by Tom Clancy
“I heard that, sir,” Gunny said. “It’s regulations.”
“Not for me, it isn’t!” Howard yelled. “I don’t work for you anymore. The rule doesn’t say any piece that comes into the range has to be screwed up, only the ones that Net Force ops carry! And I’m not even sure that applies to the military anyhow!”
“I don’t think you have to yell, John,” Abe Kent said. “I do believe our shooting bench is bugged.”
“He’s right,” Gunny said. He added a nasty smoker’s laugh.
“Them cigarettes are going to kill you, Gunny, if I don’t beat them to it!” Howard said.
“Let’s shoot. We can pretend the targets are Gunny.”
“I heard that. Sirs.”
3
University of Maryland Sports Center Annex
University Park, Maryland
With Marissa Lowe seated next to him on the bleachers watching the fencers, Thorn was about as happy as he figured a man could get. A beautiful woman who loved him and was willing to marry him, a warm seat watching a bunch of top competitors fencing with foils, épées, and sabers, and no place else he had to be. Life was good.
“When is Jamal supposed to come up?” Marissa asked.
“Pretty soon,” Thorn said. “Ah, there he is now—over there.” He pointed.
“He’s black,” she said.
“So are you, last time I looked.”
“You didn’t mention that before.”
“You didn’t know you were black?”
“I will hit you, Tommy.”
“Okay, okay, I didn’t want you overcome with adoration.”
He smiled, but she punched him in the shoulder anyhow.
“Ow. You CIA types are all brute force and violence, aren’t you?”
“With a word in the right ear, I can have you knee-capped, Tommy.”
He laughed. Funny. Smart. Beautiful. Couldn’t get much better than that, could it? She even liked fencing, though she had just started learning herself.
“Jamal is warming up. His match’ll start in a couple minutes.”
“This is a good thing you’re doing here, Tommy.”
He shrugged. Jamal had real talent. He was good with a foil, but outstanding with an épée, and for an inner-city D.C. kid who came to the sport at the ripe old age of twelve, only four years at it, without access to world-class teachers, that was pretty amazing.
Thorn had made a lot of money with some of the software his companies had developed before he went to work for Net Force. Sponsoring a few poor kid fencers around the country so they could get good teachers and gear, and covering their travel to tournaments? That wasn’t much. He’d grown up poor on the rez himself; he knew what it cost just to learn to fence, to say nothing of what it took to compete at a high level. He’d been sent across country a couple of times with money raised from bake sales and car washes. This was the least he could do to pay that back.
Jamal walked toward the piste, the metal mesh-covered strip laid out on the floor.
“Here he goes. Watch.”
Some of this Thorn still hadn’t gotten used to. In his day, all the equipment was pretty much the same as it had been for decades: a blade, connected to a body cord running up your sleeve and down your back, plugging into a floor reel you had to watch out for on fleches or quick retreats, which in turn connected to the scoring box. These days, though, everything was pretty much wireless—well, almost. The body cord still ran up the sleeve and down the back, but now it plugged into a little box each fencer wore at the small of his or her back.
Used to be one of your teammates helped hook you up, spoke some encouraging words in your ear, maybe rubbed your shoulders before you fenced. These days you were more like a Christian sent out to face the lions—on your own. . . .
Jamal stepped up to the en garde line. His opponent, another youth of about the same age, did likewise. The director, a young man who looked to be in his early twenties, told them, in French, to salute, don their masks, and come to guard.
Jamal brought his épée up to his chin, saluted his opponent, the director, and the scorers. He also gave a quick flick toward the spectators before pulling his helmet into place.
“Êtes-vous prêts?” the director asked.
Both fencers nodded.
“Allez!”
“Watch this,” Thorn said.
There were a lot of ways to approach épée: fast and furious, slow and cautious, subtle, strong, leverage, speed. Jamal, like most fencers, could use a variety of techniques and styles, but he preferred slow and cautious. He excelled at capitalizing on his opponents’ mistakes—and he was very, very good at helping them to make mistakes.
