Night Moves nf-3 Page 4

  "All right, you got me there," Jimmy Joe said when Tyrone didn't reply. "Frame the game, slip. What's all this twirly stick-dick about?"

  Tyrone grinned. "Okay, there are two basic kinds of boomerangs. One is a stick that comes back when you throw it. It might do a lot of fancy stuff on the way out and back, or not, depending on the type. They can range from the basic model that looks like a cross-section of a banana up to helicopter-like things with six or eight blades.

  "The second kind is based on the abo war sticks, and it doesn't come back, it just keeps on going until it drops — or it hits somebody in the head. A war boomerang can go farther than anything else as heavy that you can throw. They fly due to gyroscopic precession caused by asymmetric lift. The lift comes from rotation combined with linear motion."

  "Code interrupt that last transmission, slip! Put it in my native tongue."

  "It flies because it turns into a wing as it spins; it comes back because the wing angle is different in different places."

  A red and black German shepherd ran past, chasing a hard-silicone Frisbee Jackarang.

  Tyrone shrugged out of his backpack, pulled out his basic Wedderburn. "See how the edge is slanted on this blade, on the inner aspect? But on this side, the trailing edge has the slant. When it spins into the wind, the push is different every time the thing rotates, so it starts to curve. You throw it right-handed, like this—" Tyrone showed him the grip, with the concave side forward and the end up " — and it flattens out and curves to the left."

  Jimmy Joe looked at the boomerang. Hefted it. "Hmm. I could code a pro, put in the factors — weight, RPM, speed, aerodynamics, all like that — and make it work exactly the same in VR."

  "Welcome to the past, slip. Serious throwers all have their own scenarios, since B.C. days. I've got exacts for each of my birds. But the program is just the map—these are the territory." He opened his backpack to show his friend his other boomerangs. He had three classics and three MTAs, ultrathin and light, rosin-impregnated linen L-shaped blades designed for maximum flight time. His favorite of these was the Moller "Indian Ocean" model, a standard Paxolin model he had gotten pretty good with.

  He indicated the Moller. "I'll use this one for my event."

  "Hmmp. Doesn't sound as hard as DinoWarz."

  "Analog real time is different than digital, hillbilly. Talkin' muscle memory, judging wind speed, temperature, all like that."

  Jimmy Joe wasn't impressed. "I could program all that in. One session."

  "Yeah, but you couldn't walk over there and throw this and make it work."

  The dog ran back with the Frisbee in its mouth and dropped it at the feet of its owner, a tall dude with green hair. "Good girl, Cady!" Green-Hair said. "Go again?"

  The dog barked and bounced around.

  "And the event you are doing is which one?"

  "Maximum Time Aloft. You throw, it twirls up and around, a judge puts a stopwatch on it. Everybody gets a throw, the bird that stays up the longest wins. You have to catch it when it comes back or it doesn't count, and it has to land inside the fifty-meter circle. You want something light and with a lot of lift. The current record is just over four minutes."

  "Feek that! Four minutes twirling around? No motor? Come on."

  "That's just the official record. There are guys who have put one in the air for almost eighteen minutes, unofficially."

  "No feek? That doesn't seem possible."

  "I scat you not."

  Tyrone held up the Moller. "My best with this is just over two minutes. If I could throw that today, I could probably make the Junior National Team."

  "That'd be DFF."

  Tyrone smiled. Yep, data flowin' fine. Too bad his dad wasn't here to watch. Dad had been real helpful when Tyrone had gotten started, even had an old boomerang at Grandma's house he'd found. Of course, Dad couldn't keep up with him now, but that was okay. He was not bad — as dads went.

  The PA system blared to life. Tyrone's event was up.

  Tyrone swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Practice was one thing; competition was another. This was his first, and he suddenly felt a need to go pee, real bad, even though he had gone just ten minutes ago.

  Despite his indoor pallor, Jimmy Joe seemed to be getting into the spirit of things. "So, when do you do your thing?"

