Night Moves (1999)

by Tom - Net Force 03 Clancy

  Jay closed his eyes. One ... two ... three ...

  This felt really stupid. Couldn't Saji have come up with a better scenario than the fucking moon? It was so ... oops. He was drifting. Saji had warned him about that. When a thought intruded, he was supposed to take a deep, cleansing breath, gently push it aside, then go back to the count. Okay. Okay. He could do that. Move, pal.

  One ... two ... three ... four ... five ...

  How could this do anything? Just sitting and counting? What was the point? It didn't do anything that--aw, hell, there he went again.

  One ... two ... three ...

  He saw the tiger, just a flash, and Jay stopped counting because the next out breath didn't happen. Jesus, the tiger!

  He opened his eyes. Nothing to see but the dead, dry moonscape, nothing to hear except his own heartbeat. Which, he noticed, was speeding up. Damn. This was a lot harder than it sounded.

  Ping! A single, crisp note played.

  He had an incoming call, and it wouldn't have been put through unless it was one of three people: his mother, his father, or his boss.

  The moonscape vanished. Jay sat on the couch in the hospital room. He reached for the com.

  Tuesday, April 5

  London, England

  "How are you, Jay?" Michaels said.

  "I've felt better, boss," came the reply. But it was slurred and almost unintelligible. The effects of the stroke.

  Michaels had his visual mode on, and the hotel room's com gave him a decent-sized picture of Jay. He didn't look much different, maybe a little slackness on one side of his face was all.

  "I'm sorry I didn't call sooner. Toni and I have been drafted by MI-6 to help out with this thing. You know about the other ops who were injured like you were?"

  "I heard."

  "You remember anything about your line of inquiry that might help?"

  "Sorry, boss, no. I don't remember anything but a tiger." He shook his head. "Don't even remember for sure if it's connected to this."

  "Okay, don't worry about it."

  "I want to work on this, boss, but ..."

  "When you get better, if we haven't caught this guy yet. We've got everybody in the civilized world chasing him. We'll get him."

  "I don't think so, boss. I've never ... seen ... anything ... like it."

  Just the strain of this short conversation was wearing him out, Michaels could see that. "Get some rest, Jay. We'll keep you posted."

  He clicked off. Jesus, what a mess.

  His virgil announced an incoming call. He looked at the ID. Cooper.

  "Yes, hello?"

  "Commander. Ah, Alex. A quick call to bring you up to speed. Our technical people have come up with a scenario that might explain how a VR headset could cause brain damage."

  "Really?"

  "Yes. Apparently, it is theoretically possible. I don't have the electronics or the mathematics to understand it, but the simple explanation is that certain solid-state components in the hardware might be programmed to act as capacitors. They could store the microelectric current like a camera's flash attachment does, then release it all at once. If, somehow, this discharge was focused and directed, it could indeed short out neural pathways. Theoretically, they say, because they can't do it."

  "Is somebody that far ahead of the rest of the computer world?"

  "Apparently so."

  "I don't much like the sound of that."

  "Nor do we. And we haven't a clue so far on how to trace whoever it is. We're hoping your expertise will help."

  Michaels sighed. Yeah, right. His best expert had his brain fried by whoever it was they were hunting. That sure as hell didn't make things easier.

  "Discom, then," Cooper said. "I'll see you at HQ later?"

  "Yeah, I'll stop in."

  After she had broken the connection, the virgil rang again. Lord, it was a parade. This time, it was Melissa Allison. Just what he needed.

  "Commander."

  "Director."

  "Anything to report?"

  Well, yes, we don't know our ass from a hole in the ground, as far as all this goes. But he said, "No, ma'am, nothing substantial yet. MI-5 and -6 have made their systems available, and we are getting up to speed."

  "Keep me informed of your progress."

  "Of course."

  He put the virgil back into its charger as the bathroom door opened and Toni, wrapped in a towel, came out in a cloud of vapor from her shower. "Did I hear the phone ring?"

