The Ultimate Escape

by Tom Clancy

  Mark Gridley nodded, and so did the rest of the Net Force Explorers. They were anxious to get back into the fray, and to save their friend if they could.

  “Don’t go quite yet,” the head of Net Force said. ‘I don’t want you going back into the veeyar sims without a little advice from an expert.”

  The head of Net Force gave a voice command to his computer.

  “Contact Joanna Winthrop,” Gridley asked. “Tell her to come to my office as soon as possible.”

  The Net Force Explorers knew Joanna Winthrop pretty well. She’d helped them out of tight situations in the past, and they hoped she would do it again this time.

  Joanna was sometimes called “R”—it was a joke from some old twentieth-century two-dee flicks about a spy named James Bond. Bond’s weapons specialist was called “Q.” Joanna was called ‘ ‘R” because she was clearly a level above “Q.” Net Force’s weapons master was famous for coming up with better devices, and better ways to implement them in the cyber-world, than the bad guys.

  But what the Net Force Explorers liked best about Joanna Winthrop was that she would rather hack into a heavily defended system or find a way to “debug” a computer infected with a deadly new virus than just about anything else.

  That made her one of them, at least in the eyes of the Net Force Explorers.

  In the past, Joanna Winthrop had been known to offer a new invention, or a program, or a datascript to the Net Force Explorers for their own personal enjoyment, like a high-tech doting aunt.

  At other times, she’d provided the kind of high-tech devices that the Net Force Explorers needed to fix a problem, solve a mystery, or get themselves or others out of a bad situation.

  Which was why the Net Force Explorers trusted her, and why they were glad to get her input on their current dilemma.

  When Matt Hunter and Mark Gridley finished telling her of their experiences in the sims, Joanna Winthrop sat quietly for a moment. The Net Force Explorers exchanged uneasy glances during the long silence, wondering just what she was thinking. They were sure that Joanna Winthrop had never experienced a case like this one, and they wondered if she would believe them at all or—much worse—give them a fix any six-year-old should have come up with.

  “I’m sorry to say that all I can offer is some theories, and a little advice,” she said.

  Matt Hunter saw the faces on the other Net Force Explorers fall. He felt disappointment too. But Matt recalled his father’s words of wisdom. Not every problem has a quick technological fix, his dad had often said.

  “Let’s focus on exactly what happens in these simulations,” Joanna said, interrupting Matt’s thoughts. “According to what you’ve told me, it takes a little while for Julio to show up.”

  “Yeah,” Matt said. “Usually in the nick of time.”

  “Let’s think about that,” she said. “It looks like Julio shows up and saves the day, but let’s look at this another way.”

  “Like how?” Andy asked.

  “I think it’s got something to do with reprogramming the sim,” Ms. Winthrop said.

  “If that’s it, why does Julio waste his time saving our butts?” Mark Gridley asked. “Why doesn’t he just show up as soon as the simulation is activated, and tell us how we can help him?”

  “Because when the simulator is first activated, he’s got two problems. He has to break into the system and create or co-opt a character for himself,” Joanna said. “Once he’s got his character, he has to override the action programmed for the scenario and bend it to his wishes. He wants to communicate with you. The fewer enemies you have in the simulator, the easier that is for him to do. While you’re fighting the battles programmed into the simulation, he risks getting hit and bounced back to wherever he is, for example, or having to find a new friend to communicate with if somebody comes screaming through the program and blows you out of the sky. So he needs to get rid of as many unfriendlies as he can. Even without potential enemies, I’d guess he’s got a limited time to talk to you. The Rift eventually forms because he’s using the system for his own purposes, overriding its programming and leaving it changed. But the less he has to do to it, the longer he’ll have to communicate with you.”

  “Wow!” Matt said as the revelation dawned on him. “So if we go alone into the simulator, then Julio might be able to show up sooner and stay longer.”

