Tom Clancy's Net Force

Getting yourself--or some illegal object--into a secure area when you weren't supposed to was not as hard as most people would like to believe. Offhand, the Selkie knew of at least four ways to smuggle a firearm onto a plane, even without resorting to a ceramic one like the little pistol she now had tucked into the waistband of her pantyhose. The pistol was a three-shooter with triple-stack two-inch barrels. The weapon had been illegally made in Brazil for their foreign service operatives from the same hard ceramic the Japanese had developed for those ever-sharp kitchen knives. The caliber was 9mm short, and the ammo was caseless boronepoxy, no cartridges, fired by a rotating piezoelectric igniter. The propellant was a more stable variation of solid rocket fuel. The thing even had a rudimentary rifling in the trio of snub-nosed barrels, though the bullets were light enough so long-range target shooting wasn't an option. The piece had a 20-meter effective accuracy range; outside that, it was fire and hope you had a patron deity if you wanted to hit anything on purpose.

At close range, the nonmetal gun would kill a man as dead as the biggest steel cowboy six-shooter ever made.

The gun had been cast in two main pieces, barrels and frame; the pivots, hinges, screw, trigger and firing mechanism were also ceramic. In theory, the weapon could be reloaded and used again, but in practice, it was a throwaway. Once it had fired its initial load, the internal ceramics got a little fragile. It made a lot more sense to use a new gun than risk having the old one misfire at a critical moment. The trivalent metalloid boron in the three composite bullets contained less metal than a tooth filling. The piece wouldn't pass a hard-object scan, but standing on its end it would likely skate by a fluoroscanner because it didn't look like a gun from that angle, and it would go through any standard security metal detector (continued on page 172) Net Force on the planet without a blip. Laid on a table, the pistol looked almost as if it had been carved from a bar of Ivory soap.

Strapped to her right inner thigh, almost to her groin, was a sheath knife, also of ceramic, full tang, with a plastic handle. The blade was a tanto style, with the angled point, and was both short and very thick--ceramic tended to be brittle, and it needed thickness to keep from snapping if it were going to be used for stabbing and not just throat cutting.

The standard security setups at most government buildings, which were, after all, limited in their funding for such things, involved picture- and fingerprint-identification tags, metal detectors and uniformed guards. If you had business in such a place and were not an employee, the process could be as detailed as the security force was willing to make it. A computer check of your ID, a search of your carry-on and your person, somebody from inside assigned to accompany you wherever you went, these were all standard for basic level-three access. Net Force was a level-three through level-one building; that meant getting into the building itself needed only L3 techniques. More private areas would have tighter wards--palm or retinal scanners, knuckle readers, vox codes and such. She wasn't going to slip through those to her target's office and knock on his door, not without a lot more time to prepare. But, then, she didn't really have to.

Getting to a hard target wasn't necessary--if the target made itself easy and came to you.

With even the smallest computer knowledge, it was easy enough to find low-level employees--secretaries, receptionists, maintenance people--who had worked for Net Force only a short time. To find one who was unmarried and living alone that she could impersonate was even easier. The Selkie could look like almost anybody.

Thus it was that Christine Wesson, a not-too-ugly brunette with brown eyes, age 29, came to the end of her short and probably undistinguished life. And now, a woman who looked enough like Wesson to pass for her to anybody who didn't know her well, wearing Wesson's clothes, came to the southwest entrance--the busiest one--of Net Force HQ. It was a thank-God-it's-Friday, and a crush of day-shift employees arriving for work stood in line at the reader, waiting their turns to slide their ID cards through the scanner slot. It went fast. One swipe, a green light, and you were in.

The Selkie already knew that the card was valid, because it had gotten her into the parking lot--in the late Christine Wesson's eight-year-old rattle-infested Ford.

Christine herself was wrapped in plastic bags in her bathtub under 100 or so pounds of melting crushed ice that should keep the neighbors from complaining about the smell--at least for long enough that the Selkie could finish her work and be long gone.

Once inside the facility there were several places that the Selkie needed to check out, and several other places she could stay to avoid hanging around in the halls.

