Tin Man

by Dale Brown

  The soldier on the left cried out and fell, clutch- J

  ing his lower back. The other turned toward Chandler

  and opened fire with his submachine gun, but

  the shots went high and right. Chandler fired several

  rounds to throw off his aim, then threw himself

  back into the tunnel as bullets pinged off the outer

  security doors. Lying on his belly, he peeked out the

  doors. The soldier had propped up Helen, who

  looked semiconscious, using her as a shield while

  he checked his comrade.

  "Helen! Kaddiri!" Chandler shouted, his gun

  poised to fire. "Get up! Now!" He was afraid she

  would be too weak to act, but she heard him and

  had enough strength to roll free of the soldier's

  grasp. Chandler dropped the second soldier on his

  first shot.

  He ran to her. "Come on!" he said. "I'm going to

  try to get you away!"

  Heavy machine-gun fire rippled the ground not

  five feet away from them, shot from one of the helicopters

  on the flight line. Chandler fired two rounds

  toward the helicopter, picked Kaddiri up, and ran

  for the rear of one of the hangars. Placing her on the

  ground behind the hangar, he tried to make a run for

  one of the submachine guns dropped by the soldiers

  who had taken Kaddiri, but a burst of gunfire drove

  him back to cover. Two soldiers had dismounted

  from the helicopter and were headed straight for

  them. Chandler took aim and fired but his gun

  clicked empty. He threw it away, looped one of Kaddiri's

  arms up over his shoulder, and ran down the

  ramp behind the hangars. It was their last, their

  only, chance.

  L

  I've got one of the helicopters lined up!" the pilot

  of the MV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft

  called out on interphone. "Give me permission to

  shoot!"

  "No!" Jon Masters shouted. "Helen might be in

  one of those choppersc!"

  "Put me right over the lead helicopter," McLanaban

  radioed. "Target the second helicopter's tail rotor

  with the cannon. Try to keep it on the ground,

  but don't hit it!"

  The MV-22 was flying about sixty miles an hour

  in helicopter mode as it swooped across the two parallel

  runways at Mather toward the R D center.

  Patrick knew their altitude, about thirty feet above

  ground, and their speed. He relied on his experience

  as an Air Force bombardier for the rest.

  As the MV-22 swept in on its targets, Patrick

  stepped out through the left crew door onto the left

  main landing gear sponson and steadied himself

  against the left weapon pylon. At just the right moment

  , he let go and flung himself out into space,

  jumping right down onto the spinning rotors of the

  first UH-1 Huey helicopter.

  He looked like a doll tossed from a speeding car

  onto a busy freeway when he hit the rotor disk. He

  landed right-shoulder-first onto the left side of the

  rotor, but the BERP suit protected him from being

  sliced into hamburger. His body skipped across the

  rotor disk, hitting again on the blade tips just forward

  of the cockpit canopy before being thrown a

  hundred feet into the air.

  The helicopter's blades bounced like palm fronds

  in a hurricane. One blade snapped and flew off into

  space; the others dipped so low that they struck the

  ground and then the tail, snapping off the tail rotor

  . Unbalanced, the entire main-rotor assembly

  cracked off the hub and shattered. The transmission

  screamed into high rpm's, then it too shattered and

  disintegratled. The transmission burst into a globe of

  shrapnel, shelling out the turbine engine with a

  huge explosion.

  Patrick landed up against the steel post of one of

  the facility's ballpark lights. He knew he was alive

  because the ferocity of the electrical surges through

  the suit had set his entire body on fire. He writhed

  in pain and tried to relax his muscles, let the energy

  move through him and dissipate; but the more he

  tried to relax, the harder the waves of electricity

  came.

  It felt like hours before they stopped. He didn't

  dare move at first, thinking he was sawed into

  pieces. The vision of those rotor blades rushing up

  to his face was imprinted on his eyeballs. But when

  he opened his eyes, he saw hangars, lights, and gray

  cloudy skies. He was alive.

  He got to his feet and looked over the R D

  facility flight line. Soldiers were streaming out both

  crew doors of the disabled Huey, some holding injured

  comrades. The MV-22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor

  was directly over the second one-it could fire

  straight down with its chin-mounted Chain Gun,

  but no one on board the Huey could shoot straight

  up because they'd be shooting through their own

  rotor disk. The second Huey's tail rotor began to

  disintegrate as 20-millimeter rounds chewed it to

  pieces, and in seconds it was unflyable.

  Soldiers began firing at the MV-22. "Hal! You're

  taking ground fire!" Patrick shouted into his helmet

  radio. "Get out of there now!" As the MV-22 moved

  away, Patrick hit his thrusters, aiming straight at

  the soldiers firing on it. He plowed into them going

  full speed, knocking them over like an out-ofcontrol

  truck.

