Tin Man

by Dale Brown

  ."

  "Very good, Herr Oberst," said Reingruber. "We

  will be ready to go in two hours. It will be a glorious

  operation. And what about Masters, sir?"

  "We may have use for Dr. Masters in the future;

  his psychological reprogramming has been very successful

  . Bring him along too."

  Townsend walked over to the room where Jon

  was working on the suit. He was eating breakfast.

  Faulkner was wearing the suit, experimenting with

  its mobility. Jon put down his coffee cup and stood

  at attention. "Good morning, sir," he said.

  "Good morning to you, Dr. Masters." Townsend

  extended a hand, and Jon shook it, formally bowing

  his head and standing until Townsend had seated

  himself. Reingruber passed by the open door and

  Townsend saw the fear in Masters's face. "Has the

  Major been bothering you, Doctor?"

  "No, not really," Masters replied, "But I'm always

  afraid he's going to hurt me. He keeps watching

  me, and he speaks to some of the men while

  they're working with me. It's as if he's plotting to

  hurt me and make it look like an accident."

  "You need not worry about him. Stay close to me

  and it will be all right," Townsend said. "I am the

  one in command here."

  Jon seemed reassured.

  Townsend was pleased. They had organized the

  psychological dismantling of Jonathan Masters

  well. Reingruber had had another session with him

  yesterday afternoon, after the water drum, pressuring

  him to tell how to work the electronic suit.

  Masters did a creditable job of resisting the threats,

  but the pressure took its toll. Reingruber barely

  even touched him, but he was terrified. When

  Townsend appeared, he was ready to run into his

  arms like a child.

  From then on, he confided in Townsend, describing

  his inventions to the point of forgetting who he

  was talking to, where he was, and the fact he was a

  captive. Before long, he began to explain the intrica-

  cies of the suit-the real evidence of a successful

  indoctrination, Townsend decided. He and Faulkner

  had made him feel included, liked, respected. He

  was eager to please them in return. The belligerent

  John Wayne attitude was gone. He agreed to let

  Faulkner wear the suit, and got up before dawn that

  morning to start working with him, explaining all

  its systems.

  "How is everything progressing?" Townsend

  asked. "I understand Dr. Faulkner is having a little

  trouble with the suit."

  "It's going well, sir," Masters said. "Richard's a

  fast learner and he's patient."

  "But he doesn't seem to be learning to use the

  systems as well as I'd hoped."

  "It takes time," Masters said. "The coordination

  necessary to use the eyeball sensing menu system is

  complex. It may take another day or two. But we

  should be able to try a test outdoors tomorrow

  morning, perhaps even with live, ammunition."

  "We really need to do it much sooner than that.

  We have very little time to waste. Can you set it up

  for early this afternoon?"

  "I'm not . . . yes, sir. We'll make it work.

  Sir . . . it

  "Yes?" Townsend said patiently.

  "I wondered-have you reconsidered perhaps

  having the suit fitted for you? It will take some

  time, but I think I can do it."

  "Perhaps later, Doctor," said Townsend. "Now

  get back to work."

  ' Masters jumped to his feet, snapped to attention,

  and hurried back to Faulkner, who was about to try

  on the gauntlets. The helmet lay on the table; it

  would come next.

  As Townsend walked off, one of Reingruber's

  lieutenants came running up, out of breath. Rein-

  gruber was following, as angry as Townsend had

  ever seen him. "Wir haben ein Problem, Herr

  Oberst," the lieutenant said.

  "What is it?"

  The fieutenant held up a portable receiving unit.

  "This. We did a routine electromagnetic security

  sweep this morning. We found this." A needle on

  the receiving unit was oscillating across the scale.

  "It is a high-power onmidirectional UHF satellite 61

  uplink," the lieutenant explained. "A tracking bea- A

  con."

  Townsend didn't need to be told more. "Get your

  men assembled and out the door immediately!" he

  ordered Reingruber. He drew his Calico automatic

  pistol and went back into the room where Masters

  was working with Faulkner.

  Masters saw his livid face and froze. Faulkner,

  oblivious, raised his arms proudly. "What do you

  think, Colonel?" he said. "I get a shock every time I

  get hit, but the sucker works."

  "Oh, it works, all right," Townsend said. 'Very

  clever, Doctor. Pretending to be brainwashed so you

  could get your hands on the suit and activate some

  sort of tracking beacon, correct?"

  Jon Masters positioned himself behind a confused

  Faulkner. There was no point in dissembling. "Listen

  , Townsend," he said, "I spent enough years with

  real military guys to know when I'm being braindrained

  . Hell, if the only way to survive was to let I

  you think you screwed with my head, it was worth

  the try." He looked at Faulkner mockingly. "And

  you a Dartmouth grad? Not in a million years, loser.

  A child could see that newspaper was phony."

