There was no reason for Howard to feel as nervous as he did, but that didn't matter. He had already paid two visits to the bathroom, and a third would be likely. The idea of eating made his stomach queasy, and the coffee he had already drunk had only added to his jitters. It might not be a major firefight in a jungle somewhere, but it was very possible bullets would fly and men would die. And it was his responsibility. He most assuredly did not want to foul it up.
"Oh-eight-two-two, sir," Fernandez said.
This time, Howard didn't reprimand the sarge. They knew each other too well. The colonel nodded. He picked up one of the H&K's magazines and checked the loads. Didn't want to overfill it, jam the rounds in so tight they wouldn't strip off and feed. That would be bad. Of course, he had counted them twice already. Probably the number hadn't changed since the last count.
Dentist-chair time, moving as slowly as five o'clock rush-hour traffic on the Beltway.
The way he felt right now, a root canal would be almost welcome.
13
Vladimir Plekhanov sat on a mossy rock next to an old-growth tree, drinking cool water from the bottle he carried, enjoying a shaft of early sunshine that had angled in under the thick fir canopy. He took a deep breath, smelling the sharp scent of evergreen tree sap. He saw ants scurrying up and down the Douglas fir, and watched them swerve to avoid the sticky ooze. One of the ants blundered too close and the rosin caught him. The ant struggled.
Given another few million years, some creature that had once been human might find a bit of amber with that ant in it and wonder about its life.
Plekhanov smiled, reached over and using his fingernail, carefully freed the struggling ant. The creature hurried along its way. What would it think, if it did think, about the giant finger that had come from nowhere to spare its life? Would it speak of it to its fellows? Of how the hand of a giant god had saved it from the deadly trap?
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of the Ukrainian. The man appeared muscular, fit, dressed in hiking shorts and boots and a tight T-shirt. His footsteps made no sound on the soft path, but he did not look at ease as he moved. He spotted Plekhanov and nodded. "Greetings," he said in Russian.
The older man returned the salutation in the same language.
The Ukrainian came to stand next to Plekhanov's rock. He looked around. "Interesting imagery," he said.
Plekhanov snapped the cap back into place on the water bottle, and stuck it into his pack where it lay on the rock next to him. "I spend too much time in RW civilization — why bring it with me into VR?"
"A bit quiet for my tastes," the Ukrainian said. "But to each his own."
"Have a seat."
The Ukrainian shook his head. "I need to get back soon."
Plekhanov shrugged. "You have news for me?"
"The Americans have discovered the location of those planning the attack upon their embassy in Kiev. They will be acting upon this information shortly."
Plekhanov looked at the ants on the tree trunk. "Took them long enough. Perhaps we should be less subtle in our clues."
It was the Ukrainian's turn to shrug. "I don't understand why we did not simply allow the attack to go forward."
Plekhanov smiled. "Because damaging a perfectly good Ukrainian building serves no purpose. Why drain any more from your already sparse treasury to repair it? Why risk killing your innocent countrymen?"
"The plotters are also my countrymen."
"But hardly innocent. That band of fanatics is a loose cannon, overfilled with explosive powder. Sooner or later, it would have gone off and done as much damage to those nearest it as any target. We need such things removed from our deck — and the Americans will do that for us. The Americans have spent their time and money uncovering the plot, and it has also made them nervous in the process. They will be worried about such things, spending yet more time and funds to protect their other embassies. We kill several birds with one stone here, my friend. Do you still play pocket billiards?"
"Da."
"Then you know that sinking a single ball means little, especially early in the game, unless one positions himself for the next shot."
"This is true."
"If we are to run the table, we must consider our next position with each play."
The Ukrainian bowed slightly, a military gesture done mostly with the head.
"As usual, Vladimir, you are correct." He glanced at his watch. "I must get back."
Plekhanov held up one hand, gesturing toward the trail. "Please. Good to see you again."
"I'll call later."
"It is not necessary, but thank you."
After the Ukrainian had gone, Plekhanov watched the ants for a short time. He inspected his pocket watch. He had time before he needed to get back. Perhaps a quick walk on that side trail he had been meaning to explore? Yes. Why not? Things were unfolding more smoothly than even in his best-case scenarios. Indeed they were.
Alexander Michaels sat in the stern of the houseboat, watching a brown pelican dive for fish. Pelicans were saltwater birds, he believed, but he liked their look and so had included them in his scenario. He was on a southern Louisiana river, a large bayou, actually, and the brown water flowed sluggishly toward the distant and unseen Gulf of Mexico. A small, flat-bottomed green-anodized aluminum bateau approached from a side channel, the harsh drone of its outboard motor enough to shoo the diving pelican away. Michaels stood, walked to the railing, leaned against it, and watched the boat come.
Jay Gridley sat in the rear of the flat-nosed bateau, one hand on the motor's control arm. He throttled the motor down so that it popped and burbled, swung the little boat sideways as it drew near and allowed it to drift to a gentle stop against the houseboat's stern. Metal thunked against fiberglass. Gridley threw a nylon rope up to Michaels, who caught the rope and wrapped the end around a brass cleat under the rail. Gridley stepped to the short ladder and clambered up onto the houseboat.
"Permission to come aboard, Cap'n?"
Michaels shook his head in mild amusement. "Granted."
Once he was on the craft, the younger man looked around. "Funny, I'd have thought you'd be in the Prowler."
Michaels shrugged. "It would spoil the RW version for me if I did that. Car'll never run as good there as it would here."
"That's true. Well, it's not a bad scenario. Commercial software?"
"Yes." Michaels felt a little uncomfortable saying that, but the truth was, while he could have written his own program — he was, after all, a computer-literate operative — he had never been that absorbed in VR per se. True, it was more interesting sitting on the deck of a big houseboat, drifting past cypress trees hung thick with Spanish moss, than tapping commands into a keyboard. But it was not his thing, despite his position in Net Force. Probably people would have thought it odd, his take-it-or-leave-it attitude about VR, but Michaels liked to think it was kind of like a carpenter's attitude toward his tools — you didn't love your hammer or saw, you used them to do your job. When he wasn't working, Michaels didn't spend much time on the net.