by Dale Brown
"We will be back in operation within a month, Mr.
Reynolds," he replied crisply. "And you will address
me as Colonel or Oberst from now on. I run my
organization like a military unit, and even my civilian
subordinates must comply. Now, the fewer
questions you ask from now on, the better. Follow
Major Reingruber aboard that helicopter, find a seat,
strap yourself in, and keep your damn mouth shut."
CHAPTER ONE.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, 19 DECEMBER 1997, 2146 PT
Patrick Shane McLanahan stood at the head of
the long table and raised his glass of Cuv6e
Dom P6rignon. "A toast."
He waited patiently as the sexy young waitress,
Donna, finished filling all the glasses-she was
spending a lot of time at the other end of the table
with his brother, Paul, he observed with a smile.
When everybody was ready, he continued, "Ladies
and gentlemen, please raise your glasses to our honored
graduate, my little brother, Paul." There was a
rustle of laughter around the long linen-covered table
at Biba's Trattoria in downtown Sacramento.
Patrick's "little" brother, Paul, had seven inches
and thirty pounds on him.
The brothers were as different as could be, on the
inside as well as the outside. Patrick was of just
below average height, thick and muscular, fairhaired
, a masculine and worldly version of their
soft-spoken, sensitive mother. Patrick had graduated
from California State University at Sacramento
with a degree -in engineering and a commission in
the United States Air Force, then was lucky enough
to stay in Sacramento for the next eight years, becoming
a navigator student, B-52 Stratofortress navigator
, radar navigator-bombardier, and instructor
radar navigator.
After winning his second consecutive Fairchild
Trophy in annual "Giant Voice" Air Force bombing
competitions, confirming his reputation as the best
bombardier in the U.S. Air Force, Patrick was selected
for a special assignment as a flight-test engineer
at a secret Air Force base in central Nevadaand
then virtually disappeared. Everyone assumed
he had been assigned to test top-secret warplanes at
the Air Force's supersecret air base in the deserts of
central Nevada, called the High Technology Aerospace
Weapons Center, or HAWC, better known by
its unclassified nickname, Dreamland. No one
really knew exactly what he was up to, where he
was assigned, or what he did to get promoted from
captain to lieutenant colonel in such a short period
of time.
Then, just as suddenly, he was retired and back
in Sac- ramento tending bar at the family pub with
his new wife, Wendy, a civilian electronics engineer
who had been seriously injured in an aircraft accident-again
, there was very little explanation. No
one knew exactly what had happened to Patrick or
Wendy, or why two such successful and rewarding
careers suddenly ended. Patrick said little about it
to anyone.
But then, Patrick preferred not to talk about himself
or call attention to himself in any way. He was
a loner, a bookworm, and the "go-to" guy everyone
wanted on their team, but who never would have
been chosen as team captain. He even preferred solo
sports and pastimes, like weight lifting, cycling, and
reading. Although he was a fit and hearty forty-yearold
, he could not bowl a strike or hit a softball to
save his life.
Paul McLanahan, on the other hand, could hit a
softball a hundred miles. Although he was fifteen
years younger than Patrick, in some ways he ap-
peared to be the older brother: tall, dark, and handsome
, a more ebullient, electric version of their
tough,. hard-as-nails father. Paul was the outgoin
gregarious one, the one who enjoyed the company
of others, the more the merrier. He had graduated
with a degree in management from the University
of California-Davis, and with honors from the UCDavis
Law School-then startled everyone by applying
to the police academy while waiting for the results
of his California bar exams. He surprised
everyone even more by deciding to stay in the academy
after learning he passed the bar exam on the
first try-only twenty percent of all test-takers
did-and after taking the oath as a new California
attorney.
But anyone who knew Paul would agree that being
confined to a cubicle or law library writing
briefs, or tongue-lashing some witness on the stand
in a courtroom, was not his style. He was a team
player all the way, a natural-born leader, a people
pe I rson. He'd even refused to sit at the head of the
table during his own celebration dinner, in the place
of honor. Instead he grabbed his chair and moved it
from place to place to be with as many of his friends
and well-wishers as he could.
Patrick had not been surprised. The toast could
wait. But when Paul had finally turned his attention
from Donna, the two brothers made eye contact
across the table, and both smiled and exchanged
wordless salutes.
I could never do what you are about to do, Patrick
said to his brother over the telepathic connection
that bound them. I wish I could care more about
people the way you do.
