Point of Impact nf-5

by Tom Clancy

  Now it was time to get the troops out here. He pulled his virgil and hit the emergency sig control in a rapid sequence.

  “Sir?” came a voice.

  Howard smiled. Gotcha now, sucker.

  “Hold on a second.” Howard shot the Neon again. Hit the front tire this time. The car sagged.

  “I want a helicopter with a squad of troops ready to shoot landing twenty meters east of the GPS location of my virgil in fifteen minutes maximum. This is not a drill.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Here is the situation….”

  But when the chopper from Quantico arrived and a dozen of Net Force’s finest hit the ground, fanned out, and surrounded the mortally wounded Neon, the shooter was nowhere to be found. The car was much closer to the tree line than Howard’s car was, and somehow, the would-be assassin had managed to slip away without Howard spotting him.

  Damn!

  33

  Washington, D.C.

  Jay looked up from his flatscreen at the boss and the general. “The shooter’s car was stolen,” he said.

  They were in the airport, in one of the VIP lounges that the boss had access to, waiting for the flight to L.A. If John Howard was rattled about somebody trying to shoot him out in the boondocks where Stonewall Jackson had earned his fighting nickname, you couldn’t tell it by looking at him.

  As a licensed federal agent, however, Howard would be carrying a gun with him onto the plane, this at the boss’s insistence. Both Michaels and Jay had their air tasers with them, too, though Jay had only fired his in the required semiannual qualification sessions, and the last of those had been four months past. He didn’t try to kid himself that he was any kind of gunfighter, even with the nonlethal shock ‘em and drop’em tasers most Net Force personnel outside the military arm were issued.

  “A stolen car. Not a major surprise there,” Howard said. “It would have been too much to hope for that he’d use his own vehicle. I don’t suppose the lab rats managed to get any fingerprints or DNA for a match?”

  “Not yet, sir,” Jay said.

  “That isn’t a surprise, either,” Michaels said. “Not if it was who we think it was in that car. How about Lee’s whereabouts?”

  “That’s a little trickier,” Jay said. “We couldn’t just have the FBI hunt him down and grab his ass, not without tipping our hand. According to a sub-rosa contact we managed with the DEA, Mr. Lee was today taking some personal time. He was in Maryland, visiting his paternal grandmother, who is in a nursing home just outside Baltimore. Accessible on-line records at the Sisters of Saint Mary’s Home for the Aged indicate that Mr. Lee did sign in about an hour before the attack on General Howard, and he signed out ten minutes after the attack. Nobody has gone in and done a face-to-face with the staff to check that yet, however.”

  “How easy would it be to fake the in and out signatures and records?” Howard asked.

  “I could do it with both hands tied behind me and a cold so bad the voxax could only pick up every thirteenth word,” Jay said. “While blindfolded and in my sleep.”

  “That hard, huh?”

  “Shoot, boss, you could do it.”

  “All right, so we get an investigator out there to see if Lee actually did go visit his old granny.”

  “If he was there, that would make it impossible for him to have been the shooter,” Jay said.

  “Let’s just see before we try to cross that bridge.”

  “I’d be very surprised if we can find a nurse or ward clerk who remembers seeing Lee there today,” Howard said.

  “Anything on other forensics at the scene?” Michaels asked.

  “Nothing to write home about,” Jay said. “No empty shells lying on the ground, no blood, no hair, no dropped bar matchbooks or IDs or maps showing how to get to the perp’s house. Shoe prints are a popular brand of cheap sneaker. Fibers from where the shooter kneeled appear to be lightweight gray cotton, probably sweatpants.”

  “And the clothes and shoes and no doubt gloves are probably in a trash bin or burned to ash by now,” Michaels said.

  “This was a pro,” Howard said. “If I hadn’t had that portable cannon, I think he might well have taken me out.”

  “You tell your wife about it?” Michaels asked.

  Howard looked at him. “Would you have told yours?”

