Tin Man

by Dale Brown

  "Folsom Dam? What's all this about?"

  "Never mind!" Patrick shouted. "Get the MV-22

  ready to fly right now! We've got to get out to the

  dam!" He hit the print button on the keyboard,

  printed out a copy of the diagram, and raced out

  onto the flight line.

  NEAR FOLSOM LAKE,

  TWENTY-FIVE MILES NORTHEAST OF

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  A FEW MINUTES LATER

  This is the forensic-summary report on the Gate

  umber Three rupture back a few years ago at

  Folsom Dam," Patrick said on interphone. He and

  Hal Briggs were sitting in the rear of the MV-22 tiltrotor

  aircraft, heading northeast toward the large

  concrete dam. "The support structures on one of

  the spillway Tainter gates broke and sent half the

  volume of the lake into the American River. The

  river canyon contained the water from that

  break . . ."

  "So you think Townsend is going to blow up

  these Tainter gates?" Briggs asked. "Heck, why not

  just blow the dam itself?"

  "The dam is concrete, probably thirty feet thick.

  How much dynamite would it take to blow that

  wall?"

  "Probably ten thousand pounds of TNT."

  "It would probably take a lot less trouble and explosives

  to duplicate the 1995 accident and blow

  those struts on the Tainter gates," Patrick said.

  "That forensic report they downloaded from the Internet

  spelled out exactly where theycould set the

  charges to dislodge those gates. And if more than

  two or three of those floodgates let loose, with a

  nearly full dam it would cause a massive flood

  downstream. Christ, it could wipe out a half-dozen

  towns along the river and inundate most of downtown

  Sacramento. The lake is near capacity right

  now from all the rains and runoff."

  "But I still don't get it," Briggs said. "Why do all

  this? Is he just plain crazy?"

  "I don't know," Patrick replied. "But we've got to

  stop him first."

  "You ever think about the possibility that this

  might be a trap?" Hal asked. "What if he planted

  that information on the computer so you'd find it

  and chase him out there? What if this is another

  diversion?"

  "We've got nothing else to go on, Hal," Patrick

  said. He put on the suit helmet, activated the BERP

  system, then clicked open the radio commlink:

  "Drop me off at the top of the dam," he said to the

  pilot over their command channel. "Then get as

  close as you can to the face of the top of the dam.

  Watch out for power lines."

  "We've got the power lines on radar," the pilot

  reported. The MV-22 used a millimeter-wave radar

  that could detect power lines as small as a half-inch

  in diameter in time for the pilots to steer over or

  under them.

  The big aircraft settled into a hover just ten feet

  above Folsom Dam Road atop the huge concrete

  dam. Patrick, fully suited up, jumped out of the

  right-side cargo door. He could see the level of the

  lake on the northeast side of the dam-it was just a

  foot from the top, 465 feet above mean sea level. No

  doubt about it: If the dam let go, it would create a

  monumental disaster for miles downstream on either

  side of the American River.

  Patrick landed on the road, climbed over the

  guardrail, and jumped down onto a catwalk. The

  catwalk ran across the top of the spillways, eight

  steep concrete chutes that plunged 340 feet down

  into the American River gorge. All the spillways appeared

  dry, with no more than small rivulets of water

  running down the steep faces. That meant that

  the entire discharge from the lake was being diverted

  to the hydroelectric turbine chutes to make

  electricity.

  Right below the catwalk were the tops of the

  eight Tainter gates. The Tainter gates were huge

  curved steel doors fifty feet high and forty-two feet

  wide, with support struts in the middle that attached

  the gates to trunnion pins on each side; the

  pins were mounted on the concrete supports on

  both sides of the spillway. Each gate had two large

  chains resembling huge bicycle chains, that lifted

  the gates when necessary and allowed water to flow

  down over the spillway to relieve hydrostatic pressure

  from the reservoir side of the dam.

  From the catwalk, Patrick could look down the

  back of the Tainter gates at the chains, using the

  infrared scanner visor on his helmet. Everything

  looked normal. He ran down the catwalk and inspected

  the top of each gate. Still nothing. "I don't

  see anything yet," Patrick radioed to the MV-22.

  "You guys see anything?"

  "Not yet," Briggs replied. The pilots were using

  the infrared scanner in the nose turret to scan the

  face of the dam. "We're getting as close as we can,

  but those transmission lines will keep us at least

  two hundred feet from the dam. We'll see if we can

  slip in between the lines and the dam, but it'll be

  tight. We've got dam inspectors and National Guard

  on the way to secure the dam. Their ETA is about

  fifteen minutes."

  "Copy," Patrick answered. ,rm going to have to

  go down the face of these gates, Hal. The way

  they're designed, blowing the chains would prevent

  the gates from opening."

