His expression must have shown his surprise. She said, “What, you thought because I like knives I have something against guns?”
“Well . . .”
“Silat teaches you to use the proper tool for the job. There are times when a gun is necessary.”
He nodded. “How is Guru?”
“She’s fine. Looks great, no slurring of her speech, seems to move like usual.”
“You aren’t worried that the baby will be too much for her?”
Toni grinned. “He woke up from his nap squalling. Didn’t want a bottle or his binky, wasn’t wet, no poop, just yelling his head off. Guru took him from me and he shut up as if she’d turned off a switch. Click! just like that, and he was cooing and grinning. I couldn’t believe it. I looked at him, said, ‘Who are you? What have you done with my baby!’ ”
Michaels laughed. “Get her to teach you that trick. That’s worth a fortune.”
“You’re telling me. Okay. So what do you want me to do?”
“Same thing you used to do. I’ve talked to the director, she doesn’t have a problem with you being here instead of there. You’ll be a consultant, so we can pay you. This most recent attack on the net/web is surely the responsibility of the same group who hit it before. And if they killed the VP to get the security codes, then they’ve raised the stakes. If they are willing to murder, this is going to get uglier before it gets prettier.”
Toni nodded. “I hear you.”
“So let’s get to it. Your old office is yours again. It’s good to have you back, Ms. Fiorella.”
“It’s good to be back, Commander Honey.”
He laughed.
12
Quantico, Virginia
Any amusement the FBI recruits might have felt on seeing Net Force’s Commander in a sarong over his sweatpants left at least several of those minds after Michaels slammed their owners onto the gym’s mats hard enough so they bounced. He enjoyed this way more than he should. He’d seen the grins when he and Toni walked in, heard a few chuckles from the recruits on seeing his clothes.
They weren’t laughing now, were they?
Toni had shown some simple self-defense moves, using Michaels as the dummy, and he’d dusted the mats pretty good himself. Then she called for volunteers and had him demonstrate the techniques so she could point out what he was doing and why.
He had earned the right to toss these guys, he figured, aside from the sarong-inspired amusement. He’d paid his share of dues. A couple months ago, when Toni had been working with him on his sparring, she’d put on a pair of boxing gloves and had danced in and out, throwing fast punches. He’d gone after her during one attack, trying to surprise her, and he’d forgotten to cover high-line while he was busy blocking a kick. For his inattention, he’d caught a right overhand smack in the left eye. Even with the glove, he’d worn a mouse and shiner for a week after she’d punched him. Of course, he had felt a certain amount of malevolent glee when he explained the shiner: Hey, what happened to you, you run into a door?
No, actually, my wife punched me in the face. She beats on me all the time.
People who didn’t know about Toni and silat hadn’t believed him. Of course, they’d thought he was joking.
“All right,” the FBI combat teacher said. “Everybody see what just happened there?”
The recruits looked puzzled for the most part. Well, no, they hadn’t seen it.
Duane Presser, the big Hawaiian said, “Don’t let that funny-looking sideways stance rattle you—watch his feet, how he angles in and sectors off. You concentrate on his hands, you’re gonna get tripped. You watchin’ his feet, he’s gonna whack you wid dat elbow. Watch alla him. And watch the distance—this stuff assumes a knife in hand, so you got dat extra half-step to worry about. You all see what I mean?”
“I see it, Chief,” one of the recruits said, his voice full of confidence.
Michaels looked at the man. He was young, maybe twenty-five, tall, and fairly muscular in his sweats and T-shirt. He had a couple inches in height and maybe fifteen, twenty pounds in weight on Michaels. He also had a buzz cut, and what was left of his hair was so still so black it looked like a raven’s wing. His skin tone and facial features indicated some Native American background in his ethnic tap. He’d been watching, not volunteering, and Michaels figured that meant he was smarter than some of the first gung ho chargers to step up. It was a good idea to see what an enemy knew before you risked an attack.
That could be a bad sign for Michaels.