Two years ago, security people at the interim Pentagon had been found enjoying vids surreptitiously taken of women--and a few men--using the rest-room facilities in the building. Public outcry had been loud and immediate, but the military was long used to ignoring whatever whim-of-the-moment the uninformed civilian public wanted. However, the idea that somebody might see a four-star general's wee-wee as he took a whiz had bothered the brass no end. And who knew but there were similar spyeyes in the congressional or senatorial johns? It was amazing how fast some laws could be written and passed when they were really important. Now, surveillance gear in federal buildings was restricted--at least the cameras were supposed to be kept out of bathrooms. The fake Wesson could park herself in a stall with a book and kill a couple of hours. She could dawdle over lunch in the cafeteria. She could go to the outside smoking area for a frowned-upon but still legal low-tar, low-nicotine cigarette, a pack of which had been in Wesson's purse. With her ID tag twisted on her blouse, she'd be anonymous. Nobody knew her, and it was a big bureaucracy.

While the target was safe in the high-security area, he would surely come out to a less-secure area, if she could find the right reason.

Somehow, she had to figure out the right reason during the next couple of hours.

Sooner or later, of course, the office where Wesson worked would probably notice she had not shown up. They might call her apartment and get the answering machine. No problem, unless, for some reason, those concerned thought to check the building's security computer. If that happened, they would see that Christine Wesson had arrived for work at her normal time--which might cause raised eyebrows. If she was here, where was she? To stall that, the Selkie had asked more or less politely if Christine would do something for her. She had been more than willing to do so. So Christine Wesson had called her supervisor in the office supply section in which she worked and told her she would be a few hours late, that she had an important personal medical errand to run. The supervisor had no problem with that, and a few hours could easily stretch to noon. Then a timed e-mail from Wesson would show up at the supervisor's terminal, explaining that things had run long. A lot longer than anybody but the Selkie knew.

At the least, the e-mail would buy the rest of the day. Which should be more than enough.

Toni Fiorella went through her djurus, pausing after each one to do the corresponding sambut. She was the only woman working out. There were a few men in the gym today, but her student Rusty was not among them. When she'd told him she wasn't going to be sleeping with him anymore, she thought he'd taken it rather well. No obvious anger, no tears, just a kind of surprised acceptance. "Oh?" It had gone much better than she'd hoped or expected.

Except that she hadn't heard from him since. She'd said she was going to try to be in the gym today, and she'd expected him--he hadn't missed a class before--to show up.

Surprise. So maybe it hadn't gone as well as she'd thought.

She came up from the squat in djuru three, threw the right vertical forearm strike, then punched, continued to rise, alternating the next two punches.

She had hoped Rusty wasn't going to quit class. She had been enjoying having a student, and learning a lot in the process of teaching.

But, of course, it was his choice.

She finished the series, shook her hands out. She was still tight.

A brunette in office clothes walked to the water fountain, smiled and nodded at Toni. She didn't recognize the woman, but she nodded absently back. Solving the Rusty problem didn't solve the Alex problem. How was she going to (continued on page 210)Net Force(continued from page 172) get him to notice her?

The brunette went into the locker room, Toni dismissed her from her thoughts, but a moment later, the brunette came out, all upset.

"Excuse me, miss." She said. "There's a lady having some trouble in there, she looks like she's having some kind of seizure! I called Medical, but, oh, m afraid she's going to hurt herself! Can you help?"

Toni nodded. "Sure."

She followed the brunette into the locker room.

His secretary came into Alex Michaels' office. "Commander? Toni Fiorella on the private line."

He waved the secretary off. "Hello?"

"Commander Michaels? This is Christine Wesson, from Supply? I was working out in the gym and Subcommander Fiorella asked me to call you, this is her vigil unit. She's had an accident, Medical is on the way, but I think maybe she's got a broken leg."

"Toni was hurt? A broken leg?"

"One of the exercise machines fell over on her. She says she's OK, she just wanted to let you know she'd be late for her meeting. But between you and me, she's in a lot of pain."

"I'm on my way," he said.

Michaels started for the hall.

Half in and half out of the shower stall, the Selkie held the gun aimed at the woman sitting cross-legged on the tile floor inside. If anybody came in, they would not see Fiorella, nor would they see the gun. She was tempted to shoot her, but she didn't want to risk the noise--or to waste any of her precious ammunition. If something went wrong, she might need the gun to escape. She also might need the woman to get the target in here; after that, Fiorella was as dead as Michaels. She would use the stubby ceramic knife strapped to her thigh under her skin to do both of them. Shut them up in a shower stall, rinse away any blood spatter, and she could be halfway across Maryland before anybody discovered the bodies. A double deletion inside Net Force HQ--they'd be talking about that forever.