  The boss looked uncomfortable. “Maybe. Toni was a Net Force op, she knows how things go sometimes. Of course, she’s pregnant, and I wouldn’t have wanted to upset her once everything was over with.”

  “The local cops weren’t called in, the media doesn’t have it, we’re keeping it in house,” Howard said. “I didn’t want to worry my wife, either. I’ll mention it to her later. After we catch the son of a bitch who did it.”

  Jay didn’t say anything. He’d have told Saji, but she was a Buddhist, they were into the real world and all. He looked around. Technically, they weren’t supposed to be doing this, since it wasn’t really part of their mission statement. Plus they weren’t supposed to be flying on the same jet. If the flight went down, it would take out the commander, the military chief, and the head of Computer Operations, which would be bad for Net Force. The director would be royally pissed; then again, Jay wouldn’t much care about that, being dead and all. What the hell.

  Jay wasn’t worried about flying, that had never bothered him. A plane went down now and then, that was awful, but it was like being struck by lightning. If it happened, it happened. What were you gonna do, stay home all your life?

  He was looking forward to visiting Hollywood. Outside virtual visits, he had only been there once in real time, on a trip when he’d been in high school, part of a computer team entered into a national contest. They’d come in second and should have won, except that one of the twits on his team had flubbed an easy program a third-grader could have managed. As much time as Jay did creating scenario in VR, he felt as if he’d be right at home among the moviemakers. It would be the middle of the night before they got there, and they’d head straight for the hotel, but tomorrow would no doubt be sunny and delightful.

  He spun up the flatscreen’s power, hit the wireless air-net key, and logged via an encoded sig into the Net Force mainframe again. He had VR gear in his bag, but he didn’t like to do VR work in a public place, too many people, no telling who might decide to come up and swipe your luggage while you were sensory deprived and deep in scenario. Probably they’d be okay here in the VIP lounge, but no sense in developing bad habits. He’d just have to do it the old-fashioned and boring way, using the vox controls and hand-jives, a pain, but there it was.

  Banning, California

  Drayne had the air conditioner going full blast in the RV, and Ma and Pa Yeehaw had unshipped the little car they towed behind the RV and gone into town to do a little bar hopping or whatever, while Drayne mixed up a new batch of the Hammer. He’d hold off on adding the final catalyst until he got back to town. Now was a good time to check out the new safe house, and nobody would be looking over his shoulder there while he did the final mix. Once the clock started running, he’d send one of the bodyguards to FedEx with the packages, and that would be that, another forty-five thousand into the secure e-account, and wasn’t life beautiful?

  He grinned. I wonder what the poor folks are doing now?

  Beverly Hills, California

  Mae Jean Kent was an impressive-looking woman, Michaels noted, oozing sexuality, and however powerful her lungs might be, they were certainly augmented with a major pair of headlights, double-D, at least. Toni had been quick to tell him these weren’t real, but nonetheless…

  She was beautiful, blond, tanned, fit, and wore a halter top and hip-hugger pants and sandals. She also wore big sunglasses. She agreed to meet them at some local restaurant that was apparently the place to meet locally, and she was constantly waving at people who passed the outdoor table at which she, Michaels, Jay, and John had been situated.

  “Hi, Muffy! Hey, Brad! I’m sorry, Alex, what was that again?”
>
  “Ms. Kent—”

  “Oh, please, call me MJ, everybody does!”

  Michaels guessed her age at thirty, judging from her hands, but she was acting more like eighteen. Part of the youth culture out here, where you might be over the hill at twenty-five.

  “MJ. So tell me about this beach picture.”

  “Oh, it was a terrible shoot! First thing was, Todd — that’s Todd Atchinson, the director? — was having a major crisis and he ran out of Paxil and was a bear to work with. He just kept yelling at everybody. Then Larry — that’s Larry Wright — had a major fight with his boyfriend, he’s gay, such a waste of a perfect bod, you know? Anyway, Larry was so depressed he just moped around like an old hound dog. And George — I was so sorry to hear that he died, so sorry, but he was a major doper, major — kept getting a, you know, a woody every time we shot a scene together, and they had to shoot around it because his bathing suit was, you know, bulging all the time!” She giggled and took a deep breath, showing off the results of what must have been expensive plastic surgery.