  Townsend raised the automatic. "Well, your

  friends are too late to save you, Doctor, " he said.

  "And they're too late to save your friend Helen."

  Jon blanched. "What did you say?"

  "Did I forget to tell you?" Townsend asked. "Yes,

  Dr. Helen Kaddiri is a guest of mine. An unexpected

  bonus. She will be my insurance policy. If your

  friends try to come after me, she will die.. As for

  it

  you . . .

  An enormous blast shook the room and the wall

  behind Masters crashed down. The concussion

  threw the three men to the floor, and as the sound

  of the blast subsided they heard heavy rotors coming

  close. Masters curled himself up behind Faulkner

  , as if willing himself to become even smaller

  than he was.

  "You bloody bastard!" Townsend shouted. He

  lifted himself on one arm and pulled the trigger on

  the Calico, but the shots went wild as heavy cannon

  fire erupted outside. Townsend fired again, raking

  the floor with automatic gunfire. The suit protected

  Faulkner, and Masters behind him, until one shot

  hit Faulkner in his unprotected head. Another missile

  hit the building, then another volley of heavycaliber

  cannon fire.

  "Heir Oberst!" Reingruber shouted. "Helicopters

  ! We must get away fast!"

  Townsend leaped to his feet, reloading a fresh

  magazine into his autopistol as he fled. "Remember

  , Doctor," he shouted, "I have Kaddiri. Tell your

  friends to back off or she dies!"

  The MV-
22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft swept

  over the rolling wooded terrain. The pilot had activated

  the helmet-mounted targeting system,

  which directed the 20-millimeter Hughes Chain

  Gun onto a target when he turned his head and

  pulled the trigger. The targeting system also gave

  him a virtual targeting reticle for the MV-22's

  pylon-mounted laser-guided Hellfire missiles. Once

  he designated a target by looking at it and pushing a

  button, the targeting computer locked on to the target

  and illuminated it with a laser beam. One push

  of a button, and a Hellfire missile leaped off the

  Pave Hammer's weapon pylons, followed the beam

  of laser light, and scored a direct hit.

  "They're scattering!" the MV-22's copilot

  shouted. "I see a helicopter lifting off to the northwest

  , and several vehicles heading west. Do you

  want me to go after them?" F,

  "No!" McLanahan shouted. "I want to get Jon

  Masters first! Set it down by the building where the

  tracking signals are coming from." Minutes later,

  the MV-22 had transitioned from airplane to helicopter

  mode and set down a few dozen yards from

  the main building on the isolated Sierra Nevadafoothill

  ranch.

  The first ones off the MV-22 were California

  Highway Patrol SWAT officers, who surrounded the

  landing pad and moved out to secure the landing

  zone. This was done deliberately. It was highly illegal

  for the federal government's Intelligence Support

  Agency to run any operations within the

  United States, but it could fly support missions for

  state or local law-enforcement authorities. As long

  as the ISA was in a support function only, its men

  could fly and fight inside the United States.

  Lieutenant Colonel Hal Briggs led the way into

  the main building, armed with his .45-caliber Uzi

  submachine gun. Right behind him was the commander

  of the California Highway Patrol Special

  Weapons and Tactics Detail, Deputy Chief Thomas

  Conrad, followed by a sergeant representing the

  Placer County Sheriff's Department's SWAT team.

  Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl and Patrick McLanahan

  followed behind, guarding their rear. Three

  more four-man squads of SWAT officers fanned out

  across the ranch and began to search the grounds,

  but there were no signs' of resistance. Afraid of

  booby traps, Briggs recalled the teams as soon as

  they completed their sweeps.

  To Briggs's amazement, he found Jon Masters

  running through the main house, darting from room

  to room. "Jon!" Briggs shouted, lowering his

  weapon. "What in hell are you doing?" ,

  "I've got to find a phone! I've got to find a

  phone!" he was screaming. Briggs grabbed him and

  held him tight. "Let me go, dammit! . . ."

  "What in hell are you talking about, Doc?"

  "Helen! They've got Helen!" he cried. "We've got

  to find her!"

  "Jon!" Patrick McLanahan shouted when he

  caught up with them. "My God, Jon, are you all

  right? What's that about Helen?"

  "They got her," Jon told him. "Townsend and

  Chandler grabbed her. I don't know how, I don't

  know where, but they've got her."

  "We'll find her," Briggs said. "Don't worry. We'll

  scour this whole state until we . . ."

  "No! You can't!" he shouted. "Townsend said

  he'd kill her if we tried to interfere!"

  "That's exactly why we must go after her,"

  Briggs said. "They'll kill her anyway. We've got to

  find her before they try to harm her."

  "No!" Jon shouted. "We can't take the risk! Oh

  God, it's all my fault. I called her after I got out of

  the jail. I told her . . . told her I wanted to see her.

  She must've come to Sacramento."

  "Jon, we'll do everything we can," Briggs said.