Fiorella twitched.

"Keep your hands on your head," the Selkie said.

"You can't get away with this."

"If you wiggle crooked, it won't matter to you."

"We know who you are."

"Uh-huh."

"You're not as good as you think--Mora Sullivan."

That surprised her. How the hell had they found that out? She had a quick spasm of panic, fought it down. Sullivan was just another name now, one more disposable ID. Still. . . . "We're going to have to have a little talk before I leave," the Selkie said.

The woman was scared--as she should be--but she said, "I don't think so."

Gutsy woman. Damn. Too bad she had to kill her.

"Toni?" came a voice from outside the locker room door.

"In here!" the Selkie said. "Hurry!"

She heard the sound of fast footsteps. She grinned.

Give him credit, the Selkie thought. As soon as he saw the gun, he knew what was going on. She quickly pointed it back at the woman in the shower. "Move and she dies."

The target nodded. "I understand. I'm not armed." He spread his hands wide, to show they were empty.

The Selkie shook her head. How stupid of him not to be armed.

"All right. Slow and easy, over here."

Michaels felt the fear in the pit of his belly like shards of cold glass, but he knew he was going to have to go for the assassin anyway. He had to keep her from shooting Toni. And if he was going to die, he was going to go out on his feet, moving toward the threat and not away from it.

He took a slow breath. Held it----

Toni sat very still, watching. She was going to have to make her move soon. She tried to keep her breathing calm and steady, but it was hard. For sure, if Toni didn't do something, the woman was going to kill her and Alex. The gun was one of those ceramic things, but that didn't make it any less deadly.

She could come up from a cross-legged sit, had done it in practice thousands of times. A silat player had to be able to work from the ground. If the woman were six inches closer, she could reach her with a kick.

If, if.

Alex said, "Toni? You OK?"

"Yes," she said.

Alex was getting closer. The gun was still pointed at her, and Toni knew if she moved, she was certainly going to get shot. But that would buy Alex a second or two. She had to do it.

Toni inhaled slowly, a long breath. Held it. Made herself ready----

"Don't move! FBI!" somebody yelled.

Toni looked at the reflection in the shower door.

Rusty!

The Selkie reacted without thinking, almost a reflex. When the man at the locker room entrance jumped into the room, pointing what looked like a gun at her, she swung her own pistol over and fired. The little gun bucked hard in her hand, light as it was, but she saw the man react as the shot took him in the center of mass. He went down. No vest.

The target lunged at her, screaming something.

Too fast to get to the knife. She thrust the pistol at him, fired----

"No!" the woman in the shower screamed. Then she slammed into the Selkie and they both went flying. The assassin lost the pistol, hit next to a bench, managed to roll up as Fiorella also got to her feet.

The Selkie kicked away her shoes, ripped her skirt off, grabbed the knife and jerked it from the thigh sheath, gripped the blade in front of her to slash or stab. She glanced at the target--he was down, hit in the leg, it looked like, and no threat to her. The Fiorella woman was the danger. She was up, trained, prepared.

The Selkie turned to face her, knife held ready. She would have to hurry. The shots would draw attention.

She had first learned street-fighting from her father, who had survived several hand-to-hand encounters. She had trained with half a dozen fighters since, including a couple of Filipinos who were experts with a stick or blade. She would cut the woman down, finish the target and run. If she hurried, she could still get free in the confusion.

She moved toward Fiorella----

Michaels felt the bullet hit him, a hot ball peen hammer smashing against the front of his right thigh. He fell. It didn't really hurt, but he could not, get back on his feet. The shot leg didn't want to work.

In front of him, Toni faced the woman, who had torn off her skirt and pulled a white-bladed knife. The assassin edged toward Toni. It wasn't over. He had to do something----

The gun! She had dropped the gun. Where was it?

Toni actually felt calmer now than she had since the assassin had first pulled the gun on her. An attacker with a knife, this was something she had dealt with in practice, over and over again. High, low. The most important thing was to control the knife--you couldn't trade a punch for a stab, so you had to take high line and low line, you had to stop the knife arm at two points, high, low, to control it.

The Selkie moved in, keeping her balance. Fiorella stood and watched her, waiting, and she looked as if she knew what she was doing. It didn't matter. She had to finish this and go.

