Net Force Part 3

Toni smiled. There were a lot of things she generally let pa.s.s when she heard them from obnoxious men, and condescension had to be high on her list, since she got so much of it. She was only twenty-seven--that got comments, a woman--more comments, and Italian--that one was usually good for three or four Mafia jokes. She wondered why it was men felt the need to behave with her as they sometimes did. Not all men, not all the time, but enough so that it was sometimes a ch.o.r.e dealing with them. More than sometimes, it seemed to her.

Another day, in a better mood, she'd have smiled and shaken her head and turned away, let the boys have their fun. But right now, she didn't much feel the milk of human kindness flowing through her. It had been a long, c.r.a.ppy night, and was shaping up to be a long and c.r.a.ppier day. She didn't need this. And know what? And know what? She didn't have to take it. She didn't have to take it.

So she said, "I'm sorry your education has been so narrow."

Spandex frowned. He knew an insult when he heard it. "Excuse me?"

She smiled wider, as sweet as she could make it. "Which part didn't you understand?"

"Look, ma'am, there's no reason to get snotty."

"Oh, I agree. So, you're a black belt, is that right?"

"That's right."

"Tell you what. Why don't you come over here and see if you can hit me? And I'll show you how my little shuffle works."

Spandex and Eyebrows exchanged glances. Spandex hesitated, and she knew why. This was a no-win situation for him. If he whacked her, he was a big bully picking on a little woman. If she whacked him, his manhood would be in great jeopardy.

"I don't think so, ma'am. I am an expert. I wouldn't want to hurt you."

"I wouldn't worry about that," she said. "I don't think it's likely."

She knew this was not a good thing to be doing. Her guru would be irritated in the extreme to know she was egging this guy on, but she couldn't seem to help herself. The trainee was so arrogant it rose from him like steam from a fresh-cooked hot dog on a winter's day in the Bronx.

Eyebrows waggled the hairy bar at Spandex. "Hey, you don't have to hit her hard. You can pull it. Just show her a couple of your moves."

Spandex grinned. A chance to shine? How could he pa.s.s that up? "All right, ma'am."

He walked closer. When he was about three meters away, he stopped. Bowed. Dropped into a narrow horse stance and edged forward, hands lifted, one high, one low. "You ready?"

She almost laughed. Might as well send her a telegram. "Oh, yeah."

He was fast--and he was smarter than he looked. He didn't try one of the flashy and stupid high kicks. He scooted, stepped in, and fired a quick, hard right punch at her chest, right leg leading. It was a good shot, in balance, aimed where it wouldn't cause her any great damage if she missed deflecting it. Kept his other hand up to cover.

Perfect.

He probably expected her to step back and parry, but that was not how it went in her version of silat, silat, not in this situation. She double-blocked with both hands open, stepped toward him, set her left foot down in a front stance and ducked under his outstretched arm as she swung her right elbow into his ribs under the armpit. Made a nice hollow thump when she hit him. Stopped him cold. not in this situation. She double-blocked with both hands open, stepped toward him, set her left foot down in a front stance and ducked under his outstretched arm as she swung her right elbow into his ribs under the armpit. Made a nice hollow thump when she hit him. Stopped him cold.

Surprised the h.e.l.l out of him, too.

Her feet were already in place. Base Base-- She reached up behind him fast, caught his left shoulder with her left hand. Angle Angle-- At the same time, she reached up and across with her right hand and laid it on his forehead, elbow down. Leverage Leverage -- -- Those things done, she pushed forward, then tugged down and back at his shoulder at the same time she swept his head backward.

Base, angle, leverage. If you had all three, the technique always worked. No exceptions. If you had all three, the technique always worked. No exceptions.

She had all three.

Spandex went down like a chainsawed redwood, hit the mat flat on his back. She could have followed up with elbows, knees, whatever, but instead she moved back two steps. She didn't want to hurt him. Just embarra.s.s him.

The entire sequence, from the time of his punch until she stepped away, had taken just under two seconds.

He rolled up and started for her. "b.i.t.c.h!"

Well. So much for "ma'am."

He probably had a sequenced attack planned, a favorite combination of kicks and punches, fakes, sweeps, before the killer shot that usually worked for him when he sparred for points. If she stood there and let him get to it, it could be dangerous.

She didn't let him get to it.

As he launched a left jab to set her up, she stepped outside with the two-handed block, alligatored his arm with both hands just above his elbow, pivoted, dropped all her weight to one knee and pinwheeled him. Some of the boxing styles did teach their students how to do a little grappling and how to fall, but apparently Spandex's was not one of them.

