2
Quantico, Virginia
When John Howard walked into the range, he heard, “Tens-hut! General in the house! Morning, Brigadier.”
Howard fought the grin, but lost. Amid the familiar tang of burned gunpowder, Sergeant Julio Fernandez stood at ramrod attention, a perfect salute in place. Any crisper and he would have crinkled.
“No such thing as a brigadier anymore, you know that.”
“It has a nice ring, sir!”
“At ease, Lieutenant,” Howard said. He returned the salute.
“Not funny, John.”
“Hey, I can do it, you know. Me being a general now instead of a colonel. What do you think, Gunny?”
Behind Julio, the rangemaster grinned. “Oh, yes, sir, I believe Sergeant Fernandez is excellent officer material, sir. Never has earned his money.”
“I get promoted, first thing I’ll do is fire your sorry ass,” Fernandez said. “You’ll be out whitewashing rocks on the parade ground eighteen hours a day.”
Gunny laughed. “Long arms or sidearms today, sir?”
Howard said, “I believe the sergeant needs a lesson in how to shoot his pistol.”
Gunny nodded and set two plastic boxes of ammo on the counter. The blue box contained .357 cartridges, the orange box 9mm. Howard grabbed the blue box, Fernandez the orange.
“Lanes eight and nine,” the rangemaster said.
Howard put his earplugs in as he headed for the entrance to the gallery, Fernandez hurrying to beat him to the door so he could hold it open. “Let me, General. I wouldn’t want you complaining you hurt your hand or anything after I shoot the pants off of you. I never got to beat a general before.”
“And not likely you’ll start today, Sergeant.”
In their respective lanes, the two Net Force military men set their ammo down and started up the holoprojectors. They used identical scenarios when they went for scores against each other, so there would be no doubt who had outshot whom.
Howard slipped the Fist paddle holster with his Smith & Wesson .357 Model 66 revolver nestled in it into his waistband and adjusted things. The S&W was an antique, stainless steel and not nearly as efficient as the polymer tactical pistols Net Force issued. The H&Ks and the Walthers carried almost three times as much ammo, and had all kinds of bells and whistles—lasers, suppressors, flashlights, all very modular. Until recently, the Smith had been pretty much stock, unmodified. Howard had allowed Gunny to talk him into trying a red dot scope, a tiny one that mounted where the iron sights were, which had improved his shooting immediately. Even so, it felt like sacrilege—the old wheel gun was as much talisman as anything, his good luck piece, and in the same category as the tommy gun he had gotten from his grandfather. It worked, but it couldn’t really run with the newer hardware out there, even with the Tasco scope.
Julio was still smiling every time he saw the scope, too.
“You ready, John?”
“Crank it up.”
Fernandez was using his blued Beretta Model 92, not as ancient as the Smith, but certainly not in the same class as the tactical pistols, either. Two old and grizzled types they were, set in their ways. If they weren’t careful, the future was going to blow right past them.
The mugger, armed with a crowbar, materialized thirty feet away and ran toward Howard. He snatched his piece out of the holster, brought it up, and did a fast double tap, aiming at the chest. The mugger stopped and fell down. The holographics on the range were pretty good, and the computer registered the hits and kept track of everything.
“Got me by a quarter second,” Fernandez said from the other side of the bullet-resistant barrier. “General’s luck.”
“Right,” Howard said. “Rack ’em up and I’ll show you how lucky I really am.”
The second mugger had a long knife, and Howard’s first round caught him a hair high, just at the base of the throat. Good enough, since the second round didn’t go off. Instead, there was a metallic pop! and the cylinder jammed.
“Got a mechanical malfunction here!” Howard yelled. He kept the weapon pointed downrange, waiting.
Julio came around the barrier, an eyebrow raised in question.
“Something broke. Cylinder won’t turn.”
“I’ll get Gunny out here to take a look. So much for your six-for-sure theory.”
The rangemaster said, “Sorry, sir, but sooner or later, everything wears out. You probably put thirty or forty thousand rounds through this thing over the years, you got to expect it to metal fatigue and start nickel-and-diming you to death. I can fix it, but it’s gonna take a few days to get the parts and get ’em installed.”
“General will need a loaner,” Julio said. “Can’t have him walking around naked. Why don’t you show him the Medusa?”
Gunny smiled and went to the gun safe. He came back with a Styrofoam box. On top of it was a little pamphlet. It said “Phillips & Rodgers, Inc.,” over a little logo with a reversed “P” and an “R” separated by a big “I.” The words “Owners Manual” were under that. Gunny handed Howard the pamphlet. Howard flipped it open to the first page and saw “Firearms Are Dangerous Weapons” in bold print at the top of the page.
