State Of War (2003) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18 - Washington, D.C.

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  EPILOGUE

  The Bestselling Novels of TOM CLANCY

  THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON

  A clash of world powers. President Jack Ryan's trial by fire.

  "HEART-STOPPING ACTION . . . CLANCY STILL REIGNS."

  --The Washington Post

  RAINBOW SIX

  John Clark is used to doing the CIA's dirty work. Now he's taking on the world. . . .

  "ACTION-PACKED."

  --The New York Times Book Review

  EXECUTIVE ORDERS

  A devastating terrorist act leaves Jack Ryan as President of the United States. . . .

  "UNDOUBTEDLY CLANCY'S BEST YET."

  --The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  DEBT OF HONOR

  It begins with the murder of an American woman in the back streets of Tokyo. It ends in war. . . .

  "A SHOCKER."

  --Entertainment Weekly

  THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER

  The smash bestseller that launched Clancy's career--the incredible search for a Soviet defector and the nuclear submarine he commands . . .

  "BREATHLESSLY EXCITING."

  --The Washington Post

  RED STORM RISING

  The ultimate scenario for World War III--the final battle for global control . . .

  "THE ULTIMATE WAR GAME . . . BRILLIANT."

  --Newsweek

  PATRIOT GAMES

  CIA analyst Jack Ryan stops an assassination--and incurs the wrath of Irish terrorists. . . .

  "A HIGH PITCH OF EXCITEMENT."

  --The Wall Street Journal

  THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN

  The superpowers race for the ultimate Star Wars missile defense system. . . .

  "CARDINAL EXCITES, ILLUMINATES . . . A REAL PAGE-TURNER."

  --Los Angeles Daily News

  CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER

  The killing of three U.S. officials in Colombia ignites the American government's explosive, and top secret, response. . . .

  "A CRACKLING GOOD YARN."

  --The Washington Post

  THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

  The disappearance of an Israeli nuclear weapon threatens the balance of power in the Middle East--and around the world. . . .

  "CLANCY AT HIS BEST . . . NOT TO BE MISSED."

  --The Dallas Morning News

  WITHOUT REMORSE

  The Clancy epic fans have been waiting for. His code name is Mr. Clark. And his work for the CIA is brilliant, cold-blooded, and efficient . . . but who is he really?

  "HIGHLY ENTERTAINING."

  --The Wall Street Journal

  Novels by Tom Clancy

  THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER

  RED STORM RISING

  PATRIOT GAMES

  THE CARDINAL OF THE KREMLIN

  CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER

  THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

  WITHOUT REMORSE

  DEBT OF HONOR

  EXECUTIVE ORDERS

  RAINBOW SIX

  THE BEAR AND THE DRAGON

  SSN: STRATEGIES OF SUBMARINE WARFARE

  Nonfiction

  SUBMARINE: A GUIDED TOUR INSIDE A NUCLEAR WARSHIP

  ARMORED CAV: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN ARMORED CAVALRY REGIMENT

  FIGHTER WING: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIR FORCE COMBAT WING

  MARINE: A GUIDED TOUR OF A MARINE EXPEDITIONARY UNIT

  AIRBORNE: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRBORNE TASK FORCE

  CARRIER: A GUIDED TOUR OF AN AIRCRAFT CARRIER

  SPECIAL FORCES: A GUIDED TOUR OF U.S. ARMY SPECIAL FORCES

  INTO THE STORM: A STUDY IN COMMAND

  (written with General Fred Franks)

  EVERY MAN A TIGER

  (written with General Charles Horner)

  Created by Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

  TOM CLANCY'S OP-CENTER

  TOM CLANCY'S OP-CENTER: MIRROR IMAGE

  TOM CLANCY'S OP-CENTER: GAMES OF STATE

  TOM CLANCY'S OP-CENTER: ACTS OF WAR

  TOM CLANCY'S OP-CENTER: BALANCE OF POWER

  TOM CLANCY'S OP-CENTER: STATE OF SIEGE

  TOM CLANCY'S OP-CENTER: DIVIDE AND CONQUER

  TOM CLANCY'S OP-CENTER: LINE OF CONTROL

  TOM CLANCY'S OP-CENTER: MISSION OF HONOR

  TOM CLANCY'S NET FORCE

  TOM CLANCY'S NET FORCE: HIDDEN AGENDAS

  TOM CLANCY'S NET FORCE: NIGHT MOVES

  TOM CLANCY'S NET FORCE: BREAKING POINT

  TOM CLANCY'S NET FORCE: POINT OF IMPACT

  TOM CLANCY'S NET FORCE: CYBERNATION

  TOM CLANCY'S NET FORCE: STATE OF WAR

  Created by Tom Clancy and Martin Greenberg

  TOM CLANCY'S POWER PLAYS: POLITIKA

  TOM CLANCY'S POWER PLAYS: RUTHLESS.COM

  TOM CLANCY'S POWER PLAYS: SHADOW WATCH

  TOM CLANCY'S POWER PLAYS: BIO-STRIKE

  TOM CLANCY'S POWER PLAYS: COLD WAR

  TOM CLANCY'S POWER PLAYS: CUTTING EDGE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either

  are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and

  any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

  establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  TOM CLANCY'S NET FORCE(r): STATE OF WAR

