He glanced at the analog clock inset into the car's dashboard — no digital gauges for this beast.
A sleek Jaguar passed the Viper, and Gridley smiled at it. Oh, yeah?
He goosed the Viper, felt the jolt of acceleration even in sixth gear as the car surged forward and began to gain on the Jag as if it were standing still. He flew past, seeing the frowning driver's face. Gridley grinned. The Jag didn't have any more, and the Viper wasn't even close to redlining the tach. So long, pal!
He was still feeling pretty full of himself when he saw the wreck about half a mile ahead of him. A big semi had flipped and turned onto its side, the trailer now blocked all the lanes on his side of the freeway. Traffic was lined up for a quarter mile, and the line was getting longer fast.
Damn!
Gridley hit the brakes — carefully, they were top-of-the-line disk but not little-old-granny ABS — and started downshifting. Fortunately, the Viper was as good at stopping as it was at going. He pulled to a halt behind a big Mercedes full of men in hats, then checked his rearview mirror to see that the Jag was also slowing to a stop behind him.
What the virtual image meant was that someone had bollixed the system link he was using. Whether by accident or on purpose, he couldn't say.
A European-style siren dopplered and hee-haw-hee-hawed toward the wreck on the other side of the Autobahn, blue lights flashing. That would be the cops — or the diagnostics — coming to see what was what.
Traffic was now at a standstill on his side of the highway. Gridley vaulted over the Viper's low door; fortunately the tux had plenty of stretch. He'd just mosey over to the cops and see if he could find out what was going on. Surely an Americanized Thai in a tuxedo could get a few answers, especially in his Bond persona…
Tyrone Howard rode the net, wind blasting his bare face — well, bare except for the old-style aviator goggles he wore. These were the only protection he had on the big Harley Davidson XLCH that rumbled along at more than a hundred miles an hour. A classic bike, they didn't make them any-more, and one he was still several years away from being old enough to drive even if he could find or afford one. The thing with VR was that you could do stuff you couldn't do in RW — the real world.
He was in L.A., had just skirted a fender bender that blocked most of the Hollywood Freeway going north, hauling butt toward the valley when the reminder vox he'd set up warned him of the time. His dad was on the way home, and he'd only have a couple of minutes to visit before he had to take off again. He couldn't tell Tyrone where he was going or anything — that was secret stuff — but at least they could say good-bye. His dad had been excited, even though he had tried to hide it. Too bad Mom was down in Birmingham, visiting her sister. She'd be sorry she'd missed Dad.
He pulled the bike onto an off-ramp, geared down and rolled into a parking lot. When he shoved his World War I aviator goggles up onto his forehead, the VR band also went up in RW, and all of a sudden he was back in his room. He blinked. RW always looked so… pale compared to VR. Like it was the imitation, and virtual was the real place.
Just in time. He heard the front door open.
"Tyrone?"
"Hey, Pop!"
Tyrone got up, and nearly tripped on his own feet. Jeez! He was constantly knocking stuff over or slipping and sliding. Grandaddy Carl said that his dad had been the same way at thirteen, couldn't walk down a ten-foot-wide hall without bumping into both walls nine times. Tyrone found that hard to believe, that his dad had ever been that clumsy. Or that he would someday grow out of it.
When he reached the living room without destroying any furniture, he saw his dad there, in Net Force fatigues, neutral gray pants and shirt over spit-polished black boots. Behind his father, Master Sergeant Julio Fernandez stood by the door, dressed similarly.
"Hey, Tyrone," the sergeant said.
"Hey, Sarge. How's it goin'?"
"Not bad, for an old Hispanic." He grinned. Fernandez had retired from the RA — Regular Army — at the same time Colonel Howard had left. They went way back, had known each other for twenty years. They'd joined Net Force at pretty much the same time. His father had told him that Sarge had said if the colonel could work for civilians, he could manage it, too. But Sarge's love for computers was below zero, and Tyrone thought that was kind of strange, given that that was the business Net Force was in.
"I wanted to stop by before we took off," his dad said. "I've already called your mother. She'll be back on the commuter flight arriving at eighteen hundred, so you'll only be on your own for a couple of hours. Think you can handle that?"
Tyrone grinned. "I dunno, Pop. That's pretty scary. After I get home from school, I'll be alone in the house for all that time. I could starve. Maybe die of terminal boredom."
"Life is hard. Mrs. Townsend is running the car pool today, right?"
"Right." Rick Townsend's mother had the duty this week; next week it would be Arlo Bridger's mom, the week after that, his mom. The co-op car pool made getting to school and back a lot easier than catching the bus. He was on the mid-morning schedule this semester, so he didn't have to be there until nine-thirty.
His dad grinned back, then came over and hugged him. "I don't know when I'll be back. You take care of your mother. I'll call when the situation permits."
"Yes, sir."
His dad turned away. "Okay, Sarge. Let's roll."
"You're the colonel, Colonel."
His dad squeezed Tyrone's shoulder once more, then did a crisp pivot and headed for the door.
Tyrone felt a sudden coldness in the pit of his belly. His dad never let on about whether his assignments were dangerous or not, but for him to come home when he didn't have to pick up any gear or anything, for all of a whole minute, just to tell him good-bye — well, that made Tyrone nervous.
Where was Net Force posting his father? And what kind of trouble might be there waiting for him?
Plekhanov was in his office in front of his computer. There was no one around this area, and probably no one on the entire floor. The government could not afford to maintain a night shift, though had he wished it, Plekhanov himself could have paid for it. One of the advantages of being a computer expert of his caliber was that stealing money electronically was not a problem — as long as one did not get too greedy. A million here, a million there, and pretty soon, it added up.
His communication software had reached out and connected him to the Rifle, and now their business was almost completed.
"Are we clear on what needs to be done, Mikhayl?"
"Da, we are clear."
Plekhanov frowned. It was not good that Ruzhyo used a Russian word, though there was not a chance in ten million that anybody would know it. Still, despite that, Plekhanov did not wish to take even that risk. But he would not speak of it during this conversation.
"The specifications for clothing, hardware and vehicles are in the secure file. Use the second account for funds," he said. "Take as much as you need, we want to do a good job."
"Yes," Ruzhyo said. "A good job."
"Is there anything else?"
"No, I believe that is everything."
"Good hunting, then."
"Thank you."
After the connection had been broken, Plekhanov leaned back in his chair and considered his next action. There were so many small details that must be attended to if the plan was to continue to work properly. A call here, a shaft of information there, a few words whispered into an influential ear at this juncture, all added to the momentum and kept things rolling along.