  “Theoretically, yes,” Joanna said. “But that doesn’t deal with the problem of forming the Rift.” She raised her index finger like one of Matt’s high school teachers to stress her point. “And if you’re right about virtual guard dogs chasing him, then the dangers of the Rift aren’t the only ones Julio faces.”

  “Then what can we do to talk with Julio?” Matt said, his concern for his friend evident.

  “As far as I can tell, your ability to bail out of the system at any time has not been affected during either of the two experiences you’ve had. From your descriptions, I don’t think the Rifts that are forming are the kind to get anybody in trouble. So this might be dangerous for Julio, but shouldn’t pose any danger to you. If things are out of control, get out of the game. Since this is virtual reality, not reality, you might get confused or upset, but you shouldn’t get hurt. As long as you keep that in mind, you’ll be fine. And Julio seems not to have any other choices open to him. It’s clear he’s willing to run the risks for the chance to talk to you. I think saving Julio is worth a little trouble, don’t you? Go back to the Institute. Stay alive in the simulator. See what happens,” Joanna said.

  Matt and Mark looked puzzled for a minute; then it dawned on them both what she was getting at.

  “You mean we have to win!” Andy said. Joanna nodded.

  “You have to take out as much of the competition as you can. If you’ve eliminated the enemy, you should have time to really talk. So do your stuff and be there and ready to ask Julio questions when he appears.”

  Matt nodded, accepting Joanna Winthrop’s theory. Mark looked determined. Andy looked ready for a fight. But David and Megan looked doubtful, as they remembered their previous dismal performance inside the air combat simulators.

  “Don’t think of the flight simulator battle as a harmless game,” Joanna Winthrop told them. “Think of it as a war, because that is what it is. If you stay alive long enough, you’ll win, and maybe even find a way to help Julio Cortez.”

  Matt Hunter rose, as he and the other Net Force Explorers prepared to leave Jay Gridley’s office. But Joanna stopped them.

  “Remember,” she said, her eyes meeting Matt’s, “if there really are hunters in veeyar looking for Julio, they are going to be dangerous to him. Be careful out there, and keep me posted.”

  party lost by a wide margin. And that the party in power remained in power.

  That way, it looked as if the people had spoken, but the current government still retained complete control of the nation and the economy. The party members also retained their secret Swiss bank accounts, their junkets to New York City under the guise of United Nations ”fact-finding missions,” and the other perks provided for the party elite.

  It was a clever plan, and the bigwigs in Adello were impressed with Mateo for devising it. Mateo knew it made his master look good to his bosses, too. And since Mateo owed that man his life, he felt he had to repay that debt in some dramatic way. Mateo Cortez owed his master everything.

  When the revolution had come to Corteguay, it was a poor country, with few assets, and though many in the current regime had thought then that it would be wise to put Mateo in front of a firing squad, one socialist party boss had thought otherwise, and Mateo had been spared.

  He was tortured, broken, and brainwashed—but he was spared.

  In the end, Mateo had proven to be an invaluable tool in the service of the socialists, as evidenced by the recent capture of his own brother and his family. When this was all over, Mateo would be rewarded for his loyalty. But that didn’t matter to him.

  All Mateo cared about was that his blood
-debt to his immediate superior was erased forever. The debt paid in full.

  For Mateo, that would be enough.

  The Hummer rounded a sharp curve in the road and the driver, a lazy soldier with a stained uniform and a three-day growth on his unshaven face and neck, slammed on the brakes.

  Instantly, a heavily armed Cuban exile clutching a rifle— not a stun gun, but a real weapon—rushed to let them in. As the wooden gate swung open, the soldier motioned them toward the main building.

  The driver steered the Hummer to the low concrete bunker, isolated deep within the jungle, which looked exactly like a fresh-water pumping station—another ruse, this one to fool American spy satellites. As they drove through the gates, Mateo saw the sign on the fence, proclaiming the facility

  “FRESH-WATER PUMPING STATION #16”—in Spanish, English, and Dutch.