So far, throughout the previous bouts, he had been very slow to strike. Now, however, as soon as the director gave the command, he closed the distance as fast as he could, his tip licking out and around his opponent’s blade and landing solidly in the middle of his mask.
“What happened?” Marissa asked.
Thorn chuckled. “Took him by surprise,” he said.
“I could see that. But how?”
Thorn smiled. “Set him up. Most fencing matches are pools—round-robin in the early going—and all fencers watch their upcoming opponents, sizing them up as they face the other people in their pool. Jamal simply changed his tactics here. He knew that this guy had him pegged as a counterpuncher and would be looking for him to once again be cautious, to wait until he had a sense of his opponent before really taking the attack to him. So he did what any good fencer would do: He crossed him up, setting up an expectation in his opponent and then using that to his own advantage.”
Marissa frowned. “Seems kind of dangerous, doesn’t it?” she asked. “Seems like the other guy could do the same thing.”
Thorn grinned. “Exactly. And that’s what makes it so fun.”
On the strip, the director had awarded the touch to Jamal and resumed the fencing. At his command to begin, Jamal once again took the attack to his opponent. He took two rapid steps forward, his blade already engaging his opponent’s, pressed once, twice, and a third time, inside, outside, and back to the inside, then released the blade with a spank.
His tip shot toward his opponent’s inside wrist in a feint, then darted down toward his foot in another feint. As his opponent thrust toward his head, Jamal brought his blade back up, meeting his opponent’s in a partial bind. Deflecting it to the side and ending up striking the wrist.
Touché, Jamal.
“Nice touch,” Thorn said.
Beside him, Marissa smiled. “Hey, I could see that one!”
Thorn laughed. “Yep, that was style over speed all the way.”
“So,” Marissa said, “you want to predict this next touch?”
“Aw, this one’s easy. Jamal will revert to form. His opponent started out expecting him to be cautious and he scored two quick touches by surprising him. Now his opponent will be looking for another quick attack. Jamal will take advantage of that. Watch.”
The director signaled the touch, reset the fencers on their guard lines, and again gave the command to fence. Once again, Jamal rushed forward, but this time his whole advance was a feint. His tip circled his opponent’s, darting in as though he were setting up for another mask shot.
His opponent thrust forward, expecting Jamal to continue pressing and aiming to strike his forearm as he came in, but this time Jamal pulled up, his blade pressing up and out in another bind.
His opponent’s tip brushed harmlessly past the outer edge of his sleeve, while Jamal’s tip circled completely around the blade, maintaining contact and pressure the entire time, and ended up landing solidly on the inside of the wrist.
“See?” Thorn said. “Anticipation will get you killed. My first—and best—teacher taught me that. Jamal is setting up expectations and taking advantage of them.”
Marissa nodded. “So how do you avoid that yourself?” she asked.
Thorn shrugged. “Depends on your philosophy. Western
mind-set: Anticipate everything. Eastern mind-set: Anticipate nothing. Me, I used to follow the Western way. Very active mind, always thinking, always rethinking. These days, I’m much more Eastern: calmer, flowing, more in the moment.”
He looked over at her and smiled at the expression on her face. “Keep fencing,” he said. “You’ll see.”
The rest of the bout went quickly. Jamal had his opponent off guard and on his heels, and took full advantage of it.
Thorn and Marissa went up to him at the end of the bout.
“Hey, Jamal—great match.”
“Mr. Thorn! Thanks for coming!” He looked at Marissa, and there was no disguising the teenager’s appreciation for her.
“Jamal, this is Marissa Lowe. My fiancée.”
God, he loved saying that. He’d never seriously considered getting married before he’d met her. Now, the idea of not having her around most of the time was painful.
“That’s too bad,” Jamal said. “You being taken, I mean.”
Marissa laughed. “Jamal, I’m old enough to be your mother!”
“No, ma’am, I can’t see that at all. You twenty-five? Twenty-six maybe? My sister. Stepsister.”
She laughed again. “Twenty-five? Not for a long, long time. You don’t have much trouble with women, do you?”
