"You'd be surprised," Toni put in.

Michaels said, "So, why would Genaloni's people be calling the FBI, supposedly looking for Sampson, if they deleted him?"

Adams shook his head again. "Establish an alibi, maybe. With these guys, you never know what they're going to do. They make some smart moves now and then; then they turn around and make a stupid one."

Toni said, "Maybe this Sampson was responsible for Steve Day's death and Genaloni got nervous? Wanted to erase the link?"

Adams said, "I don't know. It's possible. Ray Genaloni is a careful man. He doesn't step out on the street without having it checked for six blocks in all directions first."

Michaels stared at the table. Something was bothering him, rattling around inside his head. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. Something about all this. . . .

He sighed. "All right. If you'd stay on top of that, Brent? Jay, you run the cane stuff as far as you can, see if you can get anything. And check out those New Orleans links-- we can't spend all our efforts on the Day investigation. Anything else?"

n.o.body had anything they wanted to put on the table.

"Okay. Let's get back to it."

Michaels headed toward his office. Things were not looking good for the home team. And the clock was ticking on his job. A few more days and this might be somebody else's worry.

Maybe it was time to get out of government service. Move back to Idaho, get a job programming game computers or something, spend weekends with his daughter. Just walk away from all this.

Yeah, right. Until Steve Day's killer was caught, he wasn't going anywhere, even if they put him in charge of counting paper clips in the underground storage bins. Whatever else he might be, Alexander Michaels didn't bail when the going got rough. No way.

Sat.u.r.day, October 2nd, 11:05 p.m. Grozny He would have preferred a walk on his quiet trail, but because he was in a hurry and could not afford the time to dawdle, Plekhanov drove the car. It was the program that was loaded, and he had planned to trash it after the unfortunate interface with the American Net Force agent--such was only prudent. And he would would erase the software eventually, but just at the moment, it was more trouble than it was worth to go off-line, degear, switch to a new scenario, then regear. It was one of the disadvantages of the old-style system he liked--with the newer VR units, you could do it on the fly without missing a step. erase the software eventually, but just at the moment, it was more trouble than it was worth to go off-line, degear, switch to a new scenario, then regear. It was one of the disadvantages of the old-style system he liked--with the newer VR units, you could do it on the fly without missing a step.

It didn't matter. This was just a short run to make a few minor adjustments on a legal scenario running in Canberra. The chances of Net Force seeing him were practically nil, and besides, there were a lot of blue Corvettes out there, probably tens of thousands of them.

He put the VR automobile into gear and pressed on the accelerator.

Sat.u.r.day, October 2nd, 3:05 p.m. Washington, D.C.

When Belladonna Wright opened the door to let him in, the first thing Tyrone noticed was that she wore tight shorts and a baggy sweatshirt with the sleeves and neck cut out to reveal a lot of bare skin.

A lot of beautiful bare skin.

The second thing he noticed was the hulking form of Bonebreaker LeMott sitting on a couch in the living room behind Belladonna.

Tyrone was pretty sure his heart stopped for at least five seconds. Then his belly rose up and lodged in his throat. And his bowels and bladder both threatened to empty. The end was near.

"Hi, Tyrone. Come in."

The voice of self-preservation couldn't even form words. It babbled and whimpered mindlessly.

His feet didn't seem to belong to him. They took him into the house.

"Tyrone, this is my friend, Herbert LeMott. Motty, this is Tyrone."

Motty?! He would have laughed--except that he was sure that would be the last sound he'd ever make through his own teeth. He would have laughed--except that he was sure that would be the last sound he'd ever make through his own teeth.

Bonebreaker wore a tight T-shirt and cotton shorts that strained all their seams as he came off the couch. He had muscles on his muscles. He loomed like a human tyrannosaur; Tyrone expected to hear G.o.dzilla's shriek any second. . . .

But Bonebreaker's voice was soft, quiet and actually fairly high-pitched. He said, "Oh, wow, hey, Tyrone, glad to meet you." He extended his right hand.