  Mateo also saw a half-dozen video surveillance cameras mounted on trees all around the compound. No one could move in or out of this place without being seen by the security team.

  Mateo leaped out of the vehicle before the driver came to a complete stop. He pointed at the soldier behind the wheel.

  “Wait for me,” he said. “I will be back shortly.”

  As Mateo approached the single steel door on the square concrete building, it swung open. A technician in a white lab coat stepped aside to allow Mateo to pass.

  “The commander wants to see you immediately,” the technician said.

  Mateo grunted. Of course he wants to see me, you ass, he thought. / wouldn’t have come at all if that were not the case.

  Inside the low building the temperature was cool. Air-conditioning was vital for the delicate computers to run at peak efficiency. Mateo felt a chill. He crossed the room and stood before a second steel door.

  “Name,” a distorted electronic voice said from an invisible speaker.

  “Mateo Cortez,” he said, staring into the retinal scanner mounted above the door. A moment passed, then the lock clicked, and the heavy door swung open automatically.

  “Pass,” the electronic voice said.

  Mateo entered the elevator, which instantly plunged over a hundred feet, taking him to the main holding area deep underground.

  Mark Gridley sat silently—as per instructions—in his father’s office at Net Force headquarters. He was listening with mounting anger to his father’s guest talk about him as if he wasn’t even there.

  Jay Gridley was meeting with Walter Paulson of the State Department. His dad had told Mark before this meeting that Paulson had been a career diplomat for fifteen years, ever since he’d graduated from Harvard and passed the diplomatic corps exam. Mark knew, thanks to his father, that this man had handled a variety of political crises. Mark also knew that Paulson was dismissing the Net Force Explorers’ story about Julio out of hand. He could see the skepticism on the career diplomat’s face as Paulson spoke to his dad. He could also see that his father’s anger mirrored his own. Though it was difficult, Mark Gridley kept quiet as his father argued with the man.

  “You’re telling me that the State Department is unwilling to stick its neck out to get to the truth?” Jay Gridley said, his face a mask of outrage.

  Walter Paulson sighed.

  “I did not say that, Mr. Gridley,” Paulson said. “I merely suggested that the State Department wasn’t ready to risk what few diplomatic channels we have in Corteguay on a wild story told by of a bunch of teenagers.”

  That last remark made Mark Gridley wince, but he still kept silent.

  “Are you suggesting they made it up?” Gridley said.

  Again, Paulson shook his head, his calm exterior unruffled. “I am suggesting that they may be mistaken, or this may be a childish prank. …”

  “A prank!” Jay Gridley said. “My son, the boy you see sitting right there, is one of those ‘teenagers’ you so quickly discount, Mr. Paulson. He is not the kind of kid who pulls pranks.”

  You tell him, dad! Mark thought.

  Walter Paulson cleared his throat. “Well, naturally, as his father—”

  “As his father, I trust my son, Mr. Paulson,” Gridley snapped back. “And I think that something is wrong in Corteguay!”

  Walter Paulson sighed again. “Mr. Gridley,” he said calmly. “I want to assure you that the State Department is monitoring the elections in Corteguay very closely. Former President Daniel Tucker will be traveling to the capital city of Adello for the actual election, and we have been in almost daily contact with Mateo Cortez, the opposition candidate’s brother….”

  The career bureaucrat paused before continuing.

  “Rest assured, Mr. Gridley. We are doing everything in our power to guarantee that there are safe, honest, and free elections in Corteguay,” Paulson said with authority, his eyes meeting Mark’s for the first time.

  “Wild stories of virtual concentration camps for political prisoners are nothing more than a figment of a child’s overactive imagination. You have my word on it.”

  The seven prisoners were lined up in a neat row, each strapped to a separate implant table topped by a stained ergonomic vibro-mattress. All of the prisoners were naked, though they were each nearly covered by a blanket and a complicated-looking electronic helmet that hid their eyes and ears. Thick electronic cables were also plugged into their subdural implants.