  "I'm eighteenth. There are thirty-some-odd throwers in my class. Some of them have come all the way across the country for this, and some of them are real good."

  "You gonna watch the others?"

  "Oh, yeah. Might see something useful. Plus I want to know what time I have to beat."

  "You know some rude dude has, like, three minutes, that helps you?"

  "Just like knowing the high score in DinoWarz does."

  "Copy that."

  There were several other events under way at the same time — distance, accuracy, Australian — and Tyrone and Jimmy Joe found a shady spot under a dealer's canopy and watched the juniors.

  First guy up was a tall, lean kid with a shaved head. He threw a bright red tri-blade — not the best choice for this event — and Tyrone clicked his stopwatch. Forty-two seconds. Nothing.

  The next guy was a short, stout kid with a Day-Glogreen L-shape, which looked like a Bailey MTA Classic or maybe a Girvin Hang 'Em High. Or it could be one of the clones; you couldn't really tell from this far away.

  Tyrone clocked the flight at a minute-twelve. No winner here, he was pretty sure. Winds were light, from the northeast, so he wouldn't need to tape coins or flaps to his blades to keep them from getting batted down.

  Third thrower up was a girl, as dark as Tyrone was, probably about his age, and she had a Moller, same model as his. She took a couple of steps, leaned into it, and threw.

  The bird sailed out and up, high, hung there for what seemed like forever, spinning, drifting, circling back. It was a beautiful throw and an exemplary flight. Tyrone glanced away from the bird at the girl. She was looking back and forth from her stopwatch to the bird, and she was grinning.

  As well she should. When the bird finished its lazy trip and came down, the black girl had a two-minute-and-forty-eight-second flight to her credit. That wasn't going to be an easy time to beat.

  They watched eight more throwers, none of whom came within thirty seconds of the third girl, then Tyrone had to go and warm up for his own throw. His mouth was a desert, his bowels churned, and he was breathing too fast. This ought not to be scary, it was something he did every day the weather was good, throw his boomerang, dozens of times. But there weren't several hundred people watching him practice, and today he only got one throw that counted.

  Just let me break two minutes, he thought, as he approached the throwing circle. Two minutes won't win, but I won't be last, and I won't feel like a fool. Two minutes, okay?

  He pulled a little commercial pixie dust from his pocket and rubbed it between his left thumb and first two fingers, letting it fall to check the wind direction. The glittery dust sparkled as it fell and showed him that the wind had shifted a hair toward the north but still was mostly northeast. He dropped the rest of the dust, pulled his stopwatch and held it in his left hand, and took a good grip on the Moller with his right. He took three deep breaths, exhaling slowly, then nodded at the judge next to the ring. If he stepped out, he'd be disqualified. The judge nodded back, raised his own stopwatch.

  Go, Tyrone.

  He took another deep breath, one step, leaned, snapped his wrist, and put as much shoulder into it as he thought the bird could stand. He was careful to make sure it didn't lay over to the right, and he put it as close to forty-five degrees as he could.

  He clicked the stopwatch.

  Two minutes and forty-one seconds later, his bird gave it up. He caught it safe, double-handed clap, and that was that.

  Tyrone grinned. There were still a dozen more throwers to go, but he had beaten his own personal record by more than thirty seconds, and he was in second place. No matter what happened, he was happy with that throw.
>
  As Tyrone started back toward where Jimmy Joe waited, the black girl who was in first came over. She was athletic looking, muscular in a T-shirt and bike shorts and soccer shoes, a little plain. Not in the drop-dead-beautiful class that Bella had been in. And still was in.

  "Nice throw," she said. "You'da leaned a little more to your left, you'da gotten another ten, twelve seconds out of the flight and beat me."

  "You think?"

  "Sure. The Moller'll do six minutes, so they say. I've thrown a three minute fifty-one second in practice. Hi, I'm Nadine Harris."

  "Tyrone Howard."

  "Where you from, Ty?"

  "Here. Washington."

  "Hey, really? Me, too. Just moved here from Boston. I go to Eisenhower Middle. Or I will go next week."