I could never do what you do, Patrick, Paul silently
responded. You know all there is to know
about machines and systems that I could never un-
derstand in a million years. I wish I could know
more about science and technology the way you do.
Patrick tipped his champagne flute to his brother
in a silent response: I'll teach you, bro. Paul tipped
his glass as well: I'll teach you, bro.
"Paul, you're carrying on a tradition of McLanaban
cops in the city or county of Sacramento that
dates back almost a hundred and fifty years," Patrick
began proudly. "Back in 1850, our great-greatgreat-great-grandfather
Shane traded in his gold pan,
pickax, and pack mule for a lawman's star because
he saw his town sliding into lawlessness. He knew
he had to do something about it--or maybe he
found out that the gold nuggets weren't just lying
around in the streets the way everyone back in the
old country said. We don't really know.
"Anyway, Grandpa Shane could have kept on
panning and maybe would have made enough to
buy himself a big ranch in the valley that he could
have handed down to us so we'd all be stinking rich
today, but he didn't . . ." Patrick paused, then
added, "So why in the heck am I even mentioning
him?" When the laughter died down, Patrick went
on, "But since Grandpa Shane pinned on that star
and became the ninth sworn lawman in the city's
history, there have been six consecuti
ve generations
of McLanahan lawmen or women in Sacramento.
Paul, you represent the first of the seventh generation
to join them.
"We all realize, grudgingly, that with your brains
or skills or good looks or dumb luck or whatever it
is you've got, you could have gone into business, or
law, or anything else you desired," Patrick went on.
"Instead, you decided to go into law enforcement.
Someone not as charitable as I am could accuse you
of pulling another Grandpa Shane, that if you went
into business or law you'd make enough of the
really big bucks to support your mother and your
dear loving siblings." His face and tone turned Serious
: "We also know the dangers of your decision.
The names of two McLanahans, UncleMick and
Grandpa Kelly, are on the Sacramento Peace Officers
Memorial, and we all know the McLanahan
families that have had troubles, or have even been
destroyed, because of the stresses of the job.
"But we all know that you're following a dream
that's been twenty-two years in the making, ever
since Dad first let you hit the siren on his old squad
car," Patrick went on proudly. "We are here to celebrate
your decision and wish you the very best.
Congratulations for graduating, and congratulations
for being awarded the City's Finest Recruit Award
for being first in your graduating class in all areas,
and for being chosen Most Inspirational Recruit by
your fellow grads. Good luck, good hunting, and
thanks for making this commitment to your city
and your neighbors. Cheers." The rest of the invited
guests and many of the patrons at surrounding tables
shouted, "Cheers!" and they took a deep sip of
the champagne.
"And now, with all due respect to our gracious
and beautiful hostess, Miss Biba, we will adjourn
this social gathering and reconvene at a proper establishment
, the Shamrock Pub on the waterfront,
for the real celebration," Patrick said with a grin.
The owner, Biba Caggiano, tried with her generous
smile to persuade the partisan crowd to stay, but it
was no use. Biba's and the Shamrock were both
longtime Sacramento landmarks, but for entirely
different reasons-Biba's meant fine food, fine atmosphere
, and elegance, and the Shamrock-informally
known as McLanahan's-didn't.
"The rule at McLanahan's tonight is, as I'm sure
every cop in town is well aware," Patrick reminded
them, "that if you carry a badge, your money's no
good-except maybe for the chief, that is." That remark
earned Patrick a raucous round of applause.
"The primary purpose of reconvening this gathering
at the Shamrock is to get young Probationary Officer
McLanahan accustomed to working the graveyard
shift, since that's where he will most likely be
for the next several months on the force. So we
must all do our part and stay up until dawn with
Officer McLanahan and his buddies so they can get
a good idea of what it's like to see the sun rise at the
end of the day. Lastly, we meet there to prove the
old Irish maxim: God invented liquor so the Irish
wouldn't rule the world. It's time to prove how correct
that saying can be. Last civilian at the bar buys
it!" With a flurry of kisses for Biba, the crowd
headed for the waiting taxis that would take them
to the second half of the evening's festivities.
