Net Force nf-1

by Tom Clancy

  He glanced at the analog clock inset into the car's dashboard — no digital gauges for this beast.

  A sleek Jaguar passed the Viper, and Gridley smiled at it. Oh, yeah?

  He goosed the Viper, felt the jolt of acceleration even in sixth gear as the car surged forward and began to gain on the Jag as if it were standing still. He flew past, seeing the frowning driver's face. Gridley grinned. The Jag didn't have any more, and the Viper wasn't even close to redlining the tach. So long, pal!

  He was still feeling pretty full of himself when he saw the wreck about half a mile ahead of him. A big semi had flipped and turned onto its side, the trailer now blocked all the lanes on his side of the freeway. Traffic was lined up for a quarter mile, and the line was getting longer fast.

  Damn!

  Gridley hit the brakes — carefully, they were top-of-the-line disk but not little-old-granny ABS — and started downshifting. Fortunately, the Viper was as good at stopping as it was at going. He pulled to a halt behind a big Mercedes full of men in hats, then checked his rearview mirror to see that the Jag was also slowing to a stop behind him.

  What the virtual image meant was that someone had bollixed the system link he was using. Whether by accident or on purpose, he couldn't say.

  A European-style siren dopplered and hee-haw-hee-hawed toward the wreck on the other side of the Autobahn, blue lights flashing. That would be the cops — or the diagnostics — coming to see what was what.

  Traffic was now at a standstill on his side of the highway. Gridley vaulted over the Viper's low door; fortunately the tux had plenty of stretch. He'd just mosey over to the cops and see if he could find out what was going on. Surely an Americanized Thai in a tuxedo could get a few answers, especially in his Bond persona…

  * * *

  Tyrone Howard rode the net, wind blasting his bare face — well, bare except for the old-style aviator goggles he wore. These were the only protection he had on the big Harley Davidson XLCH that rumbled along at more than a hundred miles an hour. A classic bike, they didn't make them any-more, and one he was still several years away from being old enough to drive even if he could find or afford one. The thing with VR was that you could do stuff you couldn't do in RW — the real world.

  He was in L.A., had just skirted a fender bender that blocked most of the Hollywood Freeway going north, hauling butt toward the valley when the reminder vox he'd set up warned him of the time. His dad was on the way home, and he'd only have a couple of minutes to visit before he had to take off again. He couldn't tell Tyrone where he was going or anything — that was secret stuff — but at least they could say good-bye. His dad had been excited, even though he had tried to hide it. Too bad Mom was down in Birmingham, visiting her sister. She'd be sorry she'd missed Dad.

  He pulled the bike onto an off-ramp, geared down and rolled into a parking lot. When he shoved his World War I aviator goggles up onto his forehead, the VR band also went up in RW, and all of a sudden he was back in his room. He blinked. RW always looked so… pale compared to VR. Like it was the imitation, and virtual was the real place.

  Just in time. He heard the front door open.

  "Tyrone?"

  "Hey, Pop!"

  Tyrone got up, and nearly tripped on his own feet. Jeez! He was constantly knocking stuff over or slipping and sliding. Grandaddy Carl said that his dad had been the same way at thirteen, couldn't walk down a ten-foot-wide hall without bumping into both walls nine times. Tyrone found that hard to believe, that his dad had ever been that clumsy. Or that he would someday grow out of it.

  When he reached the living room without destroying any furniture, he saw his dad there, in Net Force fatigues, neutral gray pants and shirt over spit-polished black boots. Behind his father, Master Sergeant Julio Fernandez stood by the door, dressed similarly.

  "Hey, Tyrone," the sergeant said.

  "Hey, Sarge. How's it goin'?"

  "Not bad, for an old Hispanic." He grinned. Fernandez had retired from the RA — Regular Army — at the same time Colonel Howard had left. They went way back, had known each other for twenty years. They'd joined Net Force at pretty much the same time. His father had told him that Sarge had said if the colonel could work for civilians, he could manage it, too. But Sarge's love for computers was below zero, and Tyrone thought that was kind of strange, given that that was the business Net Force was in.