The Selkie feinted with a kick, then lunged----

Back of the arm, back of the arm, where there are fewer vessels to get slashed! Guru's instructions came back crystal clear, as sharp as the approaching blade: Against an expert, you will get cut. Give him a sparse target.

The kick was a feint, but the slash was also a feint. When Toni threw up her left arm to block, the assassin jerked the knife back. The edge scored a deep line along the outside of Toni's forearm. She shifted her feet, waited.

Fiorella didn't react to the cut, didn't look at it, kept watching the attacker. The Selkie grinned. She was good, but time was running out.

There was a sequence attack: two feints, a shift of the knife to the other hand, then the heart stab between the ribs, followed by the backslash to the throat. It always worked in practice, and she had also killed a man with it in real combat.

The party was over. It was time to do what she did best, then leave.

The Selkie moved----

The attacker came in again, feinted, faked, thrust, then flipped the knife to her other hand as Toni went for the block. Toni would have been impressed watching from elsewhere, but she didn't have time to be impressed now. All the years of practice had to take over, no time to think anymore!

Toni shifted her stance, passed the fake and did the block and break on the attacker's knife arm. Her right arm stopped the thrust at the wrist--low. Blood flew from the cut on her arm as she slammed the back of her left wrist under the woman's elbow--high.

The arm broke, the knife fell. Toni moved in, went over the wrecked arm and slammed her elbow into the woman's face. Followed her as she hit the lockers, drove a knee into the attacker's belly, then did sapu luar and dropped her to the floor. She hit hard, but she rolled, dived for the knife, caught it in her good hand, came up and cocked the blade for a throw. Her nose was broken and bloody, her eyebrow split.

She knew now she couldn't take Fiorella in a one-on-one, even if her arm hadn't heen broken. One chance. The knife wasn't the best for throwing, but it would back the other woman off if it hit, point or butt. She'd lost, but she could still get away. The Selkie aimed her elbow at the target, knife held by the blade next to her ear----

Michaels found the white gun, rolled over his bad leg--now it hurt!--and shoved the weapon out in front of himself. He yelled to distract the woman who was about to throw the knife: "Hey!"

She didn't waver, started to make the throw----

He pulled the trigger.

The recoil twisted the gun from his grip, and the sound was so loud it was like a bomb going off next to him.

A long moment held. Eons passed. Nobody moved.

The knife flew but clattered to the floor five feet away.

He'd hit her. Right in the middle of the back. The woman dropped to her knees, tried to reach the wound in her back with one hand, could not. She turned to look at him, her face puzzled more than anything. Then she toppled over onto her side.

Toni ran to where Alex lay. "Alex?"

"I'm OK, I'm OK, she just got me in the leg."

The sound of approaching and excited voices rolled over them.

"You're hurt," he said.

"Just a cut. Looks worse than it is," she said. "Stay there, I'll get us some towels."

"I'm not going anywhere."

She got to her feet. Remembered Rusty. She hurried to where he lay. He had a bloody wound in the center of his chest, wasn't breathing, there was no pulse in his neck.

Two of the men from the gym ran in. "He needs help!" she said, pointing at Rusty. She dropped to her knees.

The two men were joined by a third. "We got it, Toni," one of them said. "Go wrap up that cut."

Alex had dragged himself over to where the woman lay. He rolled her onto her back. The assassin turned her head and moaned. She looked at him. Toni moved back toward Alex and the assassin, found a towel and pressed it against the wound in Alex' leg.

"Ow." He looked at Toni. "Thanks." Then he looked back at the woman.

"Son of a . . . bitch," the woman said. Her voice was burbly. Probably bleeding into a lung.

Alex said, "Who paid you?"

The woman was dying. But she laughed, a bubbly noise. "Who----"

She took a rasping breath and started to finish her sentence. And just like that, she blinked out. Whatever she intended to say was chopped off in midsentence. There was a final outrush of air, and she was gone.

Alex and Toni looked at each other. Somebody from Medical ran in. The place seemed filled with people. Toni felt an overwhelming urge to hug Alex. She did.

He let her. And he hugged her back.

Christine was wrapped in plastic bags in her bathtub under 100 pounds of crushed ice.

She would use the stubby ceramic knife strapped to her thigh under her skirt to do both of them.