“No, ma’am, I haven’t so far.” He flashed a bright smile at her.
“When you get through making moves on my girl, I’ll buy you a soda,” Thorn said.
“Yes, sir, I could use one. Hard work, waving that sword around. Maybe I could show Ms. Lowe how, if she’s interested?”
“Down, Jamal. I’m way ahead of you.”
They all chuckled.
Gibson’s Sporting Club
Quantico, Virginia
“Jesus H. Christ! What are you shooting over there, Carruth? It sounded like a damned bomb going off!”
Carruth smiled. “What’s the matter, Milo, a little noise bother you?”
“When it about blows my damned ears out through my headphones, hell, yeah, it bothers me!”
Milo, a short fireplug of a man, ambled down the firing line. It was just the two of them at the range on this rainy Saturday morning. Milo was ex-Army, a green hat who’d done his time before, during, and just after the second Gulf War, and so Carruth had respect for him, even if he was Army and not Navy. The man had been shot at, he had shot back, and that was worth something in Carruth’s world. They bumped into each other at the range now and then, but they weren’t drinking buddies or anything, though they could slap coins at one another.
Carruth held up the new handgun. “This here is your basic 500 Maximum, aka the BMF. Custom-made by Gary Reeder, down in Arizona.”
“I heard of him. BMF? I bet I know what that stands for.”
“Best-made firearm,” Carruth said, his face serious. Then he grinned.
“Looks like a Ruger Bisley,” Milo said. “Stainless steel?”
“Yep, about a five-inch barrel, but the frame is heavier, and stretched a little, on account of the round being a tad on the large side.” He tabled the revolver and picked up a round of the ammo. “Fifty-caliber. This particular specimen is a 435-grain LBT-hard-cast gas-checked bullet made by Cast Performance—developed by John Linebaugh—for the elephant herds in Wyoming.”
“Ain’t no elephant herds in Wyoming,” Milo said.
“Exactly.”
Milo shook his head. “I stepped right into that one.”
Carruth grinned again. “Forty-eight grains of powder for a muzzle velocity around sixteen hundred feet per second.”
“Christ.”
He handed the round to Milo.
“Lord, it makes a .45 auto round look like a runt. Bigger around and twice as tall. You expecting to run into a rampaging water buffalo out on the Mall?”
“I wouldn’t use one of those if I did.” He nodded at the cartridge Milo examined. “That sucker will punch right through a water buffalo from beak to bunghole and knock down a lion standing behind him. It’s a bit stout for everyday use. Here.”
He picked another round up from the bench and handed it to Milo. It was a little shorter. “This is the carry load. The 510-GNR, an itty-bitty 350-grain LBT bullet, a mere thirty-three grains of powder pushing only thirteen hundred and fifty feet per second. That’s Reeder’s proprietary load. The big one is the elephant-stopper. There’s a medium version, halfway between, pretty good for brown bear. The littlest one? That’s the sissy load—for people only.”
Carruth picked up the revolver and offered that to Milo.
Milo said, “You ever tap anybody with it?”
“So far, no.”
“Not all that heavy,” the ex-Green Beret said. “What’s it weigh?”
“Right at three pounds empty. Got five ports milled into the barrel to help with the recoil, though they kinda make it look like a dragon sneezing flame. Piece costs a couple house payments in a good neighborhood. Want to cook off a few?”
Milo hefted the piece. “A 435-grain bullet with forty-eight grains of powder? You got a crowbar to pry it out when it recoils and buries the front sight in my forehead?”
Carruth laughed. “Yeah, it’s a wrist-breaker, all right. Your basic .357 Magnum? Six foot/pounds of recoil, with a 125-grain round. Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry .44 Magnum? Fourteen foot/pounds. Casull’s .454? Thirty-one foot/pounds. This honker? Talking about . . . seventy-two foot /pounds.”
“Damn,” Milo said. He handed the revolver back to Carruth.
Carruth laughed again.