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with

  Netco Partners

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley edition / March 2003

  Copyright (c) 2003 by Netco Partners.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be

  reproduced in any form without permission.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  For more information on Steve Pieczenik,

  please visit www.stevepieczenik.com

  Visit our website at

  www.penguinputnam.com

  eISBN : 978-1-101-00249-0

  BERKLEY(r)

  Berkley Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY and the "B" design

  are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Acknowledgments

  We would like to acknowledge the assistance of Martin H. Greenberg, Denise Little, John Helfers, Brittiany Koren, Lowell Bowen, Esq., Robert Youdelman,
Esq., Danielle Forte, Esq., Dianne Jude, and Tom Colgan, our editor. But most important, it is for you, our readers, to determine how successful our collective endeavor has been.

  --Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

  PROLOGUE

  Saturday, June 1, 2013 C.E.

  Front Royal, Virginia

  Solomon "Solly" Bretcher, the Democratic senator from Florida, looked down at the woman beside him.

  She had said her name was Joan, and she was young. She'd claimed to be twenty-one when she'd picked him up at that bar back in D.C.--but she had smiled when she'd said it, just a little, just enough so that he had known she was lying. He thought she was probably closer to eighteen.

  She was also very slim, almost boyish in her figure, and he believed she must have had some yoga or gymnastics in her background.

  Athletic, strong and supple, cute as a bug, and young enough to be, what, his daughter at least. Maybe even his granddaughter.

  But none of this was what had drawn Solly to her. No, the reason he was here now, lying naked in some strange hotel room in Virginia, a good fifty miles from his offices, had nothing to do with the way she looked or how old she was or whatever perfume she was--or wasn't--wearing. It was more powerful than that, more compelling, and it had everything to do with the way she had looked at him, the raw, overpowering hunger in her eyes as she approached him.

  It had been a long time since anyone had looked at him like that. He couldn't even remember the last time someone had wanted him just for himself and not for whatever access he could grant or the votes he could provide.

  She had looked at him like that. She had let him see the naked desire in her eyes. She had told him, not with words but with every gesture, every glance, and every breath, that she wanted him, and he had agreed.

  He looked down at her now.

  "Joan," he said softly.

  She opened her eyes and looked up at him, a slow smile spreading across her face.

  "Joan," he said again, liking the way her name slid across his lips. He wanted to say something to this woman in his arms, to thank her, perhaps, to let her know how deeply she had touched him. He wanted to mark this moment before it slipped away.

  He never got the chance.

  As he reached for his next words, he was interrupted by the sound of somebody kicking in the hotel room door.

  Joan reacted faster than Solly, scrambling out from under him and jerking the sheet up around herself while he reached for his glasses.

  "What is the meaning of this?" he said, still fumbling with his glasses. "Who the hell are you?" He was trying to sound irate, not the easiest thing to do when you were lying naked in bed with a young woman not your wife. He shut up when he managed to get his glasses on and saw that the man standing there had a gun pointed at him.

  "Get your clothes on, you little harlot!"

  Solly's gut twisted. Her husband? Lord, Lord, what was he going to do? If Marsha found out--!

  "And you, you pervert. I ought to shoot you dead! God would bless me, and so would the po-lice!" The man had a funny accent. Was it French?

  "Listen, mister," Solly began. "There's been some kind of mistake! I--I didn't know she was married--"

  "Married?! You son of a bitch! She's not my wife! She's my daughter! She's fourteen years old!"

  Solly's vision swam with millions of swirling motes. He swallowed dryly and felt light-headed. Fourteen? She couldn't be fourteen!

  "Daddy, I'm sorry--"

  The man strode forward and slapped the girl's face. It was a loud noise in the otherwise quiet room. "Put your clothes on! I'll deal wid you when we get home! First, I got to call the po-lice and get this pervert arrested! They gonna put you under the jail, baby raper!"

  Cajun, Bretcher realized. That's what the accent is. Louisiana.

  Joan hurried to obey, holding one hand to her slapped face.

  Senator Solly Bretcher felt his life swirling around the drain, going down. Fourteen. He would be totally disgraced. They would crucify him. The press would eat him alive, and if they didn't, his family would. He was a dead man.

  As the man reached for the phone, Bretcher raised his hand. "Wait! Wait! Don't do that! Maybe we can come to some . . . arrangement!"

  The girl's father looked at him. "What you talkin' about?"

  "Anything you want," Bretcher said. "Anything!"

  In the car, Joan laughed. "Fourteen?" she said. "That's a stretch, Junior, even for me!"