  Tyrone stared at her. "No feek?"

  "Nope. You heard of it?"

  "I go there."

  "Wow! What are the chances of that? Hey, maybe we can throw together sometime! Last school I was at, nobody else was a player."

  "I hear that. Exemplary. Let me give you my e-mail address."

  When Tyrone got back to where Jimmy Joe stood, his friend was looking around on the ground. "Lose something, white boy?"

  "Oh, I was just looking for a big stick."

  "A big stick?"

  "Yeah, slip, for you. To help keep the women away." He waved in the direction of the departing black girl, pretending to be hitting at her with an imaginary stick.

  "Ah, shut it down, dip, she's just a player is all!"

  "I can see that."

  "You spend too much time in the pervo rooms, JJ. Get a life."

  "Why should I? Yours is so much more fun."

  Tyrone swatted at him, but his friend danced away. He moved pretty fast for such a little creep.

  Later, when the juniors were done, Tyrone watched the portable computer sign they'd set up to flash the results. Unofficially, he already knew he was third. Some guy from Puerto Rico had slipped in between him and Nadine with a time three lousy seconds longer than Tyrone's. Even so, third out of thirty-four at a national competition, and with a new PR, that wasn't bad. He'd made the U.S. team.

  The sign started to blink, then it went blank. A second later, an image of some kind of flag appeared, waving in a VR breeze.

  Tyrone glanced at his friend. "Hacker got 'em. Why don't you go and offer to fix it?"

  Jimmy Joe's eyes lit up. "You think?"

  Tyrone laughed.

  Saturday, April 2nd

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  "Got a problem, Colonel," Fernandez said.

  They were at the staging area, getting the trucks loaded for the drive into the desert. A dozen troops, men and women, hauled gear and made ready to begin the run.

  "We haven't even made first contact with the enemy yet, Sergeant. Not the local police, is it?"

  Sometimes they called the locals in, sometimes not, depending on the situation. This time, there weren't any cops close enough to the target's location to worry about, and the Clark County Sheriff's Department didn't need to know because it was out of their jurisdiction by a long way.

  Fernandez shrugged. "It's the computer. Take a look."

  Howard drifted over to the tac-comp, where a tech named Jeter sat and cursed under his breath.

  "It appears to be the Union Jack," Howard observed.

  "Yes, sir," Jeter said. "It is. It's supposed to be the sitrep feed from Big Squint, with a three-dee layout of the target's location." Jeter thumped the monitor with one hand. "This is what happens when you buy your electronics wholesale from the damned New Zealanders, begging your pardon, sir."

  Howard grinned. "I trust you to clear it up before we depart."

  "Yes, sir."

  Howard looked away, took a deep breath and let it out. He looked at his watch. He wondered how Tyrone had done at the boomerang competition. He was tempted to call, but he knew better. Shielded com or not, it was unwise to give away your position in a tactical situation and not a good habit to get into. He'd call his son when they got this target acquired and neutralized. He was a good kid, Tyrone, but he was also a teenager. Life was getting complicated for the boy, and it wasn't going to get any easier. How could a father protect his son from that? He couldn't, and that was painful. The days when Daddy was all-knowing and all-wise were gone. He'd never given it much thought, but now it was staring him in the face: His son was growing up, changing, and if he wanted to maintain contact with him, he was going to have to change, too. That was a strange feeling.

  "Got it," Jeter said. "We're back on track."

  Worry about child rearing later, John. Keep your mind on the business at hand.

  "Good. Carry on."

  Chapter 5

  Saturday, April 2nd

  London, England

  Toni Fiorella climbed the narrow, creaky stairs toward the second floor of the four-story walk-up. The place she wanted was on that floor, over a small appliance shop in an area called Clapham, between a brick-red Indian tandoori restaurant and a charity shop with boarded-up plywood windows. The buildings and the area in general were run-down. Not as bad as the worst of the Bronx, maybe, but not a place you'd want to take your old granny for a stroll after dark. Unless your granny was maybe a dope dealer and armed.