  "Roger that," Hal acknowledged. He was rereading

  the computer printout as the MV-22 began to

  maneuver over the transmission lines. "According

  to this forensic report you got off the computer,

  when that gate let loose back in 1995, it was friction

  from one of the trunnion hinge pins on the sides of

  the gate that caused the strut braces to buckle. The

  braces hold the gate against the spillway opening.

  Once they bent, the water pressure and the weight

  of the gate just pushed the gate out. Check the

  struts on each gate. If I was going to blow anything,

  that's where Id set the charges."

  Copy," Patrick said. He looked over the edge of

  the catwalk. There was another catwalk forty feet

  below him, at the same level as the trunnion pins

  on which the Tainter gates pivoted. Patrick considered

  trying to jump down to the lower catwalk, but

  if he missed, it was a three-hundred-foot fall down

  the face of the dam to the river below. "Hal, come

  back to the top of the dam and pick me up," Patrick

  radioed. "It's too far to jump to the lower catwalk."

  "On the way," Hal replied.

  Patrick hit the thrusters and jumped easily to the

  road above. He saw the MV-22 climb and start

  toward him, maneuvering easily over the transmission

  lines. With remarkable speed and agility for a

  bird its size, the huge tilt-rotor aircraft moved

  smoothly toward the road.

  Then a streak of fire arced across the sky from

  the lower catwalk and plowed directly into the right

 
engine. The engine disintegrated, a shaft of fire

  blowing downward from the right rotor as burning

  fuel streamed out and was caught in the rotor wash.

  The MV-22 dipped down below the rim of the dam.

  Patrick heard the left engine spool up to full military

  power, and the bird veered right, missing the

  lower catwalk by just a few feet.

  "Will!" Patrick screamed into his helmet radio to

  the pilot. "Pull up!"

  "We got it! We got it!" one of the pilots radioed

  back-Patrick couldn't tell who it was because the

  voice was so high and squeaky. But it didn't look as

  if he had control. As he watched, the aircraft slipped

  to the right, barely missing the power lines across

  the gorge in front of the dam, and dropped.

  But the MV-22 had a crossover transmission system

  that allowed power from one engine to drive

  both rotors, and as it fell down into the gorge, power

  was coming up on both rotors. What started as a

  barely controlled crash quickly turned into a powered

  glide. It was still going down but the pilot was

  back in control. just in time, the pilot pulled back

  on the control stick and flared the aircraft as it hit

  the water a few yards from the rocky shoreline. It

  skittered across the rocks, spun around facing upstream

  as the dead right-engine nacelle struck the

  water, and came to rest on the edge of the shore,

  with the right wing and right-engine nacelle dipping

  into the American River.

  "We're okay! We're okay!" Hal radioed. "We're

  evacuating the aircraft!"

  Patrick's relief gave way to a rage that rose up out

  of his chest and flooded his brain with hatred.

  He was past thought or calculation-he reacted. He

  used his helmet's infrared scanner to pinpoint the

  location of the terrorists on the lower catwalk-one

  of them was still holding the re.hot rocket

  launcher so spotting them was easy-and he hit his

  thrusters. He bounded over the railing on the road

  and soared out into space, aiming for the terrorists

  in the darkness nearly a hundred feet below.

  His aim was perfect. He landed on his chest and

  face right on top of the guy holding the spent

  rocket-launcher tube. He went down hard, but so

  did Patrick, who then crashed over onto the catwalk

  . The electrical surges coursing through the

  suit startled him with their force. Screaming in

  the effort to clear his head, he reached up to grab the

  handrail of the catwalk . . .

  . . . and the bullets struck him in a high-speed

  drumming on his back, then his helmet, then his

  chest. Within seconds, two terrorists, in front and

  behind him, emptied their thirty-round magazines

  of 9-millimeter automatic-weapon fire on him. The

  suit kept him safe but electrical pulses nearly overwhelmed

  him. He struggled to his feet as the

  gunmen reloaded fresh magazines and opened fire

  again. A warning flashed in his heads-up displayhe

  was already at reserve power levels from the long

  fall from the road, followed by all the bullets at such

  close range. He ran forward and grabbed the gunman

  in front of him, head-butting him, crunching

  his jawbone, and knocking him out-and was hit

  square in the chest by a LAWS man-portable antitank

  rocket, fired from about fifty feet away down

  the catwalk. He was blown thirty feet back, up and

  over the catwalk's safety railing, and onto the number

  five Tainter gate.

  Patrick opened his eyes after several long moments

  and checked the systems in his armor. The

  check did not take long: The report on the heads-up

  display simply read EMERGENCY. That explained why

  he wasn't feeling any feedback shocks from the suit:

  It no longer had enough power to electrocute him.