“So, you think you can get past his defenses?” Duane asked.
“Yes, sir, Chief, I believe so.”
Duane nodded. “Show us.”
When the big recruit stepped up to the mat, Michaels saw Duane flash his big grin at Toni, where Raven couldn’t see it. He wished he had Duane’s confidence.
When Raven got closer, he said, sotto voce, “Nice skirt, sir.”
Michaels smiled. SOP, trying to anger an opponent. He said, quietly, “Yeah. Don’t look up it while you’re down on the mat, son.”
“Not gonna happen. Sir.”
“Okay. Let’s see. Show me what you got.”
Raven slipped into a side fighting stance, left foot forward, circled his hands over his face and groin. From the smoothness of the movement, Michaels realized the kid had brought this with him when he joined the feds—it was too slick to come from the Hawaiian’s six-week self-defense course.
Raven said, “What I got is a black belt in tae kwon do, sir.” He sneered, bounced around a little, and edged toward Michaels. “But I won’t hurt you too bad.”
Oh, good. A martial arts jock who wanted to prove his stuff was superior. Michaels was, he had to admit, a little nervous. He’d been studying silat pretty extensively with Toni for more than a year, working out hard, practicing pretty much seven days a week, rain or shine, and he was far from a finished student. Still, he was improving. Toni didn’t pull her punches, and she’d had a few people she knew dance with them at the gym a few times, to make sure Michaels had different-sized and skilled opponents, to help teach him distance and timing. He wasn’t great, but he was not a total dweeb anymore. He hoped.
The kid had just made a mistake—he’d bragged about his black belt, which, like the skirt comment, had been to intimidate Michaels, to make him nervous, but he’d given too much away in doing that. If you thought you might be facing a tiger, that could be a problem. If you knew you were facing a lesser cat, that made things easier.
TKD was mostly a sport these days, though there were some old-style guys around who were excellent fighters, according to Toni. The sport guys liked to kick, they did that to score points, and they liked to kick high, to the head. Standing sideways like that, Raven was going to have to use his front foot if he wanted any speed. A spinning or round kick from the rear leg was going to take too long to get there.
All of this flitted through Michaels’s brain fast, a second or two, then the attack came.
Raven danced in and threw a high roundhouse kick at Michaels’s head.
He was limber, and he was very fast. Michaels ducked, and the kick sailed harmlessly over his head. As Raven came down, Michaels tapped him lightly on the ribs, no force, to see what the kid would do.
Raven sprang back, out of range. “That punch wouldn’t have done anything,” he said.
If he really knew how to fight, then that tap should have convinced him he’d made a mistake. If he was rattled, however, it didn’t show.
Michaels glanced over at Toni. She shook her head. The kid didn’t have a clue.
He came in again, twirling and throwing a quick combination of kicks—a front snap, roundhouse, and axe-kick, intending to bring his heel down on the top of Michaels’s head or shoulder with the last technique. It was a good sequence, fast and well-executed.
He must have expected Michaels to back up and block, since that was probably what he was used to seeing, and if that happened, he would tag him.
Michaels d
idn’t back up.
Instead, he dropped low as he stepped in and caught Raven on the hamstring of his kicking leg with his right shoulder. No punches, no counterkick, no sweep, just a step and the shoulder—
The kid flew backward, lost his balance, and fell. He managed to turn the fall into a diving half-twist and roll, and came back up. “No problem!” he said, too loud and too fast.
Now he was rattled. A smarter, more experienced fighter would have backed up and thought about it, gotten cautious, but Raven hardly paused. He knew this stuff, he was gonna make it work!
The third time he came in, he threw a powerful right punch and right snap-kick at the same time, and if he was pulling either, Michaels couldn’t tell. The kid wanted to whack Michaels, for embarrassing him, and he wanted it to hurt. He was extended, balanced on the ball of his left foot, his supporting left knee almost locked.
