Breaking Point

  “Jay. Hello. Earth to Jay?”

  “It’s the same technology, Boss, pumping juice into the air without wires! The HAARP people aren’t doing anything Tesla didn’t think of a hundred years ago.”

  “All right, I’m impressed. He was a genius. Get to the point.”

  “Well, according to my mole in the CIA—and that’s for the benefit of any CIA ops listening to our conversation, good luck on finding him—even after the demise of the evil empire, the Russians continued their experiments with ELF radiation, using devices that Tesla would have recognized as his own. Ivan hasn’t found the magic combination yet, that we know of. Aside from HAARP, which is the biggest, there are other ‘atmospheric heaters’ like it all over the world, at least a dozen, not counting any somebody might be hiding in the woods somewhere. And using the ionosphere to bounce off of—like playing pool, you can bank the shot—any one of them could be driving the Chinese bonkers—if they’ve figured out the correct frequency to do it. And given what we know, it seems as if somebody might have figured it out.”

  “Sounds like science fiction to me.”

  “No, that is the point, Boss—it’s old tech, the root stuff. Anybody with some wire and a lot of time on his hands can produce it. It’s the frequency stuff they need, not the hardware. It’s like plug-’n’-play; you don’t need to be a whiz to get it to work. Tesla did the basics a century ago. Certainly a theory we ought to check out.”

  “And how do you propose we check it out?”

  “Hey, that’s the fun part. We go into the wonderful world of VR and hunt it down on the net. I bet that somewhere,

  sometime, somebody has put something about this into the ether, and even if they hid it, I’ll find it.”

  Michaels nodded. Mind control. A scary thought.

  “What about Morrison? Are we checking him out?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m paying his files a visit this afternoon. I’ll get anything anybody knows about Dr. Morrison or my name’s not Lightnin’ Jay Gridley.”

  Michaels just shook his head again.

  17

  Saturday, June 11th

  Portland, Oregon

  John Howard watched his son watch the boomerang throwers. The contest was going full steam, several events at once, and the air was full of bright plastic bits spinning in all kinds of flight patterns. Outside of computers, this was the first thing that had ever seemed to really attract Tyrone. Well, not counting that little girl who had broken the boy’s heart a few months back. What was her name? Belladonna? It had to happen eventually, of course, and maybe sooner was better than later, but it had been a wrenching experience. And your first heartbreak never went away, not altogether. Howard could remember his own with a clarity he wouldn’t have thought possible more than twenty-five years after it had happened. He’d even told Tyrone about it, trying to ease his son’s heart-sickness. Maybe it had helped. He liked to think that it had, a little.

  Ah, yes, beautiful Lizbeth Toland, who had betrayed him at sixteen with his best friend, costing him both of them. It was a lifetime ago, and in the grand scheme of life, it didn’t mean much, a tiny bump in the road, but not something that ever quite went away. Even after all the years, he could still summon up the sadness he’d felt, though it had lost the painful sting it had once had.

  Ah, well, it was the path not taken, and he didn’t have any regrets about the one he had gone down instead. If he’d wound up with Lizbeth, then he’d never have met Nadine, never fathered Tyrone, and he would have missed entirely the life he enjoyed. It was possible that other life could have been better, but he couldn’t see how. He wouldn’t trade Nadine and their son for all the money, fame, and power in the world.

  He smiled at Tyrone and his new girlfriend, and their enthusiasm for this whirly-twirly sport. Fortunately, Little Nadine didn’t seem to be evoking the same sexual response in Tyrone that Bella had; they were more like pals, and Howard was happy to see that. Plenty of time to play that game later.

  After a career in the service, first the military, then taking over the military arm of Net Force, finally rising even in this bastard service to general, he now felt a need to spend more time with his family.

  It seemed like yesterday that he’d gotten married, a few hours ago that Tyrone had been born, and here he was already a teenager. It would be but a blink of an eye before the boy was off to college, getting married himself, maybe having children. One day, Howard would look down, and there would be this little version of Tyrone standing knee-high to him, saying “Grampa! Grampa!”