  The infrared-scanner visor was dead, so he retracted

  it.The environmental system was shut down, and

  he felt as if an elephant were standing on his chest.

  He managed to roll onto his hands and feet, desperately

  trying to get his balance back. But he was

  alive, goddammit, alive!

  A hand grasped the bottom of his helmet and

  jerked his head up and back. He grabbed the hand,

  but found he didn't have the strength to pull it free.

  Then he felt the point of a knife right under his

  sternum.

  "Well, well, General McLanahan," said a voice

  with a heavy German accent. "We meet at long last.

  I am Major Bruno Reingruber. I understand you

  have been looking for me for some time now. Unfortunately

  , our meeting will be short-lived. I am

  sorry I was unsuccessful in killing your brother or

  your friend Dr. Jon Masters, but killing you will

  compensate for those previous failures."

  Patrick swung at Reingruber with his free arm,

  but the blows had no effect. "It seems your armor is

  no longer functioning," Reingruber said. He slowly

  pressed the point of the knife against the suit and up

  toward Patrick's chest, a fraction of an inch at a

  time. "If my man's report is true," Reingruber went

  on, "your suit will not activate if it is not struck. In

  that case, we will do this nice and slow . . ."

  The knife pierced the fabric. Environmentalsystem-conditioning

  fluid gushed forth. "He said

  not to be fooled, that this is some kind of coolant in

  the suit and not blood, ja? But a little more, and the

  Tin Man will not disturb us ever again." The knife

  point pierced the suit, the cotton undergarment,

  then pressed against his chest. Patrick cried out.

  "Auf Wiedersehen, General."

  Through the stars clouding his vision, Patrick activated

  the heads-up display in his helmet. He canceled

  the EMERGENcy readout and called up the

  status display. All systems were shut down. Everything

  was dead . . .

  The knife penetrated the skin . . .

  No, not every system was down. The thruster gas

  accumulators were fully charged. Patrick coughed

  inside the helmet as the pain intensified. just as the

  knife started to pierce through the skin to muscle,

  Patrick summoned up the last volt of power left in

  the suit, braced his feet squarely against the number

  five Tainter gate, and activated the thrusters. They

  pushed Patrick, with Reingruber clutching him, up

  off the gate, over the lower catwalk, and out into

  space.

  Reingruber screamed as they plummeted three

  hundred feet down the spillway and into the American

  River. In his terror, he kept a tight grasp on

  Patrick the entire way down, and it was his body

  that absorbed the brunt of the impact with the icycold

  water.

  The strong current running from the hydroelectric

  power plant swept Patrick downstream. There

  was enough air in the helmet to breathe, although

  cold water was leaking into the suit through the

  knife puncture. The weight of the backpack po
wer

  unit dragged him under, but scrabbling desperately,

  his fingers found the releases forthe spent unit and

  he freed himself of it. His helmet burst above the

  surface. He kicked and paddled and found he was

  strong enough to keep his head above the water, so

  he unlatched the helmet and pulled it off. Cold,

  damp air never tasted so sweet. The cold water filling

  the suit was starting to numb his Jegs, but he

  was breathing, and he was alive.

  Now, where was the nearest shoreline? He heard

  a shout: "Patrick! Over here!" It was Hal Briggs.

  Spotlights lit up the river, and they turned right on

  him. Somehow Briggs had managed to'see the fight

  up on the catwalk, and to find Patrick in the

  swirling river. Rescue teams came after him, and

  minutes later, Sacramento County Sheriff's deputies

  and California National Guard soldiers dragged

  him out of the water and began first aid.

  "Check the dam, Hal," Patrick said through chat-

  tering teeth. His face was white, and his hands, lips,

  and legs trembled uncontrollably. "Have them

  check the dam!"

  "They're doing it right now, Patrick," Briggs said.

  They were carrying him into a minivan ambulance

  that had pulled down the American River Bike Trail

  to the river's edge. "They already got a couple of the

  charges. You were right, man-Townsend was going

  to blow up the gates on the dam."

  "Tell them to find Reingruber," Patrick said urgently

  . "If I survived that fall, he might have too."

  "Don't worry about it, Patrick," Briggs said.

  "You're done for the night. Let the National Guard

  and FBI . . ."

  Bright flashes of light lit the sky behind them,

  followed seconds later by loud booms, the noise of

  cracking steel-and the sound of rushing water.

  "Explosions on the dam!" someone shouted. In

  the glare of the searchlights illuminating the huge

  concrete dam, they could see pieces of the Tainter

  gates tearing off and flying into space. One thirteenton

  gate popped off the wall of the dam and fluttered

  through the air like a playing card tossed into

  the wind. A shaft of water shot through the opening

  like a massive lateral geyser.

  Boots scrambled on rock and gravel, car and truck

  doors slammed, and the vehicles raced up the access