  In one corner of the room, a fat, slovenly woman in a stained white dress and hemp sandals sat on a stool. A pan of soapy water and a sponge sat on the floor at her feet.

  She was there to provide for the prisoners’ “physical needs,” which meant that she cleaned them up occasionally. But not thoroughly or often enough, Mateo judged from their appearance.

  Circling the line of tables, Mateo gazed at the prisoners dispassionately. Though he had been a prisoner himself, he felt no empathy for these hapless victims of the cruel regime.

  He noted that the ergonomic mattress repositioned them at pre-set intervals so that the prisoners would not get bedsores from lying in one position all day. Mateo also saw that they were being fed. The prisoners all had feeding tubes inserted into their nasal passages and were receiving some sort of solution—probably a mixture of water, electrolytes, and the drugs that kept them unconscious and mentally submissive to the computer link—intravenously through needles in their arms. Other tubes eliminated their body waste, dumping it into containers situated under the implant tables. The stench was appalling.

  Occasionally, one of the prisoners would twitch. Otherwise, they showed no sign of life other than their steady breathing and the drip of the IVs.

  And the odor.

  Mateo unconsciously reached up and covered his nose.

  “I suspect you are wondering why I summoned you here, Mateo,” a familiar voice said.

  Mateo Cortez turned and faced his master. He fought the urge to salute, which was quickly followed by an almost uncontrollable urge to flee. It was an impulse he’d never lost from those endless months of mental and physical torture that he had experienced at this man’s hands.

  Mateo merely nodded, but as his master gazed at him with cold eyes, he felt as if his torturer understood Mateo’s psychological reaction perfectly. The man no doubt took pleasure in it.

  “It has come to my attention that there has been a temporary escape,” the man said. Mateo turned back to the prisoners, counting.

  “Escape?” he repeated. “They are all here. How can they escape?”

  “Through the Net,” his master said.

  Mateo’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “Fortunately, I planned for this possibility,” his master said.

  “Who was it?” Mateo asked.

  “The boy, Julio,” the man said. “He is very resourceful for one so young. A credit to your family. Perhaps I will have the chance to break him and make him my own. I look forward to it. After the election, of course.”

  Mateo shuddered, and feared his master had seen the involuntary movement.

  “Fortunately, the autoguards caught him an
d brought him back to us,” the master said. Mateo’s weakness had apparently gone unnoticed.

  “Then this will not happen again?” Mateo asked.

  “On the contrary,” the master said. “It will happen again. I will encourage it to happen again. I want to know how the boy did it in a system that has no access to exterior phone lines or hard-wired connections to the Net, and I want to know where the boy went and who he communicated with, so that those persons can be dealt with, too.”

  “Assassins,” Mateo said. His master nodded.

  “Virtual assassins, Mateo …”

  Lieutenant Commander Marissa Hunter walked briskly down the long corridor, her low heels clicking on the slick floor. She was passing through the operations wing of the Pentagon, a high-security area monitored and closely guarded at all times.

  She had been here often in the last few months, since she’d been transferred from active carrier duty to an advisory position in the U.S. Navy Special Operations Command. It was an important job and good for her career, but Marissa Hunter was an aviator first and foremost and she missed flying the hot fighter planes she loved.

  That was not saying her desk job had been boring—far from it.

  During her time at the Pentagon, Lieutenant Commander Hunter had been asked to review and evaluate over a dozen special operations scenarios, with the understanding that everything she read and learned was to remain top secret. The data was never to be discussed again, with anyone, unless her expertise was once again requested by her superior officers.

  In essence, she was expected to read, evaluate, and then forget what she learned.

  Forever.

  But ever since her son had told her a seemingly wild story about seeing his best friend trapped in veeyar, claiming to be a political prisoner in his native land, memories of an operation she’d reviewed a few weeks ago came back to haunt her.