  "Oh, yeah," he said. He looked at her, smiled. "But let's talk about that after."

  She smiled back at him. Undid the towel and dropped it. "After what?"

  "Come here."

  "What is the magic word?"

  "Come here, quick!"

  She laughed.

  Once she was close enough to grab, he did, and whatever thoughts he might have had for the next few minutes were short-circuited well shy of his brain.

  13

  Tuesday, April 5th

  Quantico, Virginia

  The obstacle course wasn't busy, and after a hundred crunches, fifty push-ups, and a dozen chins at the beginning, John Howard wasn't even close to burning off his frustration, but he didn't really feel like running the course. He was too tight, too pissed off, too ... something. He wanted to hit somebody, hit them hard enough to knock their teeth out, spray blood in all directions, and watch them fall, preferably onto something sharp. It didn't help that who he was the maddest at was himself. He had screwed up, big time, and that promotion he had allowed himself to dream about was likely to be rescinded before he ever officially saw it.

  Too bad, but when it got right down to it, that didn't matter as much as the two dead soldiers. Losing men in battle, in a firefight, that was one thing. Losing them in a supposedly secure area to a single man who made you look stupid, that galled. Losing them at all ...

  So he stood there, watching the odd FBI trainee or Marine pass him for the obstacle course, feeling impotent.

  So far, there hadn't been squat on Ruzhyo since he'd disappeared. Oh, yeah, they found the truck, in front of a supermarket in Vegas, windows rolled down, keys in the ignition. He could be anywhere in the country by now, hell, anywhere on the planet. Net Force had the best computers crunching all flight information, train and bus schedules, rental cars, automobile and motorcycle sales, even car thefts in and around Las Vegas, but so far they hadn't come up with anything to match the fugitive's profile.

  He wanted this guy, wanted him as bad as anything he had wanted in a long time. If he found out where he was, Howard was going to hop on a plane, officially or unofficially, whatever it took, and go get the sucker.

  "Colonel?"

  He shook himself from the red fog he'd allowed to envelop him and turned. Julio.

  "Got something you might find interesting."

  He was grinning.

  Damn. Good news, at last.

  Tuesday, April 5th

  The Yews, Sussex, England

  The news on the telly was, as it always seemed to be these days, disgusting. The American President was going on about "moral fiber," a subject about which he certainly knew little, if anything. Presidents in the U.S. were notorious for their lack of self-control, from Warren G. Harding to Kennedy to Clinton. The idea that the leader of a country with such slipshod spiritual and moral values could hold forth on how anybody should behave was patently ridiculous. Especially when the leader himself was known to have the sexual ethics of a mink. The current U.S. President was as bad as any--he just hadn't been found out yet.

  Goswell nodded at the telly. Well, yes, he would have to do something about that, now wouldn't he? He would put in a call to his man, see if there wasn't some way to use the new toy to find out what the President had been up to. If records existed in a computer anywhere--and surely they must--the scientist could get them. Give the Americans another scandal to drool over, and get the bastard so busy defending his so-called honor that he wouldn't have time to meddle elsewhere.


  Meanwhile, he had another call to make. "Applewhite?"

  The butler appeared next to him. "Milord?"

  "A telephone, please. And one with a dial, if you would."

  "Yes, milord."

  The butler went to fetch the telephone. Goswell hated to do such business, but it was the nature of reality that a man was sometimes forced to do things he would rather not if he was to stay afloat in stormy seas.

  Applewhite returned with the phone. It looked like one of the old Bakelite rotary dial models he had used as a boy, but it was just a replica. Inside, it was full of electronics as modern as any, and there was no thick black cord connecting it to anything. It was a wireless model.

  As he took the phone, he said, "Any sign of that rabbit?"

  "Cook said she saw him when she went to the garden this morning, milord."

  "Ah, well. Fetch me my shotgun, then. We'll just go and see if we can't give the little bugger something to think about."

  "Yes, milord."