Milo shook his head. “What’s the point, man? I mean, it’s way too much gun for anything around here—hell, on the whole continent, the one below us, and those across the nearest two ponds.”
“Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it,” Carruth said.
“Yeah, uh huh, right.” He gave the taller man a look.
“Okay. I’m six-two, two-thirty-five, and I can bench-press four hundred pounds. Fifty-caliber is the biggest round allowed by law for a handgun. It’s a man’s piece and I can handle it. No matter what’s coming down the alley in my direction? I can stop it. Lion busts out of the zoo, I can drop it faster than you can blink. Guy in body armor wants to play? I can knock him down and break something even if it doesn’t penetrate the weave—it’d be like getting hit with a sledgehammer. If I need to shoot somebody, he will stay shot. I like that.”
Milo shoot his head again. “You fuckin’ SEALs, you’re all fuckin’ crazy, you know that?”
Carruth nodded. “Oh, yeah. Big-time.” What he didn’t tell Milo was that he had a custom-made horsehide holster and belt made by Kramer Leather for the BMF, and that it was, in fact, his carry gun. Of course, in D.C., any gun was too much—they frowned on concealed carry, or even owning the suckers unless you were in the employ of the local police or some federal law enforcement agency, or were willing to fill out a shitload of paper, get printed, and wait a year for the FBI check to come back. . . . Well, fuck ’em. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Yeah, the piece was a bit heavy on his right hip, but he was big enough to hide it under a jacket or windbreaker. Milo was right, it was too much gun for anything he was going to run into, but he carried it, and the real reason?
Because he could. And someday, he expected he would get a chance to cook with it when it counted.
He expected that would be pretty soon, too.
4
Washington, D.C.
Abe Kent sat in his new apartment in the city and stared at the guitar in the chair. He had taken it out of its case and set it there and, no doubt about it, it was beautiful. He had done enough research when he’d been chasing the Georgian, Natadze, so that he knew what a good guitar looked like, and he liked listening to people who were adept with them, but he had no musical talent himself.
And yet here he was, with a ten-thousand-dollar guitar.
He sighed. He had taken the instrument out and looked at it a dozen times
since he’d gotten it. He didn’t know why, but he felt as if he somehow owed it to the man he’d killed to . . . make use of the thing. He could sell it, or give it to charity, but neither of those felt right. And if he was going to keep an instrument worth that much? It ought not to be sitting in the corner in its case gathering dust.
He sighed again. It didn’t make any sense, but he knew what he had to do. He stood, picked up the guitar, and put it back into the case.
The store was small, in a sleepy neighborhood on the outskirts of D.C., in a little commercial strip mall backed by a residential neighborhood. It was called the Fretboard. It had wrought-iron grates on the windows, curvy patterns made to look like a design element rather than bars to keep thieves out. There were several neon signs in the windows advertising products whose names Kent mostly didn’t recognize.
A bell chimed as he entered. The place smelled like fresh-cut fir, and there were a couple of customers at the counter talking to a long-haired clerk of eighteen or nineteen. The clerk had a soul-patch that had been dyed green, and maybe nine piercings in his ears and nose.
A third man stood nearby, picking out tunes on an electric guitar—he was pretty good. The guitarist was playing a collage, a medley of old rock numbers Kent mostly recognized, and the clerk was laughing.
He looked up and saw Kent with his guitar case. “You lookin’ for Jennifer?” he asked, still smiling.
Kent nodded.
“In the back, down the hall, door on the right.”
“Thanks.”
Kent moved down the hall. He opened the door and stepped into a small practice room with thick egg-carton soundproofing on the walls and ceiling. The sound of the electric guitar went silent as he closed the door behind him.
A woman sat on a stool with one foot propped on a little metal stand, and she would be Jennifer Hart. He had found her through the local classical guitar society. She was at least fifty, and even though that was a decade younger than he was, she was the closest teacher he could find locally anywhere near his own age. Somehow, the idea of it being somebody younger than some of the boots he owned just didn’t seem right. Certainly not some kid with lip hair dyed green and enough hardware in his face to build a waffle iron.