  Michaels wished Toni were here, so she could see just how vapid and unattractive this woman was, despite her looks and attempt at what she thought passed for sophisticated animation.

  Michaels glanced at Howard, who kept a straight face but offered no help. Jay seemed entranced by the rise and fall of MJ’s hooters under the barely-able-to-hold-them halter top.

  “Is there anything you can think of that might have a connection to something called Thor’s Hammer?”

  She turned and waved at somebody passing the tables. “Hey, Tom, baby! How are you!” She made a kissy face at Tom baby.

  Michaels caught the hint of a grin on Howard’s face, but when he looked closer, the grin vanished.

  “MJ?”

  “What? Oh, no, I don’t remember anything about a sore hammer.”

  “Where was the movie shot?” Jay asked. Apparently his breast-induced trance was not as deep as Michaels thought.

  “Where?”

  “Yes. The location.”

  She glanced upward, as if expecting the answer to be written on the underside of the big umbrella sheltering their table. Then she looked at Jay and gave him her full-wattage smile: “Malibu,” she said. “On the beach.”

  Michaels got the gist of Jay’s question and followed it up. “Anything unusual about the location?”

  “Unusual? No, I don’t think so. It was kind of like a private beach, Todd knew some of the owners who had houses right next to it, so they roped it off for the shoot. A lot of tourists came by every day and asked for autographs between setups. I have a lot of fans.”

  “I heard a critic say your performance in Scream, Baby, Scream was first-rate,” Howard put in. He smiled.

  Michaels looked at Howard. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

  “Really? I tried hard to get some subtext into that, but the script was, you know, just full of major problems. Writers just don’t understand what a proper vehicle should be like for actors. They are all hacks out here.”

  Probably used too many big words, Michaels thought. Those two- and three-syllable ones must be killers.

  That was unkind, Alex. This is Hollywood, remember, it’s all about what looks good. It’s not her fault how it works.

  “Well, we thank you for your time, MJ,” he said. “You’ve been a great help to us.”

  “Hey, no problem. I’m glad to cooperate with the government any way I can. If you get a chance to talk to the IRS, tell them to quit auditing me, okay?” She flashed the smile, inhaled deeply, and then turned to wave again. “Barry! How are you!”

  Waiting for the parking lot attendant to fetch the rental car, Howard said, “Well, that was helpful in a major way, you know?”

  Michaels said, “And when did you see Scream, Baby, Scream, John? Dial it up on your room cable last night?”

  “Just my bit to keep the conversation moving,” he said. “Besides, I didn’t say I’d seen it, I said ‘a critic said.’ That would be our staff critic here. I was just taking Gridley’s word for it.”

  “Well, I suppose we should go try Larry,” Michaels said. “And hope that he and his boyfriend have patched things up since Surf Daze.”

  “Or Todd,” Howard said. “Maybe he’s gotten his Paxil refilled.”

  “Maybe we don’t need to,” Jay said.

  Michaels and Howard looked at him.

  “The inscription in the capsule said the grandchildren would know where to find him. I think MJ might have told us.”

  “The beach at Malibu,” Michaels and Howard said together.

  “Big-time drug dealer could afford to live there.”

  “It’s a long stretch of coastline,” Howard said. “Hundreds of homes.”

  Jay said, “But movie shoots in cities have to have all kinds of permits. I can access the records for the surfer pic and find out exactly where the location was. That would narrow it down to a handful of houses. We could check ownership records on those, eliminate some of them.”

  Michaels said, “That’s good thinking, Jay.”

  “I didn’t think you were paying full attention to your work back there,” Howard said.

  “Silicone doesn’t do it for me,” Jay said. “Besides, she’s much smarter in her movies, which ain’t saying much.”

  “Okay, get on-line and find out what you can.”