He did a half-flip, and slammed into the mat on his upper back again, hard enough to knock his wind out. This was all simple stuff, right out of the first djuru djuru. Why work any harder than you had to?

Toni came to her feet, waiting to see if he was going to try a third attack.

Spandex was not so foolish. This time when he got up, he held out one hand in a no mas no mas gesture. Lesson over. He knew when he was overmatched. gesture. Lesson over. He knew when he was overmatched.

Toni felt pretty good, despite knowing she should not have felt that way. Then she glanced at the entrance to the gym.

Alex Michaels leaned against the wall, watching her.

Michaels walked over to where Toni stood. He was in decent shape. He ran three or four miles most days, did a little triking and had a Bowflex machine in his condo for resistance work, but it had been a long time since his hand-to-hand training in the military, and later when he'd joined Net Force. Computer geeks didn't spend too much time in real-world hot-field situations. He thought he could handle himself in most one-on-one situations, but he would not have particularly wanted to take on the big guy just getting up off the mat, and after watching Toni toss the poor joker around like a Frisbee, he sure sure wouldn't have wanted to take her on. He knew from her file what the fighting system was, though he didn't know much about it. Amazing. wouldn't have wanted to take her on. He knew from her file what the fighting system was, though he didn't know much about it. Amazing.

"Very interesting," he said. "It's called silat silat? Where did you learn it?"

She wiped at her face with a towel. "There was a little old Dutch-Indonesian woman who lived in my neighborhood when I was about thirteen. Her name was Susan DeBeers. She was in her sixties, retired, her husband recently dead. She liked to sit on the stoop of the building across the street, smoke a small carved meerschaum pipe and enjoy the spring sunshine. One Sat.u.r.day, four gang-bangers decided they wanted her spot. She got up to leave, but it wasn't fast enough for them. One of them tried to speed her up with a kick."

Toni slung the towel over her shoulder. "These guys were eighteen, twenty, had knives and sharpened screwdrivers tucked into their pockets. I was waiting for a bus, I watched the whole thing. It took maybe fifteen seconds, and I couldn't tell you to this day exactly what she did to them. Here was this little old potbellied woman smoking like a chimney who pounded and threw four thugs around like tennis b.a.l.l.s, kept her pipe in her mouth the whole time, didn't work up a lather. She put all four of them into the emergency room. I decided I needed to learn whatever it was she knew."

"She had a school?"

"No. I walked across the street a couple of days later--took me that long to get my nerve up--and asked her if she would teach me. She just nodded and smiled and said, 'Sure.' I trained with her until after I graduated from college and moved to Washington. Whenever I go home to visit my folks, I work out with her."

"She must be getting up there," Michaels said.

"Eighty-two on her last birthday," Toni said, "and I still wouldn't want to try her head-to-head."

"Amazing."

"It's a very scientific art, based on leverage and angles. It a.s.sumes you'll be fighting with multiple opponents, all of whom will be bigger and stronger than you. So it relies on technique and not muscle, which in my case is a good thing. Normally, women didn't get into it very far, but Guru DeBeers' husband traveled a lot. He wanted her to have something to protect herself." Toni stopped. "But I won't bore you with any more esoteric fighting stuff."

"No, I'm interested. How does this compare with something like boxing or judo?"

"Well. Most of the older arts come from countries long civilized. Things like Chinese kung-fu, Korean taekwondo, j.a.panese jujitsu--they've had hundreds, even thousands of years to refine the techniques. Along the way, some of the really ugly stuff got replaced with more spiritual aspects. Fighting to the death tends to get frowned on in civilized company. Which is not to say that an expert in any of these arts isn't dangerous. A good kung-fu or karate stylist will surely hand you your head if you don't know how to stop him."

"I hear a 'but' in there," he said.

She grinned. "A lot of silat silat came out of the jungle only two or three generations ago. There are hundreds of styles, although most of it wasn't practiced in public until Indonesia gained independence in 1949. It's real primal stuff, designed for one thing--to cripple or kill an attacker. It's not civilized. It is as deadly and efficient as they could make it. If a technique didn't work, the player who used it either wound up maimed or dead, so that piece didn't get pa.s.sed on." came out of the jungle only two or three generations ago. There are hundreds of styles, although most of it wasn't practiced in public until Indonesia gained independence in 1949. It's real primal stuff, designed for one thing--to cripple or kill an attacker. It's not civilized. It is as deadly and efficient as they could make it. If a technique didn't work, the player who used it either wound up maimed or dead, so that piece didn't get pa.s.sed on."