  As the man trundled off to the lockbox where the guns were kept, Goswell dialed the number for the man he wished to reach. It rang once on the other end, and the voice that answered was gruff. The words came out as an uneducated-sounding, "Whot's it, then?"

  "Goswell here. You have some information for me?"

  "Roight, Guv, I 'ave."

  "The usual place, then. Say ... seven?"

  "Gawt it."

  Goswell cradled the phone's receiver, sighed, and shook his head. A pity to have to deal with such men, but this wasn't something that could be delegated.

  Applewhite returned, the open shotgun cradled in one arm, with a pair of the custom-made brass and waxed green cardboard shells in hand. Two shots was all Goswell allowed himself per adventure. If he missed, then the rabbit would live to raid the garden another day. It was only fair.

  The gun was a handmade Rigby Bros. fowling piece, but certainly suitable for bunnies, a sixteen-gauge side-by-side double with Damascus-twist barrels. The water-patterned steel was beautiful, but not up to modern ammunition, so he had his gunsmith make loads that the weapon could digest without blowing apart. They produced quite the smelly smoke, the shells did, when touched off. The smith, George Walker, said he could substitute Pyrodex for the black powder he used, and the smoke would be lessened, but Goswell didn't care all that much. A couple of blasts of #8 birdshot would take Mr. Rabbit right out of the game--if he could but draw a bead on him. That was the trick, for the rabbit seemed to know when Goswell was armed and when he was not.

  Applewhite held out a pair of earmuffs. Goswell glared at the butler.

  "The doctor insists, milord."

  Goswell nodded. "All right, give me the blasted things." But secretly, he approved of the earmuffs. These were electronic hearing protectors, produced by one of Goswell's own companies in France--devil take the Frogs--and he had to admit they were useful devices. A circuit in the headset sensed incoming noise and immediately shut it out, reducing the loud blast to a small pop. However, when they were not picking up explosions, the muffs actually amplified regular sounds, so that one could hear better than normal. Truth be known, Goswell's hearing was not what it had been, and he was seriously considering the implants that would bring back his ability to pick up normal conversation, which had faded appreciably. The implants were apparently good for five or six years, using microbatteries that were somehow recharged by the vibrations of sound upon them. He knew a few chaps and one old lady who had undergone the surgical procedure, and all of them had been most satisfied with the results. Perhaps he would have it done. He had already had the laser surgery on his eyes, didn't even need his reading glasses unless he was very tired. It was a mixed blessing, technology, but now and again it did offer something worthwhile.

  "After I pot this rabbit, have Stephens bring the car round. I'll be going to the club."

  "Yes, milord. Good hunting."

  Goswell smiled. "Thank, you, Applewhite. I will get the rascal, indeed I will!"

  Tuesday, April 5th

  London, England

  Peel drove toward the meeting place where Bascomb-Coombs had directed him, still somewhat unsettled by this new twist in his fortunes. And fortune was certainly smiling upon him. Bascomb-Coombs had caused this morning a new account to be opened at an Indonesian bank, a numbered account upon which Peel could draw, and therein was the sum in Indonesian rupias equivalent to one million euros.

  Just like that, Peel had become a millionaire, and the promise was for much more if he performed his new duties adequately.

  The small office suite was off Old Kent Road, not far from the old South Eastern Gas Works. Not a place Peel would have picked, but perhaps that was just as well, for none of Peel's investigations had spotted the building.

  He turned into the car park, shut the engine off, and walked to the two-story, squarish gray block. The windows were barred, and a guard sat behind a desk just inside the lobby. The guard checked a computer screen, matched the name and face on it to Peel's, and buzzed him through a locked door to a stair.

  Peel climbed quickly, reached the second floor, and turned down the hall toward the office at the end. As he passed other offices, some with windows in their doors, he observed that they all appeared to be quite empty.

  The last door on the right was unlocked, and he opened it and stepped inside.

  "Ah, Major, right on time. I appreciate that. Come in, come in, let me show you around."

