Net Force

3

Vladimir Plekhanov wiped some of the ever-present dust from the inside of his window and looked down upon the city. Despite the installation of air conditioners and weekly visits from a cleaning woman, there seemed always to be a layer of powder everywhere, fine as talcum, but much darker. Of course, the dust was just dirt now. He remembered a time when much of it had been soot from the crematoriums, the remains of soldiers, civilians and invading Russians. That was a long time ago, almost twenty years, but as he grew older he spent perhaps more time in his room of old memories than he should. Well. Even though he had much to live for yet, and a most rewarding future in mind, he was sixty and should be allowed a glance backward from time to time, yes?

From his vantage point in the corner office on the sixth floor of the Computer Wing of the Science Building — formerly, and briefly, the Military Headquarters Building — he had a good view. Here was the new downtown bridge over the Sunzha River; way over there, the massive Makhachkala Pipelines, delivering their ever-more-precious black fluid to the waiting tankers on the Caspian Sea. Just there, the remains of the barracks where Tolstoy had served as a young soldier. And there, in the distance, the Sunzha Range of the mighty Caucasus.

As cities went, this one was not bad. It was hardly a village — nearly half the population of the entire country lived here — but even so, at less than three quarters of a million people, it was not an overly large city. And in a beautiful country it was.

Oil was still the lubricant that ran Grozny's economy, though it was running out, bleeding away faster than it could have been replaced by ten thousand dinosaurs dying and instantly rotting each day — a thing even Steven Spielberg and all his movie magic could not provide. The flare stacks at the refinery ran day and night, spewing fire and smoke into the skies, but in the not-too-distant future those fiery towers would go dark. Chechnya needed a new base for its economy. A base that he, Vladimir Plekhanov, was going to provide. For even though he had been born a Russian, he was as much Chechen as any man…

The sound of his computer's telephonic program interrupted Plekhanov's musings upon his Grand Plan. He turned away from the window, walked to the door of his office and smiled at his secretary, Sasha. He then closed the door quietly but firmly before turning to his state-of-the-art workstation. "Computer, sound dampers on."

The machine hummed and obeyed the vox command. "Dampers on," it said.

Plekhanov nodded at the machine, as if it could see and understand his gesture. It could not — but he could have programmed it to do so had he wished.

"Yes?" he said in English. There was no visual mode on this line, nor would he have wished for one. Of course, the communication was secure — as secure as the best Russian military encryption program could make it. Plekhanov knew this because he himself had written the program under contract to the Russian Army, and there was no one likely to hear this communication remotely capable of breaking it. Perhaps some of the Net Force operatives might, but they would be… otherwise occupied just at the moment. He smiled. Still, he spoke English because Sasha had not two words of that language; nor did anybody likely to be passing by.

"The job is done," said the voice from thousands of kilometers away. It was Mikhayl, amusing himself by using the name Ruzhyo — thus, Mikhayl the Rifle. A violent man, but loyal, and most adept. The proper tool for the mission.

"Good. I expected no less. Any problems?"

"Nicholas unexpectedly decided to retire."

"How unfortunate," Plekhanov said. "He was a good employee."

"Yes."

"Very well. You are moving into the new quarters?"

"Yes."

Even though the link was encrypted, old habits died hard. Their Spetznaz days were long past, but still deeply ingrained. Plekhanov knew that the hiding place was San Francisco, so there was no need to say it aloud. Should some nascent mathematical computer genius manage to miraculously obtain a recording of this conversation — and even more miraculously, decode it — what would he have? An innocuous dialogue between two unidentified men, bounced off so many satellites and through so many relays as to be untraceable, filled with generalities so bland as to mean nothing. A job? Someone named Nicholas retiring? A move? There was nothing there.

"Well. Continue as planned. I will contact you when further work is required." He hesitated a moment, then realized one more thing needed to be said. Communism was dead and rightfully so, but the workers still needed approbation to feel a sense of accomplishment. A good manager knew this. "You did well," Plekhanov said. "I am pleased."

"Thank you."

That ended the conversation.

Plekhanov leaned back in his chair. The Grand Plan was progressing exactly as he had intended. Like a snowball rolling down a hill, it had begun small, but by the time it was done, it would be vast and unstoppable.

He pushed the intercom buzzer on his desk. A few seconds passed, and nothing happened. He pushed the button again. Still no response. He sighed. The intercom was broken again. If he wanted tea, he would have to go and tell Sasha. He was on the way to being the most powerful man in the world and he had to work in an office wherein the simplest devices were in need of repair. He shook his head. That was going to change.