Michaels slid in, blocked the punch with a left heel-hand to the kid’s face while scooping the kick aside with the back of his right hand. He pushed with his left hand and lifted hard with his right, palm toward the floor like he’d been taught, and Raven went back and down, stretched out horizontally. He slammed into the mat flat on his back, and the impact knocked the wind out of him. Before he could move, Michaels dropped next to him, swung his right fist up and over and down in a hammer blow that landed smack in the middle of Raven’s chest. He pulled it some, but it still hit hard enough to make a nice thwock! on the sternum. Then he opened his fist, slid his hand up to the kid’s throat, and pinched his windpipe. With any pressure, he could break Raven’s voicebox, and the kid knew it.
Raven slapped the mat, to show he was done, but Michaels kept the pressure on the throat pinch. He said, “On the street, you can’t tap out. If I squeeze, you’re a dead man.”
The look of panic on Raven’s face was what Michaels wanted. He relaxed his grip, rocked up onto his feet and stepped away, turned in a half-circle with a crossover siloh back-step, and looked for more potential attackers.
There weren’t any. He relaxed, moved back to where Raven still sprawled, and put out a hand to help him up. The kid waved him off.
Michaels wanted to make sure the lesson stuck, so he said, quietly, “Thanks for not hurting me too bad, son.”
Raven shook his head. Youth would be served—but not today.
The Hawaiian grinned real big again and said, “Okay, so what’d he do wrong?”
A short redheaded woman with freckles said, “He got out of bed this morning?”
Everybody laughed—well, except for Raven there, just sitting up.
Raven came to his feet, gave Michaels a choppy nod, and said, “Okay, it works pretty well for a fairly big guy like the commander. But how about somebody like little Red Riding Hood there against somebody my size?” He pointed at the woman who’d spoken.
Michaels looked at Toni, and shook his head as she stepped onto the mat.
“Let me show you,” she said.
Poor kid just had to learn things the hard way, didn’t he?
On the Bon Chance
Santos thought about gold.
Ouro, the shining yellow metal that was the real measure of wealth. Missy was talking about fiber optic trunk lines crossing rivers underneath rail bridges, but Santos was wondering when he could get to a coin dealer to buy more Maple Leafs. He could do it on-line, of course, but he didn’t trust computers. Too easy for them to crash, especially now. He grinned a little at that.
No, he would rather get to the Mainland and one of the dozen or so dealers he used, each who knew him under a different name, none of which were his own.
The spot price was down a little from last week, only ten or twelve dollars, and the coin prices were higher than spot prices for bullion, of course, to cover minting and such, but still, this would be a good time to buy.
Missy said, “—the main cables cross here, and here—” as she pointed at a map of the United States.
Canadian Maple Leafs were the standard for gold coins. They were pure—99.99 percent gold, unlike the American Gold Eagles, which were only 22-karat, alloyed with a few grams of silver and copper. Krugerrands were only 90 percent gold, even more alloy in those, though they were good for working the berimbau string. Chinese Pandas were so-so. The Australian Kangaroos and Koalas were better, nearly as good as the Canadian, but the Maple Leaf was the way to go, for gold. Everybody in the world knew this.
Platinum? That was different. The American platinum Eagles were okay, and this metal was harder and worth almost twice as much as gold at current market prices. He had a few of those, but the white metal seemed colder, more . . . sterile than gold. He had nearly two hundred one-ounce Maple Leafs now, and in a few months, he would have three times that many. A year from now, maybe a thousand altogether. Paper came and paper went, especially back home, but gold was forever. When he had a thousand coins, then he could go home. It would not be enough to make him a millionaire, but still, he would be a man of substance. Worth more on the black market there than here, too. He could teach his art and not worry about the rent. If he had students who were adept but poor, he could carry them, as his Mestre had carried him. Then he could get serious about his art, study all day, every day—
“Are you listening to me, Roberto?”
He smiled at her. “I am listening, though I do not see why I should bother. A trained monkey with a stick of dynamite could do this.”
