Odom and Vasquez opened up with their H&K assault subguns, unleashing a canvas-rip full-auto barrage of high-cyclic 9mms from hundred-round drum magazines.
Reeves and Johnson bailed left and dodged their way across the street, stutter-stepped for the cover of a big tractor-trailer. The truck was long dead, the tires burned and melted away, the metal of the cab and trailer pockmarked with old bullet holes and darkened by soot and graffiti.
Chan and Brown bailed right, adding fire from their weapons as they ran broken-field lines across the killing zone.
The modified SIPEsuits the team wore should be enough to stop most of what the locals had to throw at them. The vests and pants were of cloned spider-silk hardweave, and held pockets of overlapping ceramic plates that would turn pistol or rifle bullets, provided they werent armor-piercing hotloads. Helmets and boots were Kevlar, with titanium inserts. The backpack CPUs were shockproofed and double-ceramic-plated. The tactical comps encrypted radio, satellite uplinks and downlinks, gave heads-up ghost displays, with motion sensors, IR and UV spookeye scans, terrain maps, even instant flare-polarizers built into the helmets retractable blast shields. The Net Force suits werent as heavy as regular Army issue, since they had no SCBA, no distill, no biojects. For this kind of assault, in and out in one day, they didnt need full infantry bells and whistles; even so, the suits added twenty pounds to a wearer.
Howard popped up and shoved his Thompson submachine gun over the top of the Dumpster, cooking off several three-round bursts at the hidey-hole where the guy with the rocket launcher was. The tommy gun was definitely low-tech, an antique built in 1928, and had first belonged to an Indiana sheriff during Prohibition. Howards greatgrandfather, being black, wasnt officially allowed on the force in those days, but the white sheriff hed worked for knew a good man when he saw one, regardless of his color, so there was an unofficial Negro who spent twenty years making good money enforcing the law, even if it was off the books. When the sheriff died, he left the tommy gun to Grampa Howard. They called it a Chicago typewriter in those days.
No time for a stroll down memory lane now, John
!
Duck
!
The rocket man had kept his head down, too, but somebody in the stairwell with him let loose a return blast of small-arms fire that pinged and clanged against the heavy Dumpster. Its battered steel was still thick enough to turn the bullets. Howard was glad of it, too, suits notwithstanding.
Fire in the hole! Reevess voice over Howards com interrupted the sounds of gunfire.
The grenade Reeves tossed into the stairwell went off. More shrapnel spanged against the Dumpster, and the stink of burned explosive washed over Howard, along with smoke and dust.
Two seconds passed. All shooting stopped.
Clear! Johnson yelled.
Colonel Howard stood. He saw Johnson grin at him and give him a thumbs-up gesture. Howard returned the grin. His men-well, five men and a woman-stood at the ready, weapons seeking possible targets as they scanned the street and buildings for more trouble. It would be stupid in the extreme for a local to stand up and wave hello to the nice Americans just at that moment.
Howard tapped his helmet flatpad, toggled on his heads-up display and got a digital time-read. He usually kept the display off when things actually got hot-he didnt want to be shooting at phantoms created by his computer. You were supposed to ignore such things with enough practice, but when real bullets started zipping past, it was amazing how many well-trained soldiers opened up on a heat-sig icon or a flashing timer in a heads-up display.
Good job, people, but lets move. Weve got six minutes to get to the rendezvous point.
The team started to move out-
Abruptly, the men, the street, the buildings faded. They went ghostly, transparent, then blinked out.
Priority call, John, a crisp military voice said.
Howard blinked, raised the VR eyeband and sighed.
He was in his office at the Net Force HQ, and the fire-fight in Sarajevo had been a computer simulacrum, not a real battle. It was nothing to keep playing at when there was a priority call on-line. Put it through, he told his computer.
The head-and-shoulders image of Net Forces civilian Commander, Alexander Michaels, appeared over Howards desk.
Howard nodded at the holoproj. Commander Michaels.
Colonel. We have a situation I thought you might want to monitor.