And that would be but the smallest of changes…

Alexander Michaels had felt better. As his chauffeur maneuvered the car toward 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, he shuffled through the hardcopy printouts yet again, ordering his thoughts as best he could. The town car was bracketed fore and aft by bodyguard vehicles, governmental-gray cars whose drivers and passengers carried enough hardware to sustain a small war. The protocols were pretty clear about what must be done in the event of a high-level federal assassination. The genesis of these protective measures went all the way back to Lincoln. Most people didn't realize that the murdered President had not been the sole target of Booth and his fellow plotters.

Michaels had been to the White House several times, although always as a backup to Steve Day, never on the hot seat himself. And he had every scrap of information the FBI had on the assassination on tap, all duplicated on a small disk capable of holding gigabytes of material, nestled inside a coded plastic case, ready to load into the White House's Secure System. Should something happen to him, anybody who tried to break open the disk's case would be in for a hot surprise when ten grams of Thermoflex went up with enough heat to melt the case, the disk and the fingers of anybody stupid enough to be holding both.

The White House Secure System was a set of special computers without any links to the outside world, along with state-of-the-art antivirals and sweepers installed, so once his information was installed there, it would be safe.

Still, he was tired, had drunk too much coffee, and he wanted nothing more than to find a bed far away from all this and sleep for a week.

Well, too bad. That's not what you signed on for, now is it?

The virgil cheeped.

"Yes?"

"Alex? You ready?"

The Director. "Yes, sir. I should be there in about five minutes."

"Anything new I should know about?"

"Nothing substantial."

"All right. Discom."

The procession arrived at the West Gate. Alex alighted, was checked by the metal detectors, bomb sniffers and an HOS — a hard-objects scanner — this latter a new device designed to keep ceramic or plastic guns and knives from sneaking past. He checked his taser, got a receipt and visitor badge, then ran the gamut of Marine sentries at the door who checked his ID. The Situation Room where his meeting was scheduled was one of the older ones, one level down, under the Oval Office.

Another pair of Marines inspected his badge as he exited the small elevator, and a trio of Secret Service agents in suits nodded or spoke to him as he headed toward the Situation Room. He knew two of them, one of whom had been with the Bureau back when Alex had been stationed in Idaho.

"Morning, Commander Michaels," his old Idaho friend said.

"Hey, Bruce." The term "Commander" still made him uneasy. He hadn't even wanted this job. He sure as hell hadn't wanted it at the cost of Steve Day's life. The silver lining here was that being in charge gave him the best chance of catching Day's killers. And he was damned sure going to do that.

A final check, the thumbprint scanner, and the door opened to admit Alex.

Inside, Director Carver was already seated at a long table shaped like the office above the room, sipping coffee from a china cup. Standing to his left was NSO Assistant Director Sheldon Reed, making a call on his virgil. A middle-aged secretary in a tweed skirt and white silk blouse sat at a small table off to the side, a steno pad in front of her and a voxax unlinked recorder next to the pad, that next to a computer station. A Marine in dress uniform poured coffee from a silver pot into a cup balanced perfectly on a saucer, then set the steaming brew down next to Carver on the right — that would be Alex's seat, and the server would know he took it black. Hardcopy reports duplicating the ones Michaels carried were inside sealed folders that lay upon the table in front of each chair.

Carver smiled his professional smile at Alex and nodded at the seat next to him. Alex was halfway there when the door opened and the President and his Chief of Staff, Jessel Leon, entered the room.

"Good morning, gentlemen." The President nodded at the secretary and smiled. "And Mrs. Upton. I've got a busy schedule, so let's get right to it. Walt?"

"Mr. President. Around midnight, Steve Day, the Commander of the FBI's Net Force, was assassinated. You know Alex Michaels — I've bumped him into Day's chair. He'll lay out the situation as we now know it."

"Helluva way to get a promotion," the President said, nodding at Michaels. He sounded a little nervous. Worrying that maybe he'd be the next target? "Okay, let's hear it."

Michaels took a deep breath, as quietly as he could. He walked to the computer, opened the coded disk packet he carried and handed the disk to the secretary. She inserted the disk, and ran the viral scan. It took all of five seconds. "You're set up for voice command," Mrs. Upton said to him.

"Thank you," Michaels said. "Computer, image one, please."

A holographic projector in the ceiling clicked on, and a three-dimensional image of the assassination scene, photographed from a police helicopter less than eight hours ago, blossomed in the middle of the table.

Michaels began to lay it out. The explosion, the attack, the dead and suspected dead. He did it methodically, taking his time. He had the computer show other views as he talked. After ten minutes, he paused and looked around the table. "Any questions so far?"

"Any other unusual activity regarding federal officials last night?" That from the President. Yes, that was a prudent question. Who might be next?