  Driving, Marcus Boudreaux, "Junior," the man who had pretended to be her father, smiled. "Well, fourteen sounds so much worse than sixteen or seventeen, no? And he bought it. You saw his face, yeah?"

  "No, I was too busy holding mine. You didn't have to hit me that hard."

  He shrugged that off. "I had to make it look good. And like I said, it worked. That senator will do whatever we say."

  Joan shook her head. She was twenty-four but had always looked much younger than her age. Being flatchested, slim-hipped, and skinny had their uses. Convincing a frightened old man you were an adolescent was one that had earned her plenty before now--and had just earned her another ten thousand dollars.

  "Now what?"

  "Never you mind dat. You just take your money and go lie on the beach down in Biloxi. I'll call you again if I need you."

  She shrugged. Ten thousand for a couple hours' work? Beat doing fake pedo-porn on the net. And her tan could use some work. Why not . . . ?

  1

  Washington, D.C.

  It was a Sunday afternoon, hot, muggy, and about to rain--typical D.C. weather for this time of year. A good day to stay home. Alex Michaels was doing just that. In his garage, currently without a project car and thus more or less empty, he was having a short but intense practice session with Guru. She was the one who introduced Toni to the Indonesian fighting art of silat. Now, all these long years later, she was still amazing.

  She wore a ratty sweatshirt over a long batik skirt and rubber sandals, and looked about as scary as a stuffed teddy bear. A really old stuffed teddy bear. But if you bought that, you would find yourself in big trouble in a big hurry. One of the first rules of fighting was Never assume that what you see is what you get.

  She punched, and Michaels did the block-punch-block-punch-elbow sequence, that pap-pap pap! timing, like two sixteenth notes followed by an eighth note for the first three moves.

  She nodded. "Not so bad. But watch the low line, be sure the first punch comes from the hip and cuts the angle as it rises. Punch for me."

  He did, and despite the fact that she was old enough to be his grandmother, her response was so fast he wanted to shake his head. She could hit him three times before he could blink and, while he was standing there surprised, easily drop him onto the concrete with a sweep or heel-dragging beset. A perfect example of technique mastery over physical strength.

  "Again," she said.

  Ten minutes later, he was picking himself up from the floor after she had put him there with an effortless little sweep when Toni came into the garage. She had Little Alex balanced on one hip and looked like a Polynesian princess in a sarong, her hair wrapped up in a towel. "Are you beating up on Guru again, Alex?"

  "Oh, yeah, right. You ever hear what the U.S. cavalry said about what you were supposed to do if captured by the Lakota Sioux? Whatever happens, don't let them give you to the women."

  "How droll. You have a call."

  She handed him his virgil--the acronym standing for Virtual Global Interface Link--the handy-dandy pocket electronic device that was phone, fax, GPS, homing beacon, credit card, computer line, and other things he hadn't even thought about, including a spy device that told HQ where you were. That the call came in on the virgil meant it was important, since the device's com was also scrambled as well as Net Force's programmers could manage.

  Speak of the devil . . .

  The tiny screen was lit with Jay Gridley's picture as Michaels took it from his wife.

  "Jay."

  "Boss. I'm not int
errupting anything, am I?"

  "Just me getting my ass kicked."

  "Toni beating up on you again?"

  "Guru."

  "Isn't that embarrassing, Boss, getting thumped by a lady old enough to be your granny?"

  Michaels grinned. "You're welcome to drop by and stand in for me, if you'd like."

  "I'll pass, thanks. I just called to update you on a couple of things. We got another e-mail virus making waves on the web. It's just a filler--clog your system, dupe-and-send thing--nothing real nasty, but it's got good coverage, so you'll be hearing about it. From what I can tell, it's a standard kid-hack kind of thing. No real damage, just counting coup. We should be able to backtrack the guy and nail him."

  "Okay."

  "The other thing is, we got a funny hit on one of our watchbots I thought you might want to know about."

  Michaels grinned again. "A 'funny hit.' Is that a computer geek technical term, Jay?" Net Force had been on a roll lately. Nobody had attacked them, and nothing major had hit the net or the web. Even hackers seemed to be taking the long hot summer off. Michaels knew better than to tempt fate by feeling smug, however. Every time he did that, something came along and Net Force got creamed.

  "Are you making a crack about marriage dissolving my brain?" Jay asked.

  "Not me. Not with my wife standing six feet away holding a squirming toddler she might throw at me." He smiled at Toni as he said that, and waved and made a funny face at his son. He loved to see Little Alex smile.

  Jay caught that on the virgil's screen. "Um, right, Boss. Anyway, yeah, I can send it to your workstation. Nothing major."

  "Fire when ready, Gridley."

  Jay rolled his eyes. "Oh. Like I never heard that one before. Discom, Boss."

  Michaels shut the virgil off and went over to give his wife a kiss and a hug, and to hold his son for a moment. Then he would go see what Jay thought was important. At the least, it would keep him from getting thumped around by Granny Death here.