  It made a man stop and consider his life, such thoughts.

  “Where did you go?” his wife said.

  “I was just thinking about my grandson.”

  “Oh, really? Something you haven’t told me, John?”

  “No, no, I meant Tyrone’s son.”

  “Lord, he’s only thirteen. Let’s give him a few more years before we start asking for grandchildren!”

  He put his arm around her. “Okay. Two years, Granny.”

  She leaned her head against his chest. “Nobody is ever going to call me ‘Granny,’ not in this life, no way, no how.”

  Coeur d’Alene, Idaho

  It sure hadn’t taken long, Morrison reflected. He’d made the call yesterday, and less than a day later, here was a black limo carrying a Chinese agent pulling to a stop in the hot Idaho afternoon ten feet away from him. He swallowed, his mouth dry.

  Standing a few feet away, Ventura had changed into a green T-shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots, and he made no effort to cover the pistol holstered just behind his right hip. He had his thumbs hooked into his front pockets, and looked like a good old boy with nothing to do standing in the sunshine. Morrison couldn’t see Ventura’s eyes behind the man’s sunglasses, but he was more than a little certain his bodyguard was watching the limo with deadly expertise. This had been a good idea, hiring Ventura. He felt a lot better knowing somebody like him was on the job.

  Behind them, twenty feet back at parade rest, stood General Smith, flanked by a pair of his men holding assault rifles across their chests.

  The limo’s door opened, and a small, balding, round-faced Chinese man wearing a white silk summer suit and soft, gray, leather Italian shoes alighted. He smiled at Morrison and bowed slightly. “Dr. Morrison, I presume?”

  Morrison nodded slightly and offered a nervous smile in return.

  “I am Qian Ho Wu, but my friends call me ‘Chilly.’ Nice to meet you.” From his voice, the man could have been born and raised in Kansas—there was no trace of a Chinese accent.

  Chilly Wu? Hardly a name to conjure up visions of water torture, was it? He seemed perfectly harmless.

  “Mr. Wu. This is my associate, Mr.—”

  “—Ventura, isn’t it? Also a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Wu extended his hand, as if to shake Ventura’s hand. Ventura gave him a broad smile, but kept his hand down.

  Wu smiled in return, and it seemed as if something had passed between him and Ventura, though Morrison couldn’t tell what it had been.

  “Well. Gentlemen. Where can we talk?”

  “Why don’t we take you on a tour of the facility,” Ventura said. It was not a question. “A ride around to see the sights.”

  “Certainly.” He held his hand out toward the limo.

  “We have a car,” Ventura said. He nodded toward one of the special rental units.

  Ventura had told Morrison about this before. Inside the car, Smith couldn’t eavesdrop on the conversation.

  “Of course,” Wu said. “Somewhere shady my driver can park and wait?”

  “Over there under the trees by the garage would be good.”

  Wu leaned back into the car and reeled off a fast bit of singsong Chinese.

  The driver responded in the same language.

  Ventura said, “Sure, there’s a toilet in the garage.”

  Wu turned back, one eyebrow raised. “Ah. You speak Mandarin?”

  “Not really. A few words I
picked up in a restaurant ordering dinner.”

  Wu flashed a careful smile, turned back to the driver, and spoke again, and it sounded different to Morrison, though it still seemed to be Chinese.

  Again the driver responded.

  “That’s okay,” Ventura said, “as long as he doesn’t wander far from the car, he can smoke and stretch his legs. I’ll have one of my people keep an eye on him to make sure nobody bothers him.”

  “I see you have a few words of Cantonese, too. You must really enjoy Chinese food. Though wouldn’t it have been a better tactic to pretend ignorance? Perhaps learn something useful?”

  Ventura shrugged. “You weren’t going to say anything useful anyway, were you, Mr. Wu?”