"No, sir."

"Anybody step forward to claim responsibility, terrorist groups, like that?"

"No, Mr. President."

"Anything on the bombs?" Reed asked.

"The charge under the manhole cover was a U.S. Army antitank mine, and the explosive's taggants identified it as part of a batch that supposedly went into the ground in Iraq during the Gulf War. Likely dug up by some farmer with a metal detector and sold on the black market. Or maybe diverted by a quartermaster before it ever got to Iraq. No way to tell at this point."

"The limpet on the door was untagged, but our lab says it's Israeli small-marine surplus, about five years old."

"Probably pick up one of those at a good-sized gun show," Reed said. He smiled to show it was a joke. He sounded nervous, too. Not really afraid, but a little edgy. Understandable.

Michaels continued: "No prints or DNA dregs on the expended brass, all of which were identical. From the bullets removed from the victims and cars, the ammunition appears to have been factory-loaded Federal 147 gr. 9mm Luger FMJ round-nose, and would have been subsonic from either a pistol or a submachine gun. Extractor marks on the casings show that both types of weapons were used. So far, recovered tags from the gunpowder show the lot numbers to be parts of shipments that went to Chicago, Detroit, Miami and Fort Worth."

"Good luck tracing that," Reed said. "And those guns are probably in the bay by now."

"All right, we have the facts, such as they are," the President said. "How about a theory. Who did it, Mr. Michaels? Who are they going to come after next?"

"Computer, image twelve," Michaels said.

Another holoproj appeared, also from the air, but this one showing a different scene, recorded in daylight.

"This is an FBI archive image of the scene of the killing of Thomas ‘Big Red' O'Rourke in New York City last September. The method of attack was remarkably similar. A bomb went off under the Irish mobster's armored limo, the doors were blown off by limpets, O'Rourke and his bodyguards were killed by multiple rounds from 9mm pistols and submachine guns."

"There have been other killings like that, haven't there?" the President said.

"Yes, sir. Joseph DiAmmato, of the Dixie Mafia, in New Orleans last December, and Peter Heitzman in Newark this past February. The FBI's Organized Crime Unit believes the hits were ordered by Ray Genaloni, head of the New York City Five Families, but the investigation is still pending."

"Meaning you don't have anything concrete yet," Reed said.

"Nothing a federal prosecutor wants to take into court, no."

The President nodded. "So it looks like what we're talking about here is mob related? Not some kind of terrorist activity?"

Michaels was careful with his next words. "Sir. At first glance, it would seem a strong possibility."

Carver said, "If I may, Alex?"

Michaels nodded, happy to let his boss take over. He hoped his relief didn't show too much.

Carver said, "Commander Day was head of the FBI's Organized Crime Unit for several years. During that time, many of the top people in the major New York families were arrested, and half of those were convicted and put away. Genaloni's father and older brother were among those imprisoned. The mob wouldn't lose any sleep over Steve's death. And they tend to have long memories."

" ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold,' " the President said. "Isn't that a Sicilian proverb?" He looked a bit more relaxed than he had. The mob wouldn't be gunning for him.

He stood, glancing at his watch. "I hate to cut this short, gentlemen, but I have pressing matters elsewhere. It looks like this is some kind of mob thing, and while I regret the loss of Commander Day, I can't see that national security is at risk here." He glanced at Reed, who shook his head.

Or their own asses, Michaels thought.

"Okay, Walt, I would like to see this cleared up. Keep me apprised. Gentlemen. Mrs. Upton."

With that, the President and his Chief of Staff left.

Carver moved over to where Michaels stood near the computer. "Well, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No, sir."

"All right. We'll start some heat Genaloni's way," Carver said. "The man won't be able to pee without somebody watching him from inside the bowl. I want you to get your computer people digging."

"Yes, sir."

"Talk to Brent Adams at OC. He'll be told to cooperate. We aren't going to have a turf war here — I'm giving this one to you. The President of the United States has just told us he wants to see this cleared up, and it did not sound like a request to me."

"No, sir."

"That's it. I want situation reports daily, sooner if anything breaks. Anything else you can think of?"

"No, sir. We'll keep you in the loop."

"Good man."

Not until he was back in his car and well away from the White House did Michaels allow himself to relax. This high-level stuff was risky. He would rather be in the field, training new agents, anything, than playing with politicians and security advisors. Here, a misstep, one word out of place, and you'd be counting paper clips the rest of your career. So now, aside from his personal agenda, he had it straight from the top: Find out who killed Steve Day.

Find out — or else.

Fine. No problem. That was exactly what he planned to do, and he had the resources to do it.