He shook his head. That’s what came of too many lawyers without enough to do. A maker had to warn you that a gun was dangerous. What was the duh-factor there?
Gunny opened the box. Inside was a flat-black revolver with what looked like ivory grips. It had an unfluted cylinder, and seemed like a K-frame S&W with a funny-looking squared-off and grooved barrel.
Fernandez took the revolver from the rangemaster. “General, this here is a P&R Model 47, aka Medusa. Three-inch, match-grade, one-in-nine twist barrel, 8620 steel, heat-treated to 28 Rockwell, with a vanadium cylinder at 36 Rockwell. Got a neat little red fiber-optic front sight, and fully adjustable rear sight. Coated with black Teflon, so it won’t rust.”
He handed the piece to Howard. It felt good, familiar, if it looked a little squarish for his tastes. “You getting a commission from these people, Julio? And why would I like this more than my Smith?”
Fernandez grinned widely. “Well, sir, if we can’t get you to use a semiauto, at least we can get you closer to the current century. These first came out in 1996, I believe, and they have a big advantage over your antique Smith. They will chamber and fire everything from an anemic .380 ACP to the hottest .357 Magnum rounds, and a whole bunch of stuff in between. You can load it up with any variation of 9mm you can think of—Kurz, Largo, Long, Luger, Mauser, Parabellum, Steyr, whatever, as well as .38 ACP, .38 auto, .38 Super, or .38 Special. Bunch of other calibers will work, too, but the manufacturer doesn’t recommend ’em.”
“And how many cylinder changes do I have to carry to accomplish this miracle? Three? Five?”
“No, sir, not a one. Pop the cylinder and push back on the extractor rod.”
Howard did so. The extractor looked very odd.
“Those are springs, those little things in the chambers. Anything that’ll fit, they’ll hold in place, and it’ll cook ’em off just fine.”
“Really?”
“Yes, sir. You happen to find yourself on a battlefield somewhere and you run out of .357, you can always find 9mm somewhere, it still being the most popular military caliber worldwide. It’ll shoot the stuff we use in our subguns.”
Howard looked at the gun. “What’s the catch?”
“Well, sir, there are three. It doesn’t much like speed-loaders, because of the springs. You can make them work, but there’s a little trick to it. Speed strips would be better, and they are easier to carry anyhow. Second, if you are going to mix calibers, you should shoot the longer stuff first, so as not to gunk up the chambers. And third, if you are mixing calibers, the sights won’t be dead-on for the different ones, so you have to adjust the rear sights. But that’s the same with mixing bullet weights, and most of the time, you’ll be shooting the same ammo. Still, you can put a different caliber in every chamber and fire them off just fine. At close range, you don’t need to worry about the sights, anyhow.”
Howard hefted the revolver. “Interesting.”
Gunny said, “Only thing I got in .357, General. I have a snubnose Smith M60 in .38 Special if you want to try that, but even with plus-P, it ain’t much gun, and it only holds five.”
Julio nodded at the Medusa. “Why don’t you put a few through it, long as we are here? Unless you want to, uh, forfeit the match?”
“You wish.”
Gunny said, “Lemme see your ring, sir.”
Howard nodded and slipped the Net Force signet ring from his right third finger. It looked ordinary enough, but inside the mounting was a tiny computer chip powered by a capacitor whose stored electricity came from a small kinetic generator, basically a little weight that shifted back and forth. As of a month ago, all Net Force who carry and field-issue sidearms, subguns, and rifles were equipped with smart technology. The guns had an internal chip that kept the actions from operating unless they received a coded signal. The rings sent the signal, and had a range of a few centimeters, no more. The Net Force guns were all tuned to the same signal, so if needed, they could shoot each other’s weapons, but if anybody not wearing the transmitting signet ring tried to fire a Net Force small arm, it would simply refuse to go off.
Howard was not happy with the things, but he had been made to understand that there was no choice in accepting them. All federal agencies would eventually be using smart guns, and the FBI was taking the lead.
So far, the new guns had operated at 100 percent, no failures. So far.
Gunny put the ring into a slot on the coder and checked the program, then did the same for the new gun. “All set, sir.” He passed the ring and revolver back to Howard.
