Abe Kent found his way to the shooting range. It was late, but the range was open until 2200.
“Good evening, sir,” the range officer said. He did not salute — they didn’t hold with that indoors and uncovered unless the setting was deliberately more formal, but the man did straighten up to what might be called attention.
“At ease, Master Sergeant. I haven’t had a chance to get by sooner, but I wanted to introduce myself and see how your operation is set up here.”
“Sir. Pretty standard stuff. We have twenty lanes, back-stops are tank-grade armor plate behind fire-resistant treated polywood baffles, the armor angled to kick spent rounds down into a steel trench filled with fire-retardant. We can handle small arms, pistol, subgun, and rifles, as long as they are non-armor-piercing and in calibers less than.50 BMG. Our targeting computer system is an Ares Mark V, full-spectrum holographics with positional sensors. Runs pretty well most of the time. We use the Martin Ring system for all issue arms. Is that your personal sidearm, sir?”
Kent shook his head. “Not likely I would be hauling it around if it wasn’t, is it, Sergeant?”
The man grinned. “An old slabside like that, I know it’s not issue.”
“It was when my grandfather carried it.”
“Regulations say you have to keep your carry arm coded to the ring, Colonel. I can issue you a Beretta in nine or four-oh and a matching broadcast code-ring, or, if you want, I can convert the Colt for you.”
“I think I’ll stick with the forty-five.”
“Yes, sir. You going to shoot while you’re here?”
Kent considered that for a moment. “Yes, I believe I will. It’s been a while.”
“Sir.” The man produced a box of forty-five hardball. “You want headphones or the plugs?”
“Headphones will be fine.”
“Take lane five. It’s quiet this time of night, only a couple other shooters here. If you leave the Colt with me when you go, I’ll have it ready tomorrow. You can take a loaner — I’ve got a SIG in.45, if you like the caliber.”
“That would be fine, Top.”
“Everybody still calls me ‘Gunny,’ sir.”
Kent headed for the lanes, donning his headphones to block out the noise before he stepped through the soundproof door.
He walked down to lane five.
In lane six was Lieutenant Fernandez. The younger man saw him, nodded, and kept firing until his gun clicked dry.
“Evening, sir.”
“Lieutenant. You’re here late.”
“Sir. My wife took my son to visit an old friend, and she’s out of town for a few days. Since I got married, I lost interest in my own cooking, so I figured I might as well get some practice in before I stopped for Chinese take-out.”
Kent nodded. His wife had died six years ago, and he had never really thought about getting remarried. He’d had a few dates, but being single suited him okay — nobody would ever be able to replace Christine.
There was a pause. Fernandez said, “You pretty good with that old Colt, sir?”
“I manage to qualify passing scores now and then.”
Fernandez grinned.
“Something funny, Lieutenant?”
“Well, sir, in my position as General Howard’s good right arm, I had occasion to view the Colonel’s personnel file when it came through.”
“I see.”
“Just the public record stuff, sir.”
“And your point, son?”
“You and General Howard have something in common. He carries a sidearm whose design was old before he was born, too, though I finally managed to get him to upgrade a little. Your comment about your shooting ability sounds a lot like a pool hustler’s setup, sir, since I happen to know you qualified ‘Expert’ with that antique you carry.”
Kent couldn’t help but smile a little at that one. He said, “And as your new commanding officer, I also had occasion to read your file, Lieutenant — all of it, including the nonpublic material. I know you can shoot that Beretta at ‘Expert’ level, as well.”
“I guess that makes us even, sir.”
“Only on paper, Lieutenant.” He nodded downrange.
Fernandez grinned real big at that. “I wouldn’t want to embarrass the Colonel his first time at the range, sir.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, son, not in the least. Let’s see what you got.”
“Yes, sir.”
8
Thorn sighed and stared into space. It looked as if today was going to be one of remedial education. He’d had two visitors so far, and both of them had more or less made him feel stupid — something to which he was not the least bit accustomed.
First, it had been the CIA liaison Marissa Lowe, who had dropped by to check on Jay’s progress with the Turkish thing. The conversation had started off fine, he really liked her, but then he had ventured to say something that, in retrospect, wasn’t particularly bright.
He had mentioned that his gripe with Senator Herumin of New Jersey, who had been blathering on that morning on the news about something to do with computers, was that the man was unable to see the big picture. This was a problem he had run into before, he told her.
Folks didn’t understand that it was something of a curse to be able to see such things, as Thorn himself could. It really wasn’t easy at times.
He was half-joking as he said it, but only half, and she picked it up like an oyster cracker dropped into the middle of a flock of hungry ducks.
“Are you complaining about being smart and fore-sighted, Tommy?”
Surprised, all he could think of to say was, “No.”
She sighed. “Yes, you are.” She shook her head.
“Marissa…”
“Let me tell you a story, Commander. One of my study partners in college got into your business, sort of. He was a brilliant dude, sharp, funny, majored in English lit, became a professor at an Ivy League school, wrote a couple of well-received textbooks, was doing okay. Let’s call him ‘Barry.’ ”
“Okay,” Thorn said, though he wasn’t sure where this was going.
“So, Barry got married, had a couple of kids, a dog, and was living a solid middle-class life. When he was about thirty-five, Barry discovered he had a talent for coming up with video game scenarios. One thing led to another, and the next thing you know, he’s quit his job teaching, moved to Texas — Austin used to be a real hot- bed for that kind of thing — and he started making big bucks coming up with things like Death Eater and Moon Fighters.”
Thorn blinked. He knew those old games, he’d played them in college. He didn’t recall the creator’s name, but he did seem to remember there was something about the guy…
“All of a sudden, within the space of a year, he goes from being a dull young college professor, to a hot, rich computer whiz. He and the old spouse split — he’s way too cool for her — so now he’s on his own. He turns around in a few months and marries a gorgeous high-maintenance trophy wife. He starts buying other toys — big house, fast cars, home theaters. Thinks nothing of dropping a couple hundred bucks on lunch, he’s blowin’ and goin’,