  "We'll save her if it's at all possible. But you've got

  to be prepared for the possibility that she's dead. I'm

  sorry, man-I promise we'll do everything we

  can . . . "

  Patrick's earset communications beeped. "McLanahan."

  "General, this is Sky Masters Security Operations

  Center," said the caller. Patrick recognized

  the voice; it was the chief of the company's security

  division at their headquarters in Blytheville, Arkansas

  . "I'm patching an urgent call through to you

  from Dr. McLanahan." There was a beep; then: "Go

  ahead, Dr. McLanahan."

  "Patrick?" Wendy asked.

  "Wendy, are you all right?" Patrick asked. "Is

  Bradley all right?"

  "We're okay, Patrick," Wendy said, but he could

  hear the fear in her voice. "Listen: A few minutes

  ago, I got a message on my voice mail." The company

  voice-mail system automatically notified the

  recipient via nationwide pager when a message

  came in. "It was from Tom Chandler, that police

  captain from Sacramento PD."

  "What? Chandler called you? What did he say?"

  "He said he was out at the research facility at

  Mather," Wendy said. "He said someone better get

  out there right away or Helen was dead. He said

  there were twelve of Townsend's men out there, going

  through the company's computers."

  "Helen at Mather? We'll get right on it-thanks,

  love." Patrick turned to Briggs. "Get everyone on

  board, Hal, now Chandler and Helen Kaddiri are

  out at the alert facility at Mather." Hal radioed his

  tactical ground crews to return to the MV-22, then

  notified the cockpit to get ready for liftoff. "Jon,

  where's the suit?"

  "In the room over there," said Masters, and

  brought Patrick over to where,the body of Richard

  Faulkner lay. They stripped off the suit, hoisted the

  body on board the MV-22, and were airborne moments

  later.

  RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT FACILITY

  SACRAMENTO -MATHER JETPORT,

  RANCHO CORDOVA, CALIFORNIA

  A FEW MINUTES LATER

  Ja, Herr Oberst! I understand. We will be airborne

  in fifteen minutes!" The senior officer hung up

  the secure cellular phone, then got on his handheld

  radio and ordered everyone to the helicopters and

  prepared to repel attackers. Then he dashed to the

  main administration offices and the room where

  Helen Kaddiri was being interrogated. She was still

  conscious, but barely, strapped to -a chair with a

  hood placed over her head. She did not look as if she

  had been injured, but the lieutenant knew there

  were many ways of torturing a prisoner without

  leaving visible signs. The screen of thelaptop computer

  on the desk beside her showed lines of error

  messages, indicating the unsuccessful attempts to

  gain access to the classified Sky Masters files.

  "Get her to the helicopter!" the lieutenant ordered

  . "Take that computer too!" He drew his sidearm

  and headed across the corridor to the senior

  engineer's office, where the renegade police captain

  Chand
ler was being held. His orders were explicit:

  to execute him immediately.

  He unlocked the door and stopped in his tracks.

  On the desktop, lying faceup, was the body of

  Thomas Chandler, his hands still handcuffed behind

  his back, his eyes open and staring up at the

  ceiling. A streak of black-and-red crossed his neck,

  and a pool of red spread out across the desk. The

  dirty work had already been done for him, probably

  by the guard assigned to watch him-it was a violation

  of orders, since no one had given the order to

  kill Chandler until now, but the lieutenant wasn't

  going to complain. He turned toward the admin section

  and brought his handheld radio to his lips . . .

  Chandler brought the metal chair down on the

  German bastard's head as hard as he could, and

  slammed it again and again until he was dead. The

  trick had worked. He had used a hidden handcuff

  key to get out of the handcuffs-he had several of

  them hidden on him and knew how to use them

  even with his hands behind his back. Then he had

  opened up the color ink-jet printer in the office and

  spread the ink on his neck and the desktop to make

  it look as if his throat had been slit.

  He picked up the officer's pistol and ran out.

  Through the engineering offices, a security door

  opened on an upsloping concrete ramp that led to

  the flight line, the same covered ramp that SAC

  bomber and tanker alert crews used to run to the

  flight line and their waiting planes. Chandler didn't

  know what was going on, but it was sure as hell

  time to get out and he was damned if those Nazis

  were going to leave with a hostage.

  The only way he could possibly redeem himself,

  he figured, and save himself from spending the next

  ten years in prison, was to start doing his job.

  The German-speaking soldiers had left their

  posts and run to the flight line in front of the halfunderground

  R D facility, where two surplus

  UH-1 Huey helicopters were waiting for them, rotors

  turning. When Chandler emerged from the tunnel

  , he saw two guards no more than fifty feet away,

  half-carrying, half-dragging Kaddiri through the alleywa

  between two hangars toward the waiting

  y

  helicopters. He took cover just inside the doors to

  the ramp, raised the pistol, aimed, and fired.