  There didn't appear to be much to see. In one corner was a computer desk, a holoprojector and workstation upon it and a leather rolling chair in front of it. A small fridge and stove sat to one side, and there was a fold-out couch next to that. A sign on a door past the couch identified it as a loo.

  Peel raised one eyebrow, as if to say, Show me what, sir?

  Bascomb-Coombs smiled. "Doesn't look like much, does it? But the real works are elsewhere, of course, at Lord Goswell's computer facility in Chelmsford. We are hooked into it telephonically, and to answer your question, yes, quite undetectably. I can do from here what I can do at Chelmsford, and nobody will be the wiser."

  "If you'll excuse my ignorance, Mr. Bascomb-Coombs, just what is it exactly that you do? I mean, I know about the device, what Goswell has told me of it, and I have seen the results, which are certainly quite impressive, but I'm not up to speed on how it works exactly."

  The scientist laughed. "And I doubt seriously I could explain it to you. Turner's Dictum is that "A thing can be told simply if the teller understands it properly," but I'm not sure I entirely understand it myself. And please do not take offense, but I doubt that you have the mathematics and physics to comprehend it if I did have it all. At this stage, my computer is rather like a kitchen match. I can use it to light a fire handily, but I'm not totally conversant with the chemical processes that make it work."

  He smiled, and Peel smiled back. Had the man just called him stupid?

  "I'll give you a basic lesson, if you want. You are somewhat familiar with ordinary computers?"

  "Somewhat."

  "Then you know that most computers are Turing engines that use Boolean logic based on binary operations. You have zeros and ones--quantum bits of information called Qubits--and these are the only choices. It is either one or zero, period. In a quantum computer, however, one can get superposition of both at the same time. It doesn't seem reasonable on the face of it, but in quantum parallelism one can use all the possible values of all input registers simultaneously."

  Peel nodded, as if he had a fucking clue what the man was talking about.

  Bascomb-Coombs went on: "Using Shor's quantum factorization algorithm, one can see that factoring a large number can be done by a QC--quantum computer--in a very small fraction of the time the same number would take using ordinary hardware. A problem that a SuperCray might labor over for a few million years can be done in seconds by my QC. So for a practical matter like code breaking, the QC is vastly superior."

  Peel nodded. "If so, why isn't
everybody using these QCs?"

  Bascomb-Coombs laughed again. "Oh, they would much like to! But it isn't something one whips up in an old mayonnaise jar out in the woodshed. The problem is that the coherent state of a QC is usually destroyed as soon as it is affected by the surrounding environment. What this means is, as soon as you turn it on and try to access it, you destroy it. A bit of a trick to get around that. They've tried all kinds of things over the years: lasers, photon excitation, ion traps, optical traps, NMR, polarization, and even Bulk Spin-Resonance-quantum tea leaves, this last.

  "Wineland and Monroe worked out the single quantum gate by trapping beryllium ions. Kimble and Turch polarized photons and did the same thing. NTC had some early success with nuclear magnetic resonance, and Chuang and Gershenfeld applied Grover's algorithm for a 2Q model, using the carbon and hydrogen atoms in a chloroform molecule. But the problem has always been multiplicity and stability. Until my unit."

  "How did you manage that, if it is so hard?"

  "Because I am smarter than they are," he said. It didn't sound like bragging and, given the results, apparently it wasn't.

  "I lost you back when I said 'Qubits,' didn't I?"

  "Before that, I'm afraid," Peel admitted.

  Bascomb-Coombs smiled. "Don't feel bad, Major. There aren't a handful of physicists in the world who would understand how I've done what I've done, even with the working model in front of them. Your talents lie elsewhere. I shouldn't want to try and knock you about in a dark alley nor go against you on a battlefield."

  Peel acknowledged the compliment with a nod. "Quite."

  "Anyway, what it all means is that I've got a computer that can do wondrous things, and picking locks is at the top of its list. Short of pulling the plug and removing it from any incoming communications, there isn't a computer on earth I can't break into. Money means nothing when you can enter any vault at will. Military secrets are at our beck. Nobody can hide anything from us."