  "I wanted to stop by before we took off," his dad said. "I've already called your mother. She'll be back on the commuter flight arriving at eighteen hundred, so you'll only be on your own for a couple of hours. Think you can handle that?"

  Tyrone grinned. "I dunno, Pop. That's pretty scary. After I get home from school, I'll be alone in the house for all that time. I could starve. Maybe die of terminal boredom."

  "Life is hard. Mrs. Townsend is running the car pool today, right?"

  "Right." Rick Townsend's mother had the duty this week; next week it would be Arlo Bridger's mom, the week after that, his mom. The co-op car pool made getting to school and back a lot easier than catching the bus. He was on the mid-morning schedule this semester, so he didn't have to be there until nine-thirty.

  His dad grinned back, then came over and hugged him. "I don't know when I'll be back. You take care of your mother. I'll call when the situation permits."

  "Yes, sir."

  His dad turned away. "Okay, Sarge. Let's roll."

  "You're the colonel, Colonel."

  His dad squeezed Tyrone's shoulder once more, then did a crisp pivot and headed for the door.

  Tyrone felt a sudden coldness in the pit of his belly. His dad never let on about whether his assignments were dangerous or not, but for him to come home when he didn't have to pick up any gear or anything, for all of a whole minute, just to tell him good-bye — well, that made Tyrone nervous.

  Where was Net Force posting his father? And what kind of trouble might be there waiting for him?

  Thursday, September 16th, 7:15 p.m. Grozny

  Plekhanov was in his office in front of his computer. There was no one around this area, and probably no one on the entire floor. The government could not afford to maintain a night shift, though had he wished it, Plekhanov himself could have paid for it. One of the advantages of being a computer expert of his caliber was that stealing money electronically was not a problem — as long as one did not get too greedy. A million here, a million there, and pretty soon, it added up.

  His communication software had reached out and connected him to the Rifle, and now their business was almost completed.

  "Are we clear on what needs to be done, Mikhayl?"

  "Da, we are clear."

  Plekhanov frowned. It was not good that Ruzhyo used a Russian word, though there was not a chance in ten million that anybody would know it. Still, despite that, Plekhanov did not wish to take even that risk. But he would not speak of it during this conversation.

  "The specifications for clothing, hardware and vehicles are in the secure file. Use the second account for funds," he said. "Take as much as you need, we want to do a good job."

  "Yes," Ruzhyo said. "A good job."

  "Is there anything else?"

  "No, I believe that is everything."

  "Good hunting, then."

  "Thank you."

  After the connection had been broken, Plekhanov leaned back in his chair and considered his next action. There were so many small details that must be attended to if the plan was to continue to work properly. A call here, a shaft of information there, a few words whispered into an influential ear at this juncture, all added to the momentum and kept things rolling along.

  Everything was going according to plan.

  Thursday, September 16th, 8:20 a.m. San Francisco

  Ruzhyo felt a little better. It was always good to have a specific chore, a job to be done, regardless of the constraints. He had already set up his contacts with suppliers; the gear they would need for the next step could be assembled in less than a day. Ruzhyo had known what the step
would be, even though it had been a tentative plan until the call confirming it. Knowing it gave him some leeway, and he had exercised it.

  Now, he had to call the Snake and the Texan and get them set. This would be tricky, and in one way, probably more so than the assassination of the federal agent, but not so dangerous. This time, they would have the law on their side.

  In a manner of speaking.

  Thursday, September 16th, 1:15 p.m. Quantico

  In his office, Commander Alex Michaels frowned at the young man sitting across the desk from him.

  "All right, Jay, what exactly does this mean?"

  Gridley shook his head. "I dunno, Chief. I went for a ride on half-a-dozen major highways — netways — and there were wrecks on all of them. Plus a bunch of others I didn't get around to. The cops — ah, the sysops — didn't have any big problems clearing most of them, although the Australian pileup was a real bastard. It was simple stuff, but traffic slowed down everywhere."

  "But we're not talking major sabotage? And it didn't seem focused on one particular system?"

