He handed the piece to Howard. It felt good, familiar, if it looked a little squarish for his tastes. “You getting a commission from these people, Julio? And why would I like this more than my Smith?”
Fernandez grinned widely. “Well, sir, if we can’t get you to use a semiauto, at least we can get you closer to the current century. These first came out in 1996, I believe, and they have a big advantage over your antique Smith. They will chamber and fire everything from an anemic.380 ACP to the hottest.357 Magnum rounds, and a whole bunch of stuff in between. You can load it up with any variation of 9mm you can think of — Kurz, Largo, Long, Luger, Mauser, Parabellum, Steyr, whatever, as well as.38 ACP, 38 auto, 38 Super, or.38 Special. Bunch of other calibers will work, too, but the manufacturer doesn’t recommend ’em.”
“And how many cylinder changes do I have to carry to accomplish this miracle? Three? Five?”
“No, sir, not a one. Pop the cylinder and push back on the extractor rod.”
Howard did so. The extractor looked very odd.
“Those are springs, those little things in the chambers. Anything that’ll fit, they’ll hold in place, and it’ll cook ’em off just fine.”
“Really?”
“Yes, sir. You happen to find yourself on a battlefield somewhere and you run out of.357, you can always find 9mm somewhere, it still being the most popular military caliber worldwide. It’ll shoot the stuff we use in our subguns.”
Howard looked at the gun. “What’s the catch?”
“Well, sir, there are three. It doesn’t much like speed-loaders, because of the springs. You can make them work, but there’s a little trick to it. Speed strips would be better, and they are easier to carry anyhow. Second, if you are going to mix calibers, you should shoot the longer stuff first, so as not to gunk up the chambers. And third, if you are mixing calibers, the sights won’t be dead-on for the different ones, so you have to adjust the rear sights. But that’s the same with mixing bullet weights, and most of the time, you’ll be shooting the same ammo. Still, you can put a different caliber in every chamber and fire them off just fine. At close range, you don’t need to worry about the sights, anyhow.”
Howard hefted the revolver. “Interesting.”
Gunny said, “Only thing I got in.357, General. I have a snubnose Smith M60 in.38 Special if you want to try that, but even with plus-P, it ain’t much gun, and it only holds five.”
Julio nodded at the Medusa. “Why don’t you put a few through it, long as we are here? Unless you want to, uh, forfeit the match?”
“You wish.”
Gunny said, “Lemme see your ring, sir.”
Howard nodded and slipped the Net Force signet ring from his right third finger. It looked ordinary enough, but inside the mounting was a tiny computer chip powered by a capacitor whose stored electricity came from a small kinetic generator, basically a little weight that shifted back and forth. As of a month ago, all Net Force who carry and field-issue sidearms, subguns, and rifles were equipped with smart technology. The guns had an internal chip that kept the actions from operating unless they received a coded signal. The rings sent the signal, and had a range of a few centimeters, no more. The Net Force guns were all tuned to the same signal, so if needed, they could shoot each other’s weapons, but if anybody not wearing the transmitting signet ring tried to fire a Net Force small arm, it would simply refuse to go off.
Howard was not happy with the things, but he had been made to understand that there was no choice in accepting them. All federal agencies would eventually be using smart guns, and the FBI was taking the lead.
So far, the new guns had operated at 100 percent, no failures. So far.
Gunny put the ring into a slot on the coder and checked the program, then did the same for the new gun. “All set, sir.” He passed the ring and revolver back to Howard.
Howard looked at the gun as he slipped the ring back on. The theory was fine. If your kid found your weapon and hadn’t been taught properly, at least he wouldn’t shoot himself or one of the neighbors. It wasn’t foolproof — somebody could snatch one of the rings and use it — but it was supposed to keep Net Force people from being shot if they lost a gun in the heat of battle. And once a month, you were to run your ring through a coder that reset the command signal, so any lost rings would no longer work after thirty days. He didn’t like it, but that was how it was going to be. End of story.
Back at the lane, Howard loaded the revolver using his.357 ammo. The shells were a little harder to put into the chambers than they were in the Smith, but not that much harder.
He set a stationary bull’s-eye at fifteen meters, lined the sights up. The front sight had a red dot on it, easy to see under the overhead lane lights. He squeezed off a round. He was surprised. Even though it fired the same cartridge, the recoil seemed considerably less than the Smith. Probably because it was a heavier piece, plus the barrel was a half-inch longer. He looked at the counter. A centimeter below dead center. Probably zeroed at twenty-five meters.
He cooked off the rest of the cylinder, and managed a grouping that went maybe four or five centimeters, all in the X ring. Damn. This was great for a gun he’d never fired before. Hell, it was great for a gun he’d been shooting for years. Pointed fine, too; it felt very ergonomic in his grip.
“Not bad for an old guy,” Julio said. “Want to get back to it?” He waved at the target.
“You and the Beretta you sleep with against a gun I’ve just picked up? Right.”
“Tell you what, to make it fair, I’ll go and borrow that snub.38 Special Gunny has. Ten bucks says I can beat you with that.”
“If you are determined to give up your money, Sergeant, I will take it.”
Fernandez grinned. “Be right back.”
Toni Fiorella deflected Carl Stewart’s right punch to her throat with her own strike at his face—
Because he had his punch backed up with his left hand, the wipe was there, and he took it, and fired a backup elbow at her temple—
Because her strike was also covered with her off hand, she had the parry for his elbow and she rolled it aside—
Carl switched tactics, twisted, went with her move, looped his parried hand across her chest and stepped in for a throw behind her leg, the kenjit—
Toni dropped her weight, knees bent deeply, leaned forward, and reversed the move, snapped her own foot back, caught his leg for a beset takedown—
Carl leaned in, put his head on her shoulder, stole her base, and switched feet — fast! — and did the inside sweep, sapu dalam—
She wasn’t quick enough with the counter, and she went down, dived and tried to make it into a roll, but he was there, tapping her on the floating ribs with the heel of his wrestling shoe, just hard enough to let her know he had the shot.
Toni grinned, took his offered hand, and got back to her feet. The entire sequence had taken maybe three seconds.
“Good series,” he said.
“Yes.” They were alone in the school where he taught his classes, a version of the Indonesian martial art of pentjak silat that was similar to her own system. Toni had been training since the age of thirteen; she knew the eight djurus of the entry-level style called Bukti Negara, plus the eighteen djurus of the more complex parent art, Serak, and until she had met Carl Stewart, had never sparred with anybody who could beat her. Well, except for her teacher, Guru DeBeers. Guru was in her eighties now, still shaped like a brick and dangerous to anybody who might be stupid enough to think she was a helpless old lady, but if push came to shove, Toni knew she could best her teacher in a fight. Barely.