The explosion in Germany? Howard said.
Yes.
My people are already aware of it. Are we talking about an insertion here? Howard couldnt keep the interest out of his voice.
Not in Frankfurt, no, Michaels said, its too late for that. But Ive got all our listening posts and subnets on alert, especially in the European theater. Better make sure your Strike Teams are ready.
My Strike Teams are
always
ready, Commander. He felt the stiffness in his voice, but could not help that, either.
He had yet to get used to taking orders from a civilian, a man whose father had been a career Army noncommissioned officer, but who had never spent any time in the service himself. Yes, the President of the United States was the Commander in Chief of the military, and yes, the current one hadnt done any time in the service, either. But he was smart enough to let his generals do their jobs. Steve Day had been Navy, and that was bad enough; Howard wasnt sure about Alexander Michaels yet.
I didnt mean to imply otherwise, Colonel.
Sorry, Commander. Were on Alert Status Two. I can have my top ten teams airborne in an hour-half that if we go to AS-One.
I hope it wont come to that.
Yes, sir, Howard said. But what he hoped was that it
would
come to that. The sooner his troops got a chance to show what they could really do in a hot zone, the happier he was going to be. If you were going to be a warrior, you needed a war now and then-or a police action at the very least.
Ill keep you apprised, Michaels said. Discom.
Sir.
But Howard wasnt worried about that. He had his own wireheads working the nets. If Michaelss crew got it first, it wouldnt be by much.
Best he put them to work to be sure they didnt miss anything. He reached for the com again.
When he went on-line, Plekhanov still used old-style helmet and gloves, even though the newer systems didnt need either. These days, holoproj imagery could englobe a viewers field of vision with a simple eyeband no wider than a pencil, and the reader software behind a computers holocam could pick up finger-jive command language and translate it as accurately as even the best gloves. But he liked the gloves, was used to them. Just as most keyboard-ing was now Dvorak pattern instead of Qwerty, another system he hadnt switched over to. He didnt care what anybody said. Forty-five years of muscle memory just didnt go away and allow itself to be replaced by something else simply because the new method was more efficient.
He waved the web to life and said, Olympic Peninsula Trail.
The VR gear took over, producing an image of a temperate rain forest, a narrow path bounded on the sides by tall Douglas fir, thick ferns and patches of assorted fungi-mushrooms, toadstools and the like. Early July afternoon sunshine slanted down through the dense canopy of evergreens and alder trees, and painted the forest with slats of light and dark. Insects buzzed, birds chirped; a pleasant warmth, not overly hot here in the shade, suffused the woods.
Plekhanov was dressed in sensible hiking clothes: a khaki shirt and shorts, knee-length polyprop socks, waffle-stomper trail boots. He also wore an Irish rain hat. He carried a stout walking staff his own height, and a small day pack containing a rain poncho, a water bottle, a plastic bag of trail mix, a compass, a flashlight, matches, a basic first-aid kit, a Swiss Army knife and an emergency cell phone/ GPS unit. Though he planned to keep to the trail, it was always better to be prepared than not.
In his day pack, he also had the sealed packet he was to deliver.
He walked along the edge of a stream, listening to the cold and clear water burbling over smooth stones. Here and there, he saw small fish in quieter pools. He enjoyed the scent of fir, the feel of the humus-padded earth under his hiking boots, the empty trail, devoid of other humans.
After walking briskly for a time, he stopped and had a drink of water. While he was resting, he examined his watch. The device was a match to the one he had carried for more than fifteen years, a Russian analog-mechanical pocket watch. It was a Molnija, big, heavy, mostly steel, with an eighteen-jewel movement. This model had the hammer and sickle and star on the back and an inset of the Kremlin on the hinged front, and was a commemorative model celebrating the Russian victories in the 1941-1945 war. After the breakup of the Soviet Union, cash-poor Russia had sold everything that wasnt nailed down to anybody with the money to buy it, and such watches had gone for ridiculously small amounts. If you could find a non-digital timepiece this well made and sturdy in the West-and you could not-it would have easily cost ten times as much as he had paid for this one.