Its real name was the Shamrock, but everyone
knew it either as McLanahan's or the Sarge's Place,
after Patrick's father's rank when he retired as a
Sacramento police officer and ran the bar. Whatever
its name, it was one of a handful of bar-and-grills in
the downtown area that catered to cops, kept cop
schedules, and was attuned to what was going on in
the law-enforcement community. It was known to
sometimes be open at Six A.m., right around
graveyard-shift change after a particularly busy or
bloody night, or on a Sunday evening after a cop's
wake. Although it was no longer fully owned by the
McLanahan family, Patrick, as de facto head of the
clan-their mother, Maureen, was now retired and
lived in Scottsdale, Arizona-was tasked to pour the
first round of Irish whiskey, and they raised their
glasses to the new crop of California peace officers
who had graduated earlier that day.
He poured a lot of whiskey that night. Most of
the academy grads, and all of them with assignments
in the Sacramento area, were there, along
with dozens of active, reserve, and retired cops from
all sorts of agencies, from the Sacramento Unified
School District Police to the FBI; and McLanahan's
extended its invitation to party to anyone who carried
a badge into harm's way'or in support of law
enforcement-which included a few firemen, parole
and probation enforcement officers, dispatchers,
and even district attorneys and DA investigators.
Everyone was welcome to join in the party-but
cops give off a definite air of distrust bordering on
hostility to anyone they don't recognize as one of
their own, so no outsiders dared venture toward the
free drinks. Not that any cop actually prevented a
civilian from going near the bar; it was simply made
clear by the eye signals and body language that the
free drinks were for cops only.
As they had been for the past twenty-two weeks,
the grads were together at one very large table, passing
frosty pitchers of beer around and accepting
congratulations and words of encouragement and
advice from well-wishers. Although the academy
was run by the city of Sacramento, only seven of the
fifty-two graduates were going to the Sacramento
Police Department: eleven were going to the Sacramento
County Sheriff's Department; fifteen others
to other California police, sheriff's, and different
law-enforcement agencies. The remaining nineteen
graduates had no positions waiting for them: They
had paid their own way to attend the five-month
program, half junior college, half boot-camp academy
, hoping to be hired by one of the agencies
sometime in the future. Needless to say, they took
full advantage of the free drinks and aggressively
buttonholed the highest-ranking officers they could
find, hoping to meet an influential sergeant or administrator
and make a favorable impression.
The target of most of the jokes and abuse that
night was the honor grad, Paul Leo McLanahan. Every
veteran cop wanted a piece of him, wanted the
opportunity to see what the number one grad of
the latest crop of "squeaks" (so named because of
the sound of the leather of their brand-new Sam
Browne utility belts) was made of. Paul did the one
thing that raised the blood pressure of most of his
tormentors: He was polite. He called them "sir" or
Iima'am" or by their rank if he knew it. He gracefully
extricated himself if he was in danger of being
drawn into an argument---'So what do you think of
the fucking chief?"-a drinking contest-"Stop sipping
that beer, rookie, and have a bourbon with us
like a real man!"-or an arm-wrestling match-
"Hey, I'll show you a good short guy can take a big
guy any day!" When Paul entered an argument, it
was to pull a friend away from the confrontation or
to keep it from getting out of hand; when he walked
away, he made it look to everyone as if he was on
their side.
Paul had come around behind the bar to help Patrick
and Wendy wash some mugs and shot glasses,
and he saw his big brother grinning at him. "What?"
"You," Patrick said. "Sometimes I can't believe
you're the same kid who used to drop out of trees
and ambush me or your sisters. You're so laid back,
so damned . . . what? Diplomatic."
"That's the main thing they taught us, Patricksometimes
what you do in the first few seconds of a
conflict, or even before you arrive on the scene, will
determine the outcome," Paul said, finishing the
glasses and giving his sister-in-law an appreciated
shoulder massage. "Go in pissed off, hard charging,
and kick-ass, and everyone rises to the challenge
and wants to kick ass too, and before you know it
the fight's on. Being polite takes the wind out of
most guys' sails-you call a guy 'sir' enough times
and sound like you mean it, and he'll go away from
sheer boredom."
"Nah. I'd just pull out my gun and shoot 'im,"
Patrick joked.
"That's the absolute last option, bro," Paul said
seriously. "Dad told me that in thirty-two years on
the force, he'd only been involved in a half-dozen
shooting incidents, and he regretted firing every
bullet even though he used it to protect his life or
that of another cop. There are guys on the force who
have never fired their weapons except at the range. I
want to be one of those guys."
"In this city? I doubt it," Wendy said dryly.
Wendy McLanahan was very close to term, but she
didn't show it at all-her belly pooched out only a
little, which made it hard for most folks to believe
she was due in less than three weeks. She wore