  “Call me ‘Chilly,’ Luther. It’s always nice to be working with professionals. Makes things so much cleaner, don’t you think?”

  Still wearing his old birdwatcher costume, Walker drove, Ventura rode shotgun, and Wu and Morrison sat in the backseat of the full-sized Dodge Intrepid. Walker wore headphones plugged into a DVD player with loud music blaring from the phones into his ears, making him effectively deaf. The phones were a precaution. Even though Ventura had worked with him long enough to know Walker could keep his mouth shut, what you didn’t know, you couldn’t be forced to say.

  Ventura had taken his pistol from its holster and laid it on the seat where the men in back couldn’t see it. He kept his hand on the weapon. Wu didn’t look it on the surface, but he was a dangerous man—Ventura had been around enough of them to know one when he saw one. Something in the eyes, something in the body language. Wu played it down—the silk suit and expensive shoes—and he wasn’t carrying a gun big enough to show, but underestimating an opponent was always a mistake. With Wu, it could be fatal in a hurry. It was still early in the negotiations, and probably there wasn’t any real threat yet, but “probably” wasn’t something you risked your neck on.

  “So, what exactly are we looking at buying, Dr. Morrison? Would it be too forward if I call you Patrick?”

  Wu was showing off a little, dropping names just to let them know he’d done his homework and that he knew who he was dealing with. They would have squeezed the computer remailing service to get Morrison’s ID, no big deal, but knowing Ventura was on the case was a little more impressive. That meant they were working this one hard. Well they should be, too.

  “A very useful vehicle design,” Morrison said.

  “That’s it? Just the design? No hardware? No wheels, motor, no chassis?”

  “Any electrical engineering student could build you the hardware, Mr. Wu. Only I can show you how to make it work.”

  “I see. And how much are you asking for this ... design?”

  “Four hundred million dollars.”

  Wu chuckled. “A hell of a used car.”

  “Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.”

  “Uh-huh. And what proof do we have that you can deliver?”

  Morrison smiled. “Proof? Next time you’re in the old country, take a trip to visit the villages of Daru and Longhua and ask the survivors there how things have been lately.”

  Wu glanced at Ventura, then back at Morrison. “Are you sure you want Luther here to hear the details?”

  “I have no secrets from Mr. Ventura.”

  Wu nodded. “Very well. Anybody with good intel connections, such as Luther has, could have gotten those two names. How do we know you aren’t running a scam?”

  “What would it take to convince you?”

  “Well, you could give us the technology, allow us to test it, and then let us pay you.”

  Morrison laughed, and after a moment Wu joined him. “Just a thought,” Wu said.

  “Try a different thought.”

  Wu rubbed at his chin and pretended to do that. Ventura picked up his pistol and lightly pushed the muzzle against the back of his seat, pointed at Wu. If the man made any sudden moves, the Chinese were going to need themselves another purchasing agent—and at the least, the rental company was going to have to put in new seat covers.

  “All right, then. Try this: Let’s take it for a little test spin, shall we? Kick a few tires, rev the engine, drive around the block. This time, we pick the destination. If it works there as it did in Daru and Longhua, then we would be very interested in your vehicle.”

  “At my price?”

  “It seems reasonable—assuming nobody else will be driving the same model anytime soon?”

  “They won’t be.”

  “How, ah, big is this car? How many, ah, passengers are we talking about?”

  “There is a point of diminishing returns. With more power, I could do more, but the limit right now is a circle about ten miles across.”

  Wu nodded. “I think we’ve strained the car metaphor as far as we can. I need to get back to my superiors with your offer. We will come up with coordinates for a test. We’ll get these to you, you run it, and if it works, then we’ll discuss terms. Is this satisfactory?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Shall we head back?”

  Ventura nodded, and tapped Walker on the shoulder. Walked looked, and Ventura pointed his finger at the car’s roof, waved it in a tight circle, then pointed behind them. Walker nodded, and pulled into a dusty field next to the gravel road to turn around.