Howard looked at the gun as he slipped the ring back on. The theory was fine. If your kid found your weapon and hadn’t been taught properly, at least he wouldn’t shoot himself or one of the neighbors. It wasn’t foolproof—somebody could snatch one of the rings and use it—but it was supposed to keep Net Force people from being shot if they lost a gun in the heat of battle. And once a month, you were to run your ring through a coder that reset the command signal, so any lost rings would no longer work after thirty days. He didn’t like it, but that was how it was going to be. End of story.
Back at the lane, Howard loaded the revolver using his .357 ammo. The shells were a little harder to put into the chambers than they were in the Smith, but not that much harder.
He set a stationary bull’s-eye at fifteen meters, lined the sights up. The front sight had a red dot on it, easy to see under the overhead lane lights. He squeezed off a round. He was surprised. Even though it fired the same cartridge, the recoil seemed considerably less than the Smith. Probably because it was a heavier piece, plus the barrel was a half-inch longer. He looked at the counter. A centimeter below dead center. Probably zeroed at twenty-five meters.
He cooked off the rest of the cylinder, and managed a grouping that went maybe four or five centimeters, all in the X ring. Damn. This was great for a gun he’d never fired before. Hell, it was great for a gun he’d been shooting for years. Pointed fine, too; it felt very ergonomic in his grip.
“Not bad for an old guy,” Julio said. “Want to get back to it?” He waved at the target.
“You and the Beretta you sleep with against a gun I’ve just picked up? Right.”
“Tell you what, to make it fair, I’ll go and borrow that snub .38 Special Gunny has. Ten bucks says I can beat you with that.”
“If you are determined to give up your money, Sergeant, I will take it.”
Fernandez grinned. “Be right back.”
London, England
Toni Fiorella deflected Carl Stewart’s right punch to her throat with her own strike at his face—
Because he had his punch backed up with his left hand, the wipe was there, and he took it, and fired a backup elbow at her temple—
Because her strike was also covered with her off hand, she had the parry for his elbow and she rolled it aside—
Carl switched tactics, twisted, went with her move, looped his parried hand across her chest and stepped in for a throw behind her leg, the kenjit—
Toni dropped her weight, knees bent deeply, leaned forward, and reversed the move, snapped her own foot back, caught his leg for a beset takedown—
Carl leaned in, put his head on her shoulder, stole her base, and switched feet—fast!—and did the inside sweep, sapu dalam—
She wasn’t quick enough with the counter, and she went down, dived and tried to make it into a roll, but he was there, tapping her on the floating ribs with the heel of his wrestling shoe, just hard enough to let her know he had the shot.
Toni grinned, took his offered hand, and got back to her feet. The entire sequence had taken maybe three seconds.
“Good series,” he said.
“Yes.” They were alone in the school where he taught his classes, a version of the Indonesian martial art of pentjak silat that was similar to her own system. Toni had been training since the age of thirteen; she knew the eight djurus of the entry-level style called Bukti Negara, plus the eighteen djurus of the more complex parent art, Serak, and until she had met Carl Stewart, had never sparred with anybody who could beat her. Well, except for her teacher, Guru DeBeers. Guru was in her eighties now, still shaped like a brick and dangerous to anybody who might be stupid enough to think she was a helpless old lady, but if push came to shove, Toni knew she could best her teacher in a fight. Barely.
That was the thing about silat; it didn’t depend on strength or speed, but more on principles. In theory, a player always expected to go up against bigger, stronger, and multiple opponents, who were probably armed, and at least as well trained. Being able to survive and even prevail under such circumstances meant your technique had to be very good, and your system absolutely scientific. There were no perfect arts that would handle every possible attack—when Toni talked to martial artists who claimed their ancient systems were complete, she’d always ask them which form taught them how to defend against a twelve-gauge shotgun at thirty feet—but some arts were more effective than others. In her opinion, silat was better than most. Of course, she would think that, given her years of training in it.
Carl glanced at the wall clock. “Got an hour before the beginning class gets here. You want to get a cup of tea? Or coffee?”
Toni hesitated a second, then said, “Sure.”
There was no reason not to. Alex was back in Washington, and she was still not happy with him. She had programmed her com to bounce his calls, though he still tried to get through at least once every day. They were officially broken up, and she didn’t work for Net Force anymore. She had enough money to stay in London through the summer, if she felt like it, then she was going to have to find a job, and that would have to be back in the U.S. Meanwhile, she was learning a lot from Carl, who was easily the best silat player she had ever seen in person. He was a good twenty years older than she was, but there was an attraction that went beyond martial arts. He was in good shape, good-looking, and, she had found out by accident, rich. He hadn’t pushed it, but Carl knew she and Alex had split, and he was interested in her as a woman.