  Then he heard shouts of "Halt!" in German

  through his onmidirectional microphone-and cries

  of "Help!" in English. He hit his thrusters in the

  direction of the cries, jumping across'the ramp behind

  the second hangar. He could see two soldiers

  chasing someone and recognized the running figure

  of Tom Chandler, carrying a woman down the

  fenceline behind the hangars. The soldiers had fired

  a warning shot in the air, but Chandler wasn't stopping

  . One of them raced after him as the other knelt

  down and began to line up his shot.

  Patrick hit his thrusters again but discovered

  they hadn't recharged yet. He ran toward the kneeling

  soldier, shouting, "Chandler! Gun! Behind

  you; with his electronically amplified voice. Chandler

  turned, pushed Kaddiri to the ground next to

  the fence, and raised a pistol. At last, a "Ready"

  indication. Patrick hit his thrusters and speared the

  kneeling soldier with his flying body just in time.

  The other soldier had thrown himself on the ground

  when he saw Chandler's gun, trying to find cover.

  Patrick got to his feet, made sure the one he had

  downed was out cold, and yelled "Stop!" at the second

  soldier. But he was too late. Chandler went

  down just as Patrick reached the guy and put him

  out of commission.

  Patrick went over to Helen, lying where she had

  fallen when Chandler dropped. She looked semiconscious

  . "Helen! It's Patrick! Are you all right?"

  She opened her eyes. "Patrick?" she said groggily.

  "Patrick! I . . . I think I'm okay.
" She turned her

  head toward Chandler. "He saved my life, the son of

  a bitch. How is he?"

  Patrick checked him over. He had a bullet in his

  upper chest and left shoulder. "Not good," he said.

  He tore off one of Chandler's pant legs and stuffed

  the cloth into his chest wound to stop the bleeding.

  They heard the sirens of approaching police cars and

  fire trucks. "We're going to have to get him out of

  here. And )rou need to be checked over too."

  The MV-22 had swooped over the R D facility,

  firing at soldiers on the ground, but now it touched

  down on the ramp behind the second disabled

  Huey. Patrick carried Chandler out onto the ramp,

  with Helen hobbling beside him, just as the Sheriff's

  Department and California Highway Patrol cars and

  county fire trucks roared up. The officers . ran out,

  weapons drawn, and aimed at Patrick. "Put him

  down," they ordered. "Hands in the air!"

  "Hold on, hold on!" It was the commander of the

  Highway Patrol's SWAT team, Thomas Conrad,

  who ran up, followed by Masters and Briggs. "Let

  him go, boys. He's one of us." Then he pointed to

  Chandler, still in Patrick's arms. "But not that man.

  He's under arrest. Get him to the hospital but keep

  an officer with him at all times. And this lady needs

  medical help too. But hold it just a sec . . ." Conrad

  went over to where Chandler was lying, withdrew

  something from his pocket, and put it in

  Patrick's right hand. "Here," he said. "You deserve

  this a hell of a lot more than he does."

  Patrick looked at it. It was Chandler's gold captain's

  badge.

  Jon Masters was focused only on Helen. He took

  off his jacket and gently wrapped it around her. "Oh

  God, Helen," he kept saying. "Are you all right? Oh

  Helen, I'm so sorry . . ."

  "I'm okay, Jon, I really am," she reassured him,

  smiling at him weakly. "I . . . I must look like

  hell, but I'm not really hurt."

  "You look beautiful to me," he said. "But you've

  been through hell, and we need to get you to the

  hospital right away." The paramedics moved him

  out of the way and helped Helen onto a gurney. As

  they began to wheel her to the ambulance, she

  reached out a hand and grabbed at his sleeve. "Don't

  leave me, Jon," she said.

  He took her hand and walked beside her. "I

  won't, Helen," he said. "Never again." He realized

  he was deliriously happy. "You crazy kid, you're

  still in love with me."

  "Yes you crazy kid," she replied happily, "I'm in

  love with you."

  RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT FACILITY,

  SACRAMENTO -MATHER JETPORT

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER

  Nal Briggs thought it was the weirdest sight he

  had ever seen. There sat Patrick McLanahan in

  the chair in his office at the R D facility, taking

  sips of coffee and working on the computer-with a

  cord running from him to a wall outlet. Of course,

  he still had the BERP suit on. But weird was the

  word, like Patrick was some kind of futuristic halfman

  , half-machine, both parts getting refreshed at

  the same time.

  It had been a very long day. After the shootout

  with Townsend's men, the. R D facility had been

  overrun with sheriff's deputies, then Highway Patrol

  investigators, then FBI and ATF officers. Since

  Townsend was so fond of using booby traps, the

  whole facility had to be evacuated while the place

  was searched. Then the interviews began, one

  agency after another gathering statements from all

  of them. Additional security units were on the way

  from Sky Masters, Inc.s facilities in Las Vegas, San

  Diego, and Arkansas to secure the Sacramento facility

  , but until they arrived the place was being

  guarded by Sacramento County Sheriff's Department

  depifties, augmented with National Guard

  troops.