"Interesting."

She grinned. "What you saw here? That was the Bukti, the simple stuff. The parent art, Serak, is a whole new ball-game. Really Really nasty, and a lot of weapon work--sticks, knives, swords, tridents, even guns." nasty, and a lot of weapon work--sticks, knives, swords, tridents, even guns."

"And you're supposed to be a nice Italian girl from the Bronx. Remind me not to get on your bad side."

"Hey, Alex?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't get on my bad side." She laughed. "Okay, so what's up? You didn't come here to watch me beat recruits up, did you?"

"No, it's business. We've got another problem," he said. "Somebody just blew up the main subnet server at the Net Force post in Frankfurt, Germany."

"You mean the CIA post."

"Right. Net Force being chartered to operate in this country only, except in cases of international emergency and requiring Presidential authorization for such operation, of course what I meant was the CIA listening post."

That got a grin from her. "Memorized that right out of the charter, huh?"

"Why, whatever do you mean, Deputy Commander Fiorella? Net Force would never do anything illegal."

She smiled wider. He kind of liked that, making her smile. The idea that an FBI unit set up to do computer monitoring would be restricted to the United States was fairly foolish. There were no borders on the net; the web stretched everywhere, and while you could access most of it from anywhere, certain systems were easier to log into with a certain amount of proximity. The CIA was willing to lend its name to Net Force from time to time, in exchange for certain favors they couldn't get on their own. The CIA wasn't supposed to operate within within the United States, but the United States, but n.o.body n.o.body really believed it did not. really believed it did not.

"Let me clean up and let's go see," she said.

Wednesday, September 8th, 4 p.m. Sarajevo An incoming tankbuster rocket hit the building behind Colonel John Howard's Net Force Strike Team, no more than twenty feet above their heads. The missile exploded on impact, blasting a blackened crater in the eighty-year-old structure. A shower of brick fragments and gla.s.s pattered down around the half-dozen soldiers where they crouched behind a twisted metal Dumpster. It was a sharp rain, but the least of Howard's worries at this point. They had to take the sucker with the missile launcher out fast!

"Reeves and Johnson, flank, left!" Howard said. It wasn't necessary to yell--all of them wore LOSIR headsets built into their helmets; he could have whispered and they'd have heard him loud and clear. The line-of-sight infrared tactical com units had a short range and worked pretty much only if you could actually see see the person you were talking to; on the other hand, they wouldn't be picked up by an enemy with a scanner unless you could see the person you were talking to; on the other hand, they wouldn't be picked up by an enemy with a scanner unless you could see him, him, too, and that was the reason to use them. "Odom and Vasquez, suppressing fire! Chan and Brown, go right! On my command . . . three . . . two . . . one-- too, and that was the reason to use them. "Odom and Vasquez, suppressing fire! Chan and Brown, go right! On my command . . . three . . . two . . . one--now!"

Odom and Vasquez opened up with their H&K a.s.sault subguns, unleashing a canvas-rip full-auto barrage of high-cyclic 9mm's 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 pock-marked 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 weren't armor-piercing hotloads. Helmets and boots were Kevlar, with t.i.tanium 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 weren't as heavy as regular Army issue, since they had no SCBA, no distill, no biojects. For this kind of a.s.sault, in and out in one day, they didn't 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. Howard's great-grandfather, being black, wasn't officially allowed on the force in those days, but the white sheriff he'd 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!" Reeves's voice over Howard's 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 pa.s.sed. 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 h.e.l.lo 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 didn't 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 let's move. We've 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 firefight 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 Force's civilian Commander, Alexander Michaels, appeared over Howard's 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 couldn't keep the interest out of his voice.

"Not in Frankfurt, no," Michaels said, "it's too late for that. But I've 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 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 hadn't 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 wasn't sure about Alexander Michaels yet. 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 hadn't 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 wasn't sure about Alexander Michaels yet.

"I didn't mean to imply otherwise, Colonel."

"Sorry, Commander. We're 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 won't come to that."

"Yes, sir," Howard said. But what he hoped was that it would 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. 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.

"I'll keep you apprised," Michaels said. "Discom."

"Sir."> But Howard wasn't worried about that. He had his own wireheads working the nets. If Michaels's crew got it first, it wouldn't be by much.