Point of Impact by Tom Clancy
Authors: Tom Clancy
Tags: Fiction, Suspense, Science-Fiction, Thrillers, Action & Adventure, Suspense fiction, Espionage, Computers, Technological, Political Fiction, Secret service, Crisis Management in Government - United States, Crisis Management in Government, Computers - United States, Secret Service - United States
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Other than that, it's pretty quiet around here. A yawn in the park. Be nice if things picked up a little."
"Careful what you wish for. I miss you."
"I miss you, too. Fly safe."
"I will. See you tonight."
She hung up, and he blew out a relieved sigh. With all the pregnancy stuff, having her silat teacher kick off would have been another brick on Toni's load, and she didn't need any more weight right now.
A nice, quiet evening at home with Chinese take-out would be fine by him.
"Sir. You have a call from Richard Sharone on line five."
Michaels shook off his daydream of supper and Toni. "Who is Richard Sharone, and why should I talk to him?"
"He's the president and CEO of Merit-Wells Pharmaceuticals."
Michaels blinked. Why would the head honcho at one of the world's largest drug companies be calling him?
Oh.
Michaels stared at the com's headset. He might not be the sharpest needle in the package, but he wasn't completely dull. What did Net Force have to do with drugs? Nothing, until the DEA asked for their help with this esoteric dope they were trying to find. First it was NSA, now the overlord of a drug company. Man. Somebody wanted this stuff bad.
Probably get a call from the Food and Drug Administration next.
"This is Commander Alex Michaels. How can I help you, Mr. Sharone?"
But he was pretty sure he already knew.
Net Force Shooting Range, Quantico, Virginia
John Howard stood on the line at the firing range, ready to start. He said, "Eight meters, single. Go."
A three-hundred pound crazed biker blinked into existence eight meters down the alley. The biker held a tire iron, and he lifted it and charged right at Howard, no hesitation.
Fast for a fat man, he was, too.
Howard slipped his right hand under his Net Force windbreaker, cleared the jacket, caught the smooth wooden grips of his side arm, and pulled the weapon from the custom-made Fist paddle holster. He brought the Phillips & Rodgers Model 47 Medusa up and shoved it one-handed toward the biker as if punching him.
The biker was less than four meters away now, three, two...
Howard pulled the trigger, once, twice ...
The gun roared and bucked hard.
Two rounds hit the biker five feet away. The running man collapsed and slid to a stop inches from Howard's spit-shined, patent-leather-bright shoes.
Cut that a little close, John.
The biker disappeared, like turning off a lamp.
Which, in essence, was what happened. The hologram was, after all, just a particularly coherent brand of light. But the computer cams that watched it all calculated the flight path of Howard's two .357 slugs as they zipped down range, and having decided they would have struck vital areas on a real human target, gave him the ersatz victory.
Score one for the good guys.
Howard reholstered the handgun and looked at the score screen. He saw the image of the biker there and noted the pulsing red spots where the bullets hit. The one marked with #1 was in the heart, the #2 round was slightly higher and to the right. With the best .357 Magnum or .40 rounds, one-shot knockdowns hovered right about 94 to 96 percent with a solid body hit, as good as a handgun got--and it didn't even have to be to a fatal area. The first shot would have done the trick, and probably a real attacker would be dead or well on the way there by now. Dead wasn't the thing, though, it was the stopping power that was important. You could shoot somebody in the leg with a .22 and it might nick a big blood vessel and eventually kill him. Thing was, eventually wouldn't do you much good if the guy kept coming, beat you to a pulp with his tire iron or crowbar, then went home and died in a few days, a few hours, even a few minutes. No good at all. When you shot somebody, you wanted them to fall down right now; anything less was bad. They lived or died, that was something to worry about later. You didn't have time to ponder on it in the moment.
Handguns were lousy weapons for instant stops, relatively speaking. A shotgun
"Careful what you wish for. I miss you."
"I miss you, too. Fly safe."
"I will. See you tonight."
She hung up, and he blew out a relieved sigh. With all the pregnancy stuff, having her silat teacher kick off would have been another brick on Toni's load, and she didn't need any more weight right now.
A nice, quiet evening at home with Chinese take-out would be fine by him.
"Sir. You have a call from Richard Sharone on line five."
Michaels shook off his daydream of supper and Toni. "Who is Richard Sharone, and why should I talk to him?"
"He's the president and CEO of Merit-Wells Pharmaceuticals."
Michaels blinked. Why would the head honcho at one of the world's largest drug companies be calling him?
Oh.
Michaels stared at the com's headset. He might not be the sharpest needle in the package, but he wasn't completely dull. What did Net Force have to do with drugs? Nothing, until the DEA asked for their help with this esoteric dope they were trying to find. First it was NSA, now the overlord of a drug company. Man. Somebody wanted this stuff bad.
Probably get a call from the Food and Drug Administration next.
"This is Commander Alex Michaels. How can I help you, Mr. Sharone?"
But he was pretty sure he already knew.
Net Force Shooting Range, Quantico, Virginia
John Howard stood on the line at the firing range, ready to start. He said, "Eight meters, single. Go."
A three-hundred pound crazed biker blinked into existence eight meters down the alley. The biker held a tire iron, and he lifted it and charged right at Howard, no hesitation.
Fast for a fat man, he was, too.
Howard slipped his right hand under his Net Force windbreaker, cleared the jacket, caught the smooth wooden grips of his side arm, and pulled the weapon from the custom-made Fist paddle holster. He brought the Phillips & Rodgers Model 47 Medusa up and shoved it one-handed toward the biker as if punching him.
The biker was less than four meters away now, three, two...
Howard pulled the trigger, once, twice ...
The gun roared and bucked hard.
Two rounds hit the biker five feet away. The running man collapsed and slid to a stop inches from Howard's spit-shined, patent-leather-bright shoes.
Cut that a little close, John.
The biker disappeared, like turning off a lamp.
Which, in essence, was what happened. The hologram was, after all, just a particularly coherent brand of light. But the computer cams that watched it all calculated the flight path of Howard's two .357 slugs as they zipped down range, and having decided they would have struck vital areas on a real human target, gave him the ersatz victory.
Score one for the good guys.
Howard reholstered the handgun and looked at the score screen. He saw the image of the biker there and noted the pulsing red spots where the bullets hit. The one marked with #1 was in the heart, the #2 round was slightly higher and to the right. With the best .357 Magnum or .40 rounds, one-shot knockdowns hovered right about 94 to 96 percent with a solid body hit, as good as a handgun got--and it didn't even have to be to a fatal area. The first shot would have done the trick, and probably a real attacker would be dead or well on the way there by now. Dead wasn't the thing, though, it was the stopping power that was important. You could shoot somebody in the leg with a .22 and it might nick a big blood vessel and eventually kill him. Thing was, eventually wouldn't do you much good if the guy kept coming, beat you to a pulp with his tire iron or crowbar, then went home and died in a few days, a few hours, even a few minutes. No good at all. When you shot somebody, you wanted them to fall down right now; anything less was bad. They lived or died, that was something to worry about later. You didn't have time to ponder on it in the moment.
Handguns were lousy weapons for instant stops, relatively speaking. A shotgun
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