  "Out of the twelve soldiers that Chandler said

  Were here," Briggs said to Patrick, "we got seven,

  Sacramento County Sheriff's got one, and Folsom

  police got another one. That leaves three unaccounted

  for. Not a bad day's work."

  "It's not them I'm worried about-it's Townsend

  and Reingruber I'm after," Patrick said, seated at his

  terminal. He was fingering Chandler's sevenpointed

  gold star thoughtfully.

  "Unfortunately, I think the only way we're'going

  to learn what he's going to do next is to wait,"

  Briggs said. "He's probably got a dozen more hideouts

  in the area that we don't know about. He could

  be anywhere. If he were smart, he'd be long gone."

  "No," Patrick said. "He's after something here.

  This whole caper of his never made any sense. First

  he's into armed robbery, but he only hit one place.

  Next he's into drugs, but then he blows it all up. He

  raids this place, but it looks like this was just a target

  of opportunity. He's an arms smuggler and

  dealer, not a drug dealer. What's he doing here?"

  "Nothing against your hometown, partner,"

  Briggs said, "but there ain't a helluva lot here.

  You've got Intel, HP, Packard Bell, Aerojet, and a

  couple of other high-tech companies, and you've got

  the state capital. Except for a couple of bases outside

  of town, all of the military bases here are closed

  or will be closed soon. There's nothing here."

  "Henri Cazaux was involved in some pretty elaborate

  schemes to cover his real objectives," Patrick

  pointed out. "Maybe Townsend is doing the same

  thing."

  "But what? Cazaux was supposedly out to avenge

  himself on the United States and the U.S. Air Force

  for screwing up his twisted little head when he was

  a kid," Briggs said. "You think Townsend wants revenge

  on Sacramento? What for? That doesn't make

  sense."

  "Makes as much sense as anything else he's

  done," McLanahan said. "Unfortunately, it doesn't

  help us figure out what he's going to do next or help

  us catch him."

  "Hey, I say let's leave it up to the FBI now,"

  Briggs said. "My bosses at ISA are screaming their

  heads off, asking what the hell I'm doing flying support

  for the local yokels. No one has any sense of

  humor anymore." Patrick kept flipping through

  computer records. "What are you doing there?"

  "Just trying to figure out what Townsend's men

  were looking at. They were obviously accessing all

  our Internet stuff, trying to find a way to access our

  company network, looking for passwords, downloaded

  messages, journals, notes, that sort of thing. I

  should be able to backtrack and find out what they

  were looking at."

  "Say what?"

  "They were looking for clues about where users

  stored their passwords," Patrick explained. "Remember

  when you could look around the doorsills

  and inside desk drawers around any combination

  safe in
the Air Force and find the combination to

  that safe? Guys had trouble remembering the cornbination

  , so they wrote it down near the safe itself."

  "Now, that's stupid."

  "Stupid but commonplace," Patrick said. "Cornputers

  can do the same thing, but they do it electronically

  . You just need to know where to look."

  "Can you see if they broke in to your system?"

  "The security offices in Arkansas should be able

  to tell us that when they do a security audit," Patrick

  said. He called up several Internet-access programs

  and browsers. "Judging by how much they

  hurt Helen, they weren't able to get in." He paused,

  lost in thought. "They were definitely looking at

  the engineers' individual Internet-access applica-

  tions, looking for stored passwords. The company

  prohibits storing passwords and our applications

  don't allow it, but some guys get careless or lazy

  and program them in anyway, using macros."

  "You lost me, man," Hal Briggs said. "That computer

  stuff is for the birds. Give me a gun and a

  chopper any day, and I'll solve all the problems o

  the world." But curiosity got the better of him, and

  he peeked over Patrick's shoulder. "You got something

  ?

  "Not about our network, but something else,"

  Patrick said. "This.is an Internet browser program,

  for accessing articles on the World Wide Webthat's

  the global network of computers, all linked

  together. Browsers save pages in files called caches,

  which allows the pages to load faster. You can look

  back through the cached pages and see what they

  were looking at. Pages accessed from secure sites

  aren't cached, but articles accessed over nonsecure

  sites are. Look at this."

  Hal studied the screen. "That's weird," he remarked

  . "What's CERES? The name of a town? You

  think that's where Townsend is?"

  "No," Patrick replied. "CERES stands for California

  Environmental Resources Agency. They do

  studies on the use of land, water, air . . . holy shit,

  look at this."

  "I'm lost, Patrick," Briggs said, shaking his head.

  "This is more environmental stuff. The Bureau of

  Reclamation? Why would they be looking up all

  this?" But Patrick flipped to the next cached page

  on the browser, and he started to understand. "Hey,

  that's the dam right near here, right?" he asked.