Breaking point - By Tom Clancy & Steve Perry & Steve Pieczenik Page 0,6

The Net Force guns were all tuned to the same signal, so if needed, they could shoot each other’s weapons, but if anybody not wearing the transmitting signet ring tried to fire a Net Force small arm, it would simply refuse to go off.

Howard was not happy with the things, but he had been made to understand that there was no choice in accepting them. All federal agencies would eventually be using smart guns, and the FBI was taking the lead.

So far, the new guns had operated at 100 percent, no failures. So far.

Gunny put the ring into a slot on the coder and checked the program, then did the same for the new gun. “All set, sir.” He passed the ring and revolver back to Howard.

Howard looked at the gun as he slipped the ring back on. The theory was fine. If your kid found your weapon and hadn’t been taught properly, at least he wouldn’t shoot himself or one of the neighbors. It wasn’t foolproof—somebody could snatch one of the rings and use it—but it was supposed to keep Net Force people from being shot if they lost a gun in the heat of battle. And once a month, you were to run your ring through a coder that reset the command signal, so any lost rings would no longer work after thirty days. He didn’t like it, but that was how it was going to be. End of story.

Back at the lane, Howard loaded the revolver using his .357 ammo. The shells were a little harder to put into the chambers than they were in the Smith, but not that much harder.

He set a stationary bull’s-eye at fifteen meters, lined the sights up. The front sight had a red dot on it, easy to see under the overhead lane lights. He squeezed off a round. He was surprised. Even though it fired the same cartridge, the recoil seemed considerably less than the Smith. Probably because it was a heavier piece, plus the barrel was a half-inch longer. He looked at the counter. A centimeter below dead center. Probably zeroed at twenty-five meters.

He cooked off the rest of the cylinder, and managed a grouping that went maybe four or five centimeters, all in the X ring. Damn. This was great for a gun he’d never fired before. Hell, it was great for a gun he’d been shooting for years. Pointed fine, too; it felt very ergonomic in his grip.

“Not bad for an old guy,” Julio said. “Want to get back to it?” He waved at the target.

“You and the Beretta you sleep with against a gun I’ve just picked up? Right.”

“Tell you what, to make it fair, I’ll go and borrow that snub .38 Special Gunny has. Ten bucks says I can beat you with that.”

“If you are determined to give up your money, Sergeant, I will take it.”

Fernandez grinned. “Be right back.”

London, England

Toni Fiorella deflected Carl Stewart’s right punch to her throat with her own strike at his face—

Because he had his punch backed up with his left hand, the wipe was there, and he took it, and fired a backup elbow at her temple—

Because her strike was also covered with her off hand, she had the parry for his elbow and she rolled it aside—

Carl switched tactics, twisted, went with her move, looped his parried hand across her chest and stepped in for a throw behind her leg, the kenjit—

Toni dropped her weight, knees bent deeply, leaned forward, and reversed the move, snapped her own foot back, caught his leg for a beset takedown—

Carl leaned in, put his head on her shoulder, stole her base, and switched feet—fast!—and did the inside sweep, sapu dalam—

She wasn’t quick enough with the counter, and she went down, dived and tried to make it into a roll, but he was there, tapping her on the floating ribs with the heel of his wrestling shoe, just hard enough to let her know he had the shot.

Toni grinned, took his offered hand, and got back to her feet. The entire sequence had taken maybe three seconds.

“Good series,” he said.

“Yes.” They were alone in the school where he taught his classes, a version of the Indonesian martial art of pentjak silat that was similar to her own system. Toni had been training since the age of thirteen; she knew the eight djurus of the entry-level style called Bukti Negara, plus the eighteen djurus of the more complex parent art, Serak, and until she