  As she neared the top, Toni caught the odor of sweat, stale and fresh.

  The heavy wooden door was unlocked.

  Inside were fifteen or sixteen men and five women, all dressed in dark sweatpants, athletic shoes, and white T-shirts. The T-shirts had a black and white logo on the back, with a smaller matching version over the left breast: A Javanese wavy-bladed dagger — a kris—set at about a thirty-degree horizontal angle, bounded on the top and bottom by the words Pentjak Silat.

  The twenty-odd people were doing djurus.

  Toni grinned. The forms weren't the same as hers, since this version of the Indonesian martial art was not Serak but a variation of Tjikalong, which was a western Javanese style, but it looked similar enough to hers that there was no mistaking the djurus—the forms — for karate kata.

  The school itself was hardly impressive, nothing as nice as the FBI gyms at home. The ceiling was high, maybe fifteen feet. The floor was dark wood, old and worn but clean. Folded in one corner of the large room were fraying blue hardfoam mats that also showed much wear, plus a couple of heavy punching bags wrapped in layers of duct tape. A brown wooden door had upon it a sign that indicated it led to a bathroom — a loo, it was called over here. Exposed pipes, for water or heat or whatever, ran across the wall in back about ten feet up, and the metal had been painted alternating colors, red, white, and blue. A large roof support in the middle of the floor wore what looked like an old mattress wrapped around it and held tight with half a dozen red and blue bungee cords. A double row of fluorescent lights graced the ceiling. An exhaust fan whirred in one of the windows, blowing the odor of sweat into the evening.

  It was your basic large workout room, no frills.

  A tall man dressed the same as the students walked around, observing their form, correcting stances, and offering praise when it was merited. He was not quite muscular enough to be a bodybuilder, but he was broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped. He had short gray hair with some brown left in it. He wore aviator-style glasses. A first look might say mid-thirties, but Toni guessed he was in his early fifties, based on his hands and the smile wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

  "Hello," he said in a clipped British tone. "May I help you?"

  "Hello. I'm Toni Fiorella. I called earlier?"

  "Ah, yes, the American visitor. Welcome! I'm Carl Stewart, and these are my students." He waved at the assembly. "We're just about to finish with djurus."

  "Don't let me get in the way. I'll just stand and watch, if that's all right?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Thank you, Guru." Toni moved to stand next to the stack of mats.

  "All right, then," Stewart said to the class. "Any questions about the djurus?"

&n
bsp; A few hands went up. Stewart answered the queries about various moves from the forms. He was patient, not condescending, and he would demonstrate the correct move to show how it was done.

  He was smooth, balanced, tight. In silat, the ability to perform a djuru precisely wasn't always an indication of fighting ability, but you could tell a lot about a person by watching them move.

  Carl Stewart moved as well as anybody Toni had ever seen. And she had seen more than a few fighters over the years.

  Interesting.

  For the next half hour or so, Stewart worked on self-defense applications from the forms, showing how they would apply against an attacker, then putting the students into pairs to practice. There weren't any belts to denote rank, same as in most silat styles, but it was obvious after a few minutes who were the advanced students and who were the beginners.

  This was her weakness, Toni knew. She'd had plenty of advanced training from her guru — as the Indonesians called their teachers — but she hadn't spent much time in group situations, either as a student or an instructor. Guru had always told her she needed to teach to get the full benefit of silat. She had only just begun that.

  After about thirty minutes, Stewart put the advanced students into a series of controlled semi-free style match-ups. One student would be the attacker, the other the defender. He allowed the attackers to throw full power punches and kicks, but only to the chest or thigh, where a missed block would merely be painful instead of seriously damaging.

  She watched as the current pair of students faced each other. The defender was a thin man with long black hair, the attacker a short and squat red-haired fellow. The thin man turned so his right side was toward the attacker, his feet wide in a deep, open stance; his left hand was high, by his face, the other hand low, to cover his groin.