Tyrone took the giant hand, and was amazed at how gentle the grip was.

He had a sudden image of a cartoon mouse looking for a thorn in a lion's paw.

"It's real nice of you to help Bella out with her computer cla.s.s. I never was much good at that stuff. I appreciate it a lot. If I can ever do anything for you, just lemme know, okay?"

If Bonebreaker had suddenly turned into a giant toad and begun hopping around looking for flies to eat, Tyrone could not have been anymore amazed. Holy s.h.i.t!

"Okay, Bella, I gotta go, we got practice at the gym. I'll call you later." He bent down--a long way for him--and kissed Bella on top of her head. She smiled and patted him on the back, as if he were a favorite horse. "Okay. Be careful."

After Bonebreaker left, Bella must have seen something in his face, because she smiled at Tyrone. "What, did you think Motty was going to get physical physical?"

"The thought briefly crossed my mind." Yeah, briefly--like a snail with a broken sh.e.l.l crawls over a salt flat briefly. Yeah, briefly--like a snail with a broken sh.e.l.l crawls over a salt flat briefly.

"Motty is a big sweetie. He wouldn't step on an ant. My room is upstairs. Come on."

Unless the ant put its hand on your b.u.t.t.

Still marveling over being alive, Tyrone followed Bella upstairs.

She had a standard home computer, and the VR gear was not top-of-the-line, but pretty decent. And it only took a few minutes for him to realize she was better at general systems than she'd let on.

He said so.

She said, "Well, I'm okay on theory and real-time, but my network is slow."

"You came to the right guy, then. You have another set of VR gear?"

"Right here."

"Gear up. Let's walk the web. We'll start on one of the big commercial nets--that's easy enough for anybody to do well."

"You're in charge, Tyrone."

Flushed with a sudden fearlessness, he took a leap: "Call me Ty," he said.

"You're in charge, Ty."

She geared up as he did, then sat next to him on the bench in front of the computer. She sat close enough that he could feel the heat from her bare leg. A hair closer and they'd be touching.

Man! He most surely did not want to forget this moment.

Life might never get get any better than this. any better than this.

And even as he thought it, he realized that there were ways it could could get better. If he could figure out a way to move half an inch to his left, it would get better instantly. That half inch might as well be a light year, though. He wasn't completely stupid with bravery. get better. If he could figure out a way to move half an inch to his left, it would get better instantly. That half inch might as well be a light year, though. He wasn't completely stupid with bravery.

Sunday, October 3rd, 6 a.m. Sarajevo "First squad, flank left! Second squad, take the rear!"

Small-arms fire rattled, bullets chopped bark from trees, dug furrows in the ground. They were in a city park--what was left of one--and the attack had been unexpected.

John Howard opened up with his tommy gun, felt it buck in his hands as the fat and slow .45's went off.

"Sir, we've got--ah--!"

The lieutenant went down, a stray round in the neck.

Where were they coming coming from?! from?!

"Third squad, suppressing fire at five o'clock! Move! Shoot--!"

His men began falling, their armor wasn't working, they were getting their b.u.t.ts kicked--!

Washington, D.C.

John Howard jerked the VR gear off and dropped it in disgust. He shook his head. c.r.a.p.

Upstairs, his wife and son slept. It was still hours away from when they'd get up, get dressed and go to church. He hadn't been able to sleep, so he'd come down to the computer to run battle scenarios. He should have stuck to chess or Go Go--every combatsit he'd tried had been a loser.

He stood, walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge. He took out a carton of milk and poured himself a small gla.s.sful. Put the carton back. Sat at the table and stared at the gla.s.s of milk.

He was, he realized, depressed.