  Jay shook his head. "Well, sort of and no. No piece of it was a biggie, but taken altogether, it adds up to major. Time is money, especially on the commercial roads, and there was a lot of stuff got shuffled because of some of the delays. If some big portion of that was diverted into one pocket, the guy wearing that jacket could retire and buy Cleveland, if he wanted. Though I can't imagine he'd want to. But as far as we can tell, nobody got rich off the snafu — least we haven't found who or how yet."

  Jay paused, blinked, then stared into space as if he'd gone into a trance.

  "Jay?"

  "Oh, sorry. Far as I can tell, no one system was hit any harder than another. It was spread over dozens of links fairly evenly. I've got houndbots sniffing, but none of ‘em have run anything to a source. Whoever built this program is good, real good, ‘cause he slipped it past a bunch of safeguards and the only people who caught him was us."

  Gridley smiled, obviously pleased with that fact.

  "So Net Force systems were unaffected?"

  "Yep. He tried, but he bounced off our wards. Guy's not as sharp as he thinks. He doesn't know who he's messing with. We'll run him down."

  For no reason at all, Michaels had a sudden flare of suspicion. Unless he wanted us to think he couldn't get past our guards.

  "All right. Go and find whoever did this. Let me know how it progresses."

  "You got it, Chief."

  Gridley stood and sauntered from his office. Once the young man was gone, Michaels leaned back in his chair and pondered the situation. Since Steve Day's death, something hadn't felt right. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, but he felt as if somehow Net Force was under attack. It could be nothing more than the professional paranoia of course, that went with the job, but if it wasn't, if somebody was out to damage Net Force, who was it? And more important than that, why?

  He waved a hand back and forth over his com unit.

  From her office next door, Toni said, "Yes?"

  "Hey, Toni. Anything new?"

  "Sorry, Alex, no."

  Day's murder still hung over the unit like a heavy thundercloud: dark, threatening, unresolved.

  He started to say something to his assistant, but decided to hold off. He didn't want to sound like the little boy crying wolf; besides, there was enough on his plate to worry about: the murder investigation, the situation in Ukraine, the other net problems. Better to keep his unfounded suspicions to himself, unless something else came along to give them some weight.

  9

  Friday, September 17th, 5:01 a.m. In the air over Northern Europe

  Colonel John Howard leaned back in the jetliner's seat and nodded at Sergeant Fernandez next to him. Probably one of the smartest things Net Force had ever done was to lease several 747's, then outfit them for fast tactical flights. The big Boeing jets were a long way from the old bone-jarring military transports that were little more than hollowed-out aluminum shells, so noisy you couldn't talk or even think straight. Aside from the comfort factor, there was a very practical reason for this choice: A 747 with civilian markings could land in places where a U.S. military cargo plane would get a Stinger missile up the spout for being stupid enough to try.

  "Okay, Julio, let's run through it one more time."

  The sergeant shook his head. "Begging the colonel's pardon—"

  "There would be a first," Howard broke in.

  "— and no disrespect intended," Fernandez continued, ignoring Howard's comment, "but the colonel must have a brain like a sieve."

  "Thank you for your neurological opinion, Dr. Fernandez." He rolled his finger in the "continue" sign. "Move along."

  Fernandez sighed. "Sir. Ukraine is about the size of France, holds fifty-two million people, has an elected President, and a four-hundred-fifty-person parliament called the Verkhovna Rada. The U.S. Embassy is in the capital of Kiev, at 10 Yuriya Kotsubinskoho. The building used to be the Communist Party precinct and Communist Youth League HQ, before the Ukrainians kicked the Commies out in ‘91. There are one hundred and ninety-eight American employees and two hundred and forty-four Ukrainian nationals working at or for the embassy."

  Howard smiled, but kept it to himself. Sarge never told it the same way twice.

  Fernandez continued. "Kiev has a population of three million, covers forty-five by forty-four kilometers and sits on the Dnieper River, which runs all the way to the Black Sea. This time of year it's still warm, though mostly overcast and about to get rainy. About seventy-five percent of the population is Ukrainian, twenty percent are Russian, the rest are Jews, Byelorussians, Moldovans, Poles, Armenians, Greeks and Bulgarians. Counting yourself, there might be three people of African descent in the country, although some of the Crimeans and ethnic Mongols are a bit dark. You will draw a crowd on the streets, sir."

