Breaking point - By Tom Clancy & Steve Perry & Steve Pieczenik Page 0,31

shooting again. He was getting a bit tired after a week of constant shooting, so his tally fell off a little, but he shot for three more days.

“All totaled, he fired at seventy-two thousand, five hundred blocks. His final score was seventy-two thousand, four hundred and ninety-one. He missed nine.

“Sixty-eight and a half hours of point-and-shoot. Although there have been shooters who have actually potted more blocks since, none of them have done it under the same conditions, so the record still stands. I have a picture of Topperwein, in a black suit—with a tie—boots, and a campaign hat, sitting atop a mountain of shot-up blocks, his rifle cradled in his arm.”

Morrison shook his head. “I can’t even imagine waggling my finger seventy thousand times, much less maintaining enough concentration to shoot accurately that many times.”

“Frankly, neither can I. Topperwein was the best exhibition shooter who ever lived. But he was also a relatively uneducated man from a little town in Texas, using bare-bones .22 rifles, no laser sights, no shooting glasses, no electronic hearing protection, nothing. Not exactly what you’d call high tech, and his accuracy percentage was .99988. More than a hundred years later, with all of this”—he waved one hand to take in the computer gear—“at your command, you’d think you could improve on target shooting.”

Morrison considered that. Yes, you’d think so. Then again, with a tap of a single finger, he could drive seventy thousand people mad in a few hours. No man with a rifle could begin to match that.

Morrison powered up the system for his “test.” Warning buzzers started to sound, a red light flashed on and off on the control board. He reached for the control, a covered button. The buzzers continued their howl, the lights their strobe, as he raised the cover, then pressed the button.

I got your blocks of wood right here, pal ...

Multnomah Falls, Oregon

John Howard stood by the stone restaurant watching his family look at the thin ribbon of water cascading down from a great height to splash into a cold pool at the base of the cliff. They were about twenty-five or so miles outside of Portland, in the Columbia River Gorge, looking at one of the highest waterfalls in the country, more than a six-hundred-foot drop in the second stage here. It was beautiful, though more impressive in the spring as the snowmelt fed the tributary a lot more water.

Everything was damp here, lots of moss and mold, fed by the constant spray off the falls.

Howard reached for the virgil—the virtual global interface link—hooked to his belt. This was a great toy, not much bigger than a standard pager or small cell phone, and it not only had a com, it was a working GPS, clock. radio, TV, modem, credit card, camera, scanner, and even a tiny fax that produced weavewire hardcopy. There were civilian models, but the military units were better—at least for now. Sharper Image was gaining, or so he had heard.

Sergeant Julio Fernandez appeared on the virgil’s tiny screen, smiling.

“Congratulations. General. I didn’t think you’d make it this long. I guess one of the others will win the pool.”

“I am merely calling to check in, Sergeant.”

“The country is getting along fine without you, sir. No wars, no terrorists taking over at Quantico—well, if you don’t count the new feeb recruits—and the Republic endures.”

“I just wanted to let you know where I was.”

“John, your GPS sends us a homing signal as long as it’s got power, remember? We know where you are. You want me to give you your longitude and latitude?”

“Nobody likes a smart-ass NCO, Julio.”

“C’mon, you’re on vacation. Relax. Enjoy yourself. I’ll call if the Swiss or the French decide to invade the country, I promise.”

Howard made a suggestion that was anatomically impossible and unlikely for a heterosexual even if it had been possible.

Fernandez laughed. “That’s a discom, General. Adios.”

Howard smiled as he rehooked the virgil to his belt. Well, yes, he did sometimes think things would go to hell if he left town. So he was a worrier, what could he say?

Nadine and the children were hot to climb up to the little bridge closer to the falls, and Howard went along. It was all part of the ambience, to get wet, wasn’t it?

As they hiked up the damp macadam path, he recalled the first time he’d ever been to this part of the country. Back in ’99 or ’00, in the late fall or early winter. A friend of his from