  As they headed back toward the HQ compound, Wu said, “Fascinating place here, Luther. You a believer?”

  “No. Parallel traveler. You make do with what you have.”

  “I hear that. We have similar places in our country, you know. Now and then the government uncovers a nest of malcontents and has to step on it. If you don’t, pretty soon you have fools who are willing to walk barehanded in front of tanks. Better to crush them before they get too brave. The difference is that you know these people are here, and yet you allow them anyway.”

  “The price of freedom,” Ventura said.

  “I’ve always thought that freedom was a highly overrated commodity,” Wu said. “More trouble than it is worth. Order is much better. Besides, it doesn’t really matter to people like us—you and me—does it?”

  Ventura shrugged. “Everybody has to be someplace. One is as good as another.”

  “I suppose.” Within the tiny shrug of indifference, there was a flash of something on Wu’s face, something cold and ugly, just a fast hint, and Ventura had to fight the urge to pull the trigger and cook the little man right here and right now.

  No, he didn’t look like much, but Ventura had a feeling deep in his gut that Chilly Wu here would be a formidable opponent in any kind of a fight. With any luck, he wouldn’t have to find out. If he did, it was going to end in blood, he was sure. He hoped it wouldn’t be his own.

  18

  Vermillion River, Lafayette, Louisiana

  Jay had to smile at the imagery the boss enjoyed. He had a thing for the swamps—a couple of times Jay had gone with Michaels’s default scenarios and they had been boats on bayous, like that. They weren’t bad, better than a lot of off-the-shelf stuff, but not as textured as Jay normally liked to create. He’d added in some pretty neat stuff for this setting, at least he thought so, even if Michaels might not notice. Of course, the boss was management, and VR programming wasn’t his real strength.

  As he motored along the narrow river in the little outboard-rigged flat-bottomed skiff, or whatever they called them down in Cajun country, Jay decided to stay with this sequence. He had a lot of work to do—places to go, things to look for—and it was easier to use this than to create a new ersatz, so he cruised past the Spanish moss and the alligator and right on up to the ... Dewdrop Inn.

  That name was worth another smile.

  Carrying a small satchel, Jay approached the front door. There was a raggy, bearded yehaw kinda guy in nothing but overalls leaning against the door, and Jay walked right up to him, smiling. Yehaw, so the joke went, was the kinda guy whose father might also be his brother or his uncle.

  “Ain’t open,” the man said.

 
“I know. I just wanted to let you know that somebody is around back trying to break in.”

  It took a second or three for it to register—probably because Yehaw had some kind of dinosaur-like sub-brain down in his nether regions that had to relay the thought back and forth a few times before he got it.

  Yehaw frowned, pushed off the wall, and lumbered away, heading for the back door.

  Jay waited until he was out of sight, then slipped the lock on the front door with a thin piece of steel, stepped inside, and relocked the door behind him.

  The door guard—in reality a fire wall program for the HAARP computer system to stop outside access—was strong, but not very bright. The guard would amble around back, not see anybody trying to break in, then return to his post in the front. He’d remember that Jay had approached, if anybody asked, but since Jay wouldn’t be visible, the guard wouldn’t worry about him. He’d never think to look inside; that would be beyond his capabilities.

  That was the problem with software. Hardware, too. People didn’t upgrade for all kinds of different reasons, and it always cost them something. Shoot, the military arm of Net Force still had—and still used—some subgigabyte-RAM

  tactical computers when there were systems with ten or fifteen times that much power you could buy off a department store shelf! Might as well be steam-powered. The honchos-military would mumble, and say that was all they needed to run their tried-and-true programs; they were dependable, and shockproof, why bother going for more power with some untested unit or software that might crap out when they really couldn’t afford that? Shortsighted of them, Jay thought, but then he wasn’t interested in being anywhere except on the cutting edge. A lot of people still thought slow and steady won the race, when fast and steady was much better.