So far, she hadn’t pursued a relationship beyond exchanging ways to beat attackers to various kinds of pulp. So far. It was tempting—Alex had done so with Angela Cooper, the MI-6 operative they had worked with on the Goswell operation, and Toni was still very much pissed off at him for that. Yeah, sure, she had stumbled with Rusty that one time, but that was before she and Alex had become lovers. That didn’t really count.
The thing was, as angry as she was at Alex, as much as she wanted to break things and yell herself hoarse at him, she still loved him.
It was kind of hard to get around that, loving him.
Still, Carl was here, he wanted to get to know her better, and there were no strings on her. She had an idea that Carl would probably be a caring and considerate lover, and she and Alex hadn’t spent much time making love the last few weeks they had been together, and that had been more than a month ago. It was a thought.
Carl was halfway to the door before Toni realized she was lost in her thoughts.
She hurried to catch up with him.
“I’ve been thinking, there’s a place you might like to see,” he said. “You busy Saturday morning?”
“Not at all,” she said.
“Fine. I’ll pick you up at your flat. Around eight A.M.?”
“Great.”
Quantico, Virginia
Howard had to admit that the P&R had some advantages over the Smith. He recovered the sight picture for his second shot quicker, and the slightly longer sight radius made him more accurate. He was doing better than he usually did with the Smith, and for a new gun, that was fairly amazing. The trigger was crisp, maybe four pounds single-action, ten or so double-action. These people did good work on their hardware. Made in Plano, Texas, according to the information stamped into the black steel. Who would have guessed that? Texas.
Even so, Julio was beating him, just barely. And using a snub-nose Chief’s Special he had never shot before, that ought to be impossible.
After the last go-round, Howard put the Medusa down. He liked it. He could use it for a few days until the Smith was repaired.
“Sergeant Fernandez, bring that little revolver here, I want to take a look at it.”
“God hates a sore loser, John.”
“Let me see it.”
Fernandez came around the barrier, holding the .38 Special snubbie on his palm, cylinder latch up.
Howard looked at the weapon. Stainless steel, two-inch barrel, plain ramp-and-notch sight, nonadjustable. The grips were black plastic, boot-style, cut small so as not to reveal a concealed weapon under a thin jacket. The Chief was basically a smaller version of his revolver, a J-frame to his K-frame, a five-shooter instead of a six-honker. In the hands of an expert, this gun could certainly put the bullets on target, but the short barrel and minimal sights made such a thing difficult on a good day without a lot of practice. Julio shouldn’t be able to do it right out of the box.
“Satisfied?” He started to pull his hand away.
Howard grabbed the revolver and turned it over. When he did, he noticed the little bulge at the top of the other grip panel. At the same time, he felt the small button on the inside of the grip, under his middle finger. “And just what is this?” He pointed the gun downrange and squeezed the grips.
A hundred meters away, a bright red spot appeared all the way out on the back wall.
There was a laser built into the grips.
“You cheating bastard. You set me up.”
Julio laughed. “Gunny showed it to me before you got here. It’s from somebody called Crimson Trace—cool, ain’t it? You adjust it with a tiny little Allen wrench, right there, and up there, and it fits inside a regular holster. Doesn’t add any appreciable mass or weight, and unlike a dot scope, you don’t even have to bring the weapon up to eye level, you can hip-shoot. Gets a couple thousand rounds per set of batteries, and you can carry a spare set in the other grip panel. They make ’em for K-frames, too, so you could get them for the Medusa or the Smith.”
“You work for these people, too, Julio?”
Julio laughed again and pointed at the dancing dot. “Old guys like us, we need some advantages. You can see that sucker a couple hundred meters away in the dark and, according to Gunny, it shows up okay at handgun combat range even in daylight. Wherever the red spot is, that’s where the bullet hits. If it’s foggy or you’re worried about giving away your position, you can use the regular sights, ’cause the laser don’t get in the way. Gunny says they make these for a whole bunch of guns, including my Beretta. I’m gonna get one before Joanna has our kid and we have to start putting away every penny for his college education.”
“God hates a cheater more than he does a sore loser.”
“No second-place winner in a gunfight, John. You know that. What do you think about the Medusa?”
It wouldn’t do to admit to Julio how much he liked it, so he said, “I can force myself to use it until Gunny gets the Smith back on-line.”
Julio gave him a knowing grin. “Ah. I see.”
They’d been serving together too long for Howard to get much past his old friend. He grinned. “Okay, so it’s a great piece, you happy?”
“You working for these people, John? Getting a commission on sales?”
It was Howard’s turn to laugh, and he did.