  Howard waved him off. They had argued about this for half the trip. According to Fernandez, there was no way the colonel should be on this operation. He should sit back at the embassy and direct traffic by radio and satlink. Sir.

  "Go on."

  "Sir. The city is eight time zones ahead of D.C. It has an okay subway and surface street system, lousy radio and TV stations. You can get the CNBC Superstation until noon, and CNN after six p.m., and yesterday's Wall Street Journal and New York Times if you go to a big hotel and are willing to pay half your retirement for a copy of either. If you go into a public bathroom, best you take your own toilet paper, you will need it.

  "Money is the ‘hryvnia,' and one of ours will get you two of theirs at the legal exchanges. The water is okay to bathe in if you let it run a few seconds for the lead to settle out, but you don't want to drink it without boiling it, due to bacteria and intestinal parasites. Radiation levels from Chernobyl are mostly normal, but don't eat local mushrooms, berries, or game animals unless you want to maybe be able to read at night without using a bedside lamp.

  "If you drink alcohol and drive and get caught, you'll probably get thrown into jail, unless it is the militia that catches you, in which case you'll probably be shot on the spot. They drink like fish here, but they walk when they get potted. Zero tolerance for drunk drivers and more power to ‘em.

  "A lot of folks still speak Russian, but the official language is now Ukrainian. The most useful phrase you'll want to know in Ukrainian is, ‘Probachteh, deh cholovee-chy tualeht.' "

  Howard said, "Which means?"

  " ‘Excuse me, but where is the men's room?' "

  Howard grinned, and shook his head. "Keep going."

  Fernandez droned on, but now Howard was only listening with half his attention. Despite his sergeant's concern over his brain leakage, he did know this material. He was just burning it in deeper. Better to be sure than sorry.

  Unfortunately, Sarge was right about him not skulking around on the streets of Kiev. He'd been to China, and everywhere he had gone people had come up to him to stare, and sometimes to touch him. Black wasn't just different
in some cultures; it was amazing. No way could he move around surreptitiously with that kind of attention on him. And yet, the idea of sitting in an embassy command room trading comments with the CIA station chief while his teams went hunting for a terrorist lair did not appeal in any way, shape or form. He was a soldier, a field man before he joined Net Force, and he did not want to spend any more time behind a desk than he had to.

  "— weapons and sub-rosa field gear are scheduled to arrive by diplomatic pouch at approximately 0945, local time. Although diplomatic shipping crate would be more appropriate. FedEx is bringing it in. Ain't that something? We don't need bombers, we can just FedEx it to our enemies, have ‘em sign for it, then set it off. Boom."

  Howard made an appropriate grunt to show he was still awake. So — how was he going to do it, get out on the street? Some kind of disguise? Makeup, maybe? It was his operation, and he ought to be able to post himself to the active side of it. Maybe he could let his units scout things out, then get there for the finale, if it came to that. There had to be a way. He'd already sat out too many wars.

  "— crime is on the rise and we are advised not to go down dark alleys late at night alone." Fernandez grinned. "Bet the local muggers will go into major pucker-factor if they jump one of ours and find themselves target-laser-painted and staring down the barrel of an H&K subgun."

  "Let's not be shooting the locals, even the muggers, if we can help it, Sarge. This is supposed to be a surgical operation, in and out like a lance, no more damage than necessary. We don't want any incidents we can't sweep under a thin rug."

  "Certainly, sir. I'll make sure the boys keep the barroom brawls to an absolute minimum."

  Howard grinned and shook his head again. There was no better man to have at your side or watching your back than Julio Fernandez. He had trouble working a computer that a six-year-old could operate with ease, but when push came to shove, he was the best. He could pin a fly to the wall with his throwing knife, then shoot its eyes out with whatever hardware he happened to be holding, either hand and you pick ‘em.