He thumbed the button, and the hinged cover popped open. He looked at the Roman numerals. Almost time for his meeting at the big rock on the coast. He snapped the cover closed. He needed to hurry. At the rock-a massive chunk of weather-beaten stone near the juncture of the Pacific Ocean and the Straits of Juan de Fuca at Cape Foul-weather-Plekhanov would deliver his packet to a courier. The courier would take the package by fishing boat-in this scenario, at least-to a certain fat man who had access to certain systems, and the fat man would, in exchange for the packet of valuables-in this case, binary jewels he could sell-cause to be put into effect a small series of electronic snowballs. By the time these reached their destinations, some of them would be no larger, just like balls of hard ice, but some would be veritable avalanches. Whatever was needed.
A small animal darted across the path in front of Plekhanov-a rabbit or perhaps a raccoon?-and there was a commotion in the ferns as the creature passed through. The man smiled. This was one of his favorite trips. He much enjoyed the counterpoint to the reality. Walking along a wooded trail was as far removed from computers and nets as the moon was from the Earth. No small irony here.
Naturally, such musings turned his attention to technology, and the uses to which he had been putting it of late. Most of it had been in VR or sublinks. Not all, of course. Sometimes the real world needed real actions.
The physical destruction of the CIA/Net Force post in Germany had been one such action, crude, but necessary. Too much electronic tampering with programmers as adept as the best of Net Forces hackers would send up a warning flag. A bomb, on the other hand, could come from any wild-eyed radical. There had to be some alternation. The kind of software and viral attacks he was about to launch on systems in several of the Commonwealth of Independent States, in the Baltics, even on a Korean or Japanese system or two, just to keep people guessing-well, those would be of a different nature.
There were going to be hundreds of programmers and systems engineers cursing and sweating soon, and much chaos to rectify. When chaos came, his talents were going to be in great demand. And who better to fix things than the man who knew exactly how they had been broken?
The trail wound to the left, then the right, and broke out of the forest into a sandy area dotted here and there with sedge grasses or stunted ground cover. Surf pounded on the rocky shore only a kilometer or so away. He saw the fishing boat anchored well offshore, and a high-bowed dory motoring from the larger vessel toward the shore. Come to see him, to collect what he carried, then to do his bidding. The weather was going gray, fog rolling in, and it was also growing chilly. Appropriate for this scenario.
Here was VR power, the ability to create such visions, but VR power was but a small part of his talents.
He laughed aloud. It was good to be in control. And it was going to get better, very soon.
6
Tuesday, September 14th, 11:15 a.m. New York City
Ray Genaloni put the phones receiver down gently. Excuse me, but isnt this supposed to be a secure line? He did not raise his voice. He might have been asking about the weather. He pointed at the flashing red diode on the little electronic tap-detector connected to the telephones base. That doesnt look particularly
secure
to me.
Luigi Sampson, his enforcer, as well as the Vice President in charge of Security for Genaloni Industries-the more or less legal side of the operation-shrugged. The feds. They got stuff we cant get commercially.
Genaloni ground his teeth together. He mentally counted, slowly.
One
two
three
He had been working to control his temper for most of his forty years, and he was a little better at it than he used to be.
four
five
six
Twenty years ago, when Little Frankie Dobbs had given him a similar shrug for something that had pissed Ray off, he had beaten Little Frankies head in with a Louisville Slugger. Killed the idiot, ruined a nine-hundred-dollar suit with blood spatter, and had to beg his father for forgiveness because Little Frankie was almost a made guy and the son of an old friend besides.
seven
eight
nine
ten.
All right, Ray said, feeling a little more in control, even if his anger was still hot and churning in his belly. As long as it didnt show, that was the thing. He had come a long way since Little Frankie. He wasnt going to fly off the handle and start doing stupid stuff, not now. He had a degree in business from Harvard. He was the CEO of a major company, not to mention head of the Family and all
those
businesses. Take it easy, find out whats going on.