Oh, not clinically depressed, nothing to run to a shrink about, but definitely glum. He didn't understand it. There wasn't any reason to feel that way. He had a beautiful wife, a great kid, and a job most military officers would kill to have. He had just come back from a mission in which all of his objectives had been achieved, he had not lost a single soldier while under fire and everybody was happy with him. His civilian boss had put him in for a Presidential Commendation. What was the problem?

What was wrong, other than that he wanted to jump into the middle of an all-out shooting fracas?

What kind of att.i.tude was that? No sane man wanted war.

He stared at the milk. It was the test, he knew. He'd never been tested, not really. He'd slipped between the cracks, missed the shooting in Desert Storm, been teaching when the police actions in South America got hot, gotten to the Caribbean dustup a day after the guns had gone cold and quiet. He had spent his adult life as a military man, training, learning, preparing. He had the tools, the skills and the need to use them, to see if they would really work--but there was no place for such things in peacetime.

It was why he had joined Net Force. At least there was a chance he'd get dropped into a hot spot. The mission to Ukraine was as warm as it had gotten so far, and while it was better than sitting in an office reading reports, it was . . . lukewarm. . . .

"Morning."

Howard looked up and saw Tyrone standing there in his pajama bottoms.

"Just after 0600," Howard said. "What are you you doing up so early?" doing up so early?"

"I don't know. I woke up, couldn't get back to sleep."

Tyrone walked to the fridge and got the milk out. Shook the carton, saw that it was almost empty, then drank from it. Grinned at his father. "Mom says it's okay if I'm going to drink it all," he said.

Howard grinned, too.

Tyrone took another sip of the milk, then wiped at his lips. "Can I ask you something, Pop?"

"Fire away."

"How do you deal with a force that's bigger and stronger than yours, if it already holds territory you want to occupy?"

"Depends on the objective, the terrain, the weapons and equipment available, transportation systems, a bunch of things. First you define your goal, then you have to come up with a viable strategy, then the tactics to make it work."

"Uh-huh."

"When did you get interested in such things?"

"Oh. It's what you do. I thought I ought to, you know, kind of check it out. You know." He stared at the floor.

Howard held the grin back, kept his face serious. The boy was thirteen. p.u.b.erty. It had been a while but, yes, he knew.

He said, "Okay, let's talk about goals and strategy for a second. Your goal is to take the territory without destroying it, am I correct?"

"Oh, yeah."

"So you have to move carefully. The enemy's forces are bigger than yours, so he's stronger, but--is he smarter? You know you can't just charge in and engage in a stand-up fight if you are outgunned. You'll get slaughtered. So before you move, you have to a.s.sess the situation. You look for your enemy's weak points. In guerrilla warfare, you find a weak place, you hit it, then run. You do it fast, then hide, so not only can't he find you, he might not even know who you are."

Tyrone leaned against the fridge. "Yeah, I can see that."

"Also, according to Chairman Mao, to win a guerrilla war, you have to get the locals on your side."

"How do you do that?"

"You offer them something they can't get from the enemy, something more valuable than what he is giving them. Allow them to compare you to him, and when they do, show them his shortcomings. You reveal how you are better for them. You can't match his guns, but maybe he can't match your brains.

"So you show them why brains are more important than brawn. You teach the locals stuff he can't. How to get more fish in their nets, grow better crops or . . . how to use their computers, for instance."

The boy nodded again.

"You have a goal, you move toward it most of the time, but not always. Sometimes you have to take an oblique angle, move away a little so you can come at it from another direction. Sometimes you have take a step forward, strike, then retreat a few steps, so you don't get hit with return fire. Patience is the key in this kind of war. You have to pick your targets carefully, make every shot count. Wear the enemy away slowly.

"Once you get the locals on your side, then it doesn't matter how strong your enemy is, because the locals will start to help you, to hide you from enemy forces. Sometimes they'll overthrow your enemy on their own, and you won't have to do anything. In the end, that's the best way."

"Yeah."

There was a moment of silence. Then Tyrone said, "Thanks, Pop. I'm going back to bed now."

"Sleep well, son."