“And he’d be cheaper and would eat less than you,” she said. “But we aren’t going to blow up anything. We take out a section, no matter how big, they can fix it in a matter of hours. Even if we took the bridge down, a boat would lay a temporary cable in a day or less. No, we cut it in six places, each break many miles apart. They fix one, it still doesn’t work. They find the second one and fix that, it still doesn’t work. By the time they find the third break—which will be in a remote area and booby-trapped, tempers will be very short at the phone company. They’ll have to hire more inspectors, more security. We wait a week, then do it again, in six different places. They’ll be tearing their hair out.”
“A good plan,” he said, more to keep her happy than because he really cared. Cutting plastic cables was no work for a fighter. A man needed challenges, real challenges, from other men. Facing off, one-on-one, or one-against-many, that was worthwhile. But such work allowed him to amass wealth, and that was a goal to be attained for the long run.
He followed her with half his attention, nodding or murmuring now and then so she would see that he was listening, but considering with more of his thoughts the more important question of acquiring more gold . . .
San Francisco Bay San Francisco, California
John Howard’s assault team swam through the cold and murky waters, using rebreathers instead of scuba to better hide their exhaust bubbles. The wetsuits and gloves were the best quality, but the chill still seeped in around the seals. They used flippers and muscle power, no sleds or scooters, to make sure they didn’t make any noise a sound sensor listening for motors might pick up.
The target was two hundred meters ahead, and they wouldn’t be able to see it until they were almost there. Not that they would miss it—an oil tanker almost as long as three football fields and riding deep and heavy in the water wasn’t something you were going to swim around or under with it laying broadside to you—it drew more than ten meters. At five-meters approach depth, what they would see would be a wall of steel plates above and below.
The tanker had been hijacked in Indonesian waters by Tamil terrorists and sailed to a spot just outside San Francisco Bay to draw attention to the terrorists’ cause, whatever the dickens that was. If their demands were not met, they would, they threatened, blow the vessel to kingdom come, allowing hundreds of thousands of gallons of crude oil to escape along the California coast.
Such an event would be an ecological disaster, not to mention very bad for tourism from Big Sur to Santa Barbara, at the least.
This wasn’t going to be allowed to ha
ppen. While authorities negotiated and delayed the terrorists, Howard and his team moved. The plan was simple: Get to the ship, scale the hull, prevent the terrorists from rupturing the bays holding the cargo, by whatever means possible. They would have to be quick, and they would have to be perfect—one psychotic with a fast hand would be disastrous.
They weren’t expecting enemy frogmen, but they were prepared, just in case. Their dive suits were equipped with the latest high-tech toys. They had LOSIR coms, infrared sensors, and bubble comps that fed heads-up displays in their full-face masks. Aside from that, each member of the six-man team carried weapons that would work in water or in air. Primary defensive arms were the Russian 5.56mm APS underwater assault rifles. These were selective-fire, gas-operated weapons. The firing mechanisms for these were based on the Kalashnikov rotating bolt system, and except for the oversized magazines that held twenty-six rounds, they looked a lot like an AK assault rifle. The projectiles were drag-stabilized darts, the cartridges based on 5.56 X 45mm NATO rounds. The darts were twelve centimeters long. The effective soft target killing range in air was slightly over 100 meters. The underwater range at this depth was about thirty meters. In water this murky, if you were close enough to see an enemy diver, you would have more than enough punch to take him out—the fléchettes would blast through a face mask or wetsuit, no problem.
Each of Howard’s divers also carried 7.62 X 36 H&K P11 dart pistols, five-barreled weapons with sealed chambers. The effective range of these was much less than the Russian assault rifles, about thirty meters in air, half that or less underwater. Furthermore, once you’d fired your five shots to reload the weapon you had to send it back to the armorer—it was a factory-only procedure. Howard figured if it came to that, things would be pretty bad—if two dozen-plus rounds from the Russian weapons weren’t enough to do the job, another five from the handguns probably weren’t gonna help too much. Still, it was better to have it and not need it . . .
Cybernation (2001) Page 10