correct electric/hydrogen-powered minivan. And as everybody who'd ever driven one knew, as gutless a piece of machinery as you could find. It had all the get-up-and-go of a turtle with a broken leg. Top speed was sixty-five—and that was downhill, with a tailwind and a god who took pity on you, and it took a long time to get to that fast. Range of the van was about two hundred miles—if you added both propulsion systems together. Then you had to pull over, plug in, or get a new bottle of hydrogen. Alex was allowed a certain number of personal miles every month, though he seldom used them. Easy to understand why. The joke around the agency was that if you had a roller skate, you could sit on that, push with your hands, and get where you wanted to go faster than the minivan—and your butt would hurt less when you arrived.
Alex had a fair-sized tool chest in the back of the van, along with a car battery, several cans of oil, and more cans of brake and transmission fluid.