  “One other thing,” Jay said. “I got a blip during the interview.” He waved the flatscreen, looked at Howard. “Several witnesses, a couple of them nuns, attest that Brett Lee was in the nursing home yesterday when you were being shot at. It couldn’t have been him.”

  “Damn,” Howard said. “Then who?”

  “Maybe your dog crapped on somebody’s lawn,” Jay offered.

  “I don’t think so,” Howard said. “We don’t have a dog.”

  “Maybe you should get one. One with big teeth.”

  The car hop arrived and pulled the rental car to a stop. Michaels took a five from his wallet and gave it to the man, who looked at it as if it were a piece of used toilet paper. Lord, what kind of tips was he used to getting?

  Inside, Michaels said, “Find us a place to go, Jay.”

  “I’m on the case, boss.”

  34

  Malibu, California

  When Tad woke up, he noticed a couple things: First, he was on the deck, with the beach umbrella doing its best to keep him in the shade, but starting to lose that battle.

  Second, there were some men with guns wandering around in the house.

  Fortunately, he recognized one of the gunslingers, so he realized the bodyguards had showed up, and Bobby must have decided to hire them.

  Shit happened when you went into hibernation. You got used to it.

  He looked at his watch, and the date showed he’d been out for a couple of days. Not too bad.

  His head felt as if somebody had opened it with a dull shovel and poured half the beach into it. He was way beyond grainy. All the rest of him just hurt. Bad.

  He managed to get to his feet, using the umbrella for support, and headed toward the bathroom. Once, after sleeping for a couple of days, he had stood over the toilet peeing for more than a minute, on and on, must have pissed half a gallon. For some reason, his bladder never let go while he was out, and he counted that as a blessing.

  The guy with the gun that Tad recognized nodded at him. “Hey, Tad.”

  Tad nodded in return. The name came to him, slow, but there. “Adam. How’s it going?”

  “Good. Bobby’s out. He’s supposed to be back in a while.”

  “Cool.”

  He shambled into the bathroom, cranked the shower up, then stripped. He waited a few seconds for the water to heat up, then stepped into the shower. He stank, and he could pee just as well in the shower.

  He needed to get to his stash. He wasn’t gonna be able to function real well for a couple of days yet, no matter what, but certainly not straight.

  He opened his mouth, let the
needle spray rinse the taste of tar and mold out, spat three or four times, then swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of the hot water. He knew he was dehydrated, and if that got bad enough, his electrolytes could get wacky enough to stop his heart. He’d known guys on speed who hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for a couple of days who’d died that way. Heart just stopped beating.

  He stayed in the shower for ten minutes, letting the spray pound him. He felt a little better when he stepped out onto the cool tile floor and started drying himself with the big fluffy beach towel. A little better wasn’t going to cut it.

  His stash was in the wheel well of his car’s trunk, and the car was parked in the lot of the sandwich place two down from them. When Bobby was running in paranoid mode, which was most of the time, he wouldn’t let Tad keep anything in the house that might get them busted. Not even in the car, if Tad wanted to park it in the driveway or garage or anywhere inside the security gate. Nothing more than you can swallow, Bobby told him, and close enough so you can do that if somebody crashes the gate.

  Tad mostly tried to do it that way. For a while, he buried his drugs on the beach. He had kept his stuff in a mason jar with a plastic lid so no coin-hunter or narc would find it with a metal detector. He would sneak out late at night and bury the jar in the sand. But he’d lost one that way, completely spaced out on where he’d hidden it. And another time, somebody’s dog had dug up one of the jars, so he’d stopped that. The walk to the car wasn’t that far, half a block, but of course, it felt like a thousand miles after a session with the Hammer.

  Well, there was no help for it. He wasn’t going to send Adam or one of his hard-ass friends to collect his dope. He didn’t trust anybody that much except Bobby, and Bobby wouldn’t do it anyway.

  Tad slipped on a pair of raggy black sweatpants, a black T-shirt, and a pair of black zorrie sandals. Might as well get to it. It was gonna take a while.