Tin Man

by Dale Brown

wonder why the graveyard-shift roster will permanently

  have your name on it."

  "You better get going, Captain-master's waiting

  for someone to open the door for him," LaFortier

  said acidly.

  Chandler shook his head in exasperation. "Even

  the solid cops turn bitter after a while, I guess," he

  said, then turned up the collar on his overcoat and

  left.

  LaFortier finished his drink with a quick toss.

  "At least my ass is out on the street where it belongs

  , not sitting in a country club playing footsie

  with the mayor," he said half-aloud. To Paul he

  said, "Tomorrow evening, be at the South Station

  by eight, ready for inspection, and we'll go over a

  few things. Thanks for the party, Mr. McLanahan."

  LaFortier lumbered off.

  "Sheesh, he's a big guy. They make bulletproof

  vests big enough for him?" Patrick deadpanned.

  "Oh yes," Paul responded. "He looks like a big

  blue billboard." He grinned. "Mr. McLanahan," he

  mimicked. "Sounds like you're an old fart, bro."

  "I am an old fart, bro," Patrick said. "But I can

  still kick your ass."

  "Have another drink, bro-you'll stay in fantasyland

  longer," Paul shot back.

  But Wendy's face was serious. "What do you

  think about all this going on between the cops and

  the chief and the city, Paul?" she asked.

  "I don't think about it," Paul replied. "Budget

  cuts are a way of fife, but officer safety is never being

  compromised. Tensions will always exist, but

  the city and the chief always support the troops."

  He smiled reassuringly, then put his arms around

  Wendy's and Patrick's waists. "It means a lot that

  you came up here from San Diego. I know the docs

  probably told you not to travel. You're due next

  week, aren't you, Wendy?"

  "Not for almost three weeks. And unless I was

  confined to bed, Paul, we weren't going to miss your

  graduation. Besides, the boss flew into town, so we

  were able to hop a ride on the corporate jet. We head

  back tomorrow afternoon."

  "W rked out perfectly then," Paul said. Wendy

  gave 'lom a kiss and scooped up more shot glasses

  and beer mugs. Paul turned to his brother. "Wendy

  looks great, and so do you. San Diego must agree

  with you."

  "Yep, it's great," Patrick said. "Seventy-two degrees

  and mostly sunny every day. We love it."

  "We didn't hear much from you for a while there.

  It seemed like you dropped off the face of the earth

  last spring. Lot going on at work?"

  "Yes." Patrick wasn't about to tell his brother

  that he had been busy flying secret attack missions

  over the Formosa Strait, trying without success to

  keep China from devastating Taiwan with nuclear

  weapons-or that he and Wendy had ejected from

  an experimental B-52 bomber over central China,

  were captured, and were part of a prisoner exchange.

  "Well, at least can you tell me about this new

  company you work for? I remember you were forced

  to retire, because you came back here to work the

  bar-but then all of a sudden you're gone again, and

  the next we know you're in San Diego."

  "I, can't really talk about the company too much

  either, Paul," Patrick said. "They're involved in a

  lot of classified stuff for the military."

  "But you're flying again, right?"

  Patrick looked puzzled. "Flying? What makes

  you think I'm flying again?"

  Paul gave his older brother a satisfied grin. Yup,

  he had guessed right and he knew it. "I remember

  your face, your talk, your entire body language

  when you were flying for the Air Force, bro, " he

  said. "You were one supercharged dude back then.

  You were groovin" I mean, really getting into life!

  You look that way now. I know you're all excited

  about having a kid and all, but I remember the only

  other time you were this-well, hell, alive!-was

  when you were flying, dropping bombs from big-ass

  bombers or flying some new supersecret plane you

  could never talk about.//

  "What are you talking about? What's all this

  about secret bombers? I never told you

  "Don't bother denying it-I know%it's true," Paul

  said. "You practically salivate when something

  comes on the news about a war in Europe or the

  Middle East and the press thinks the Air Force flew

  a secret mission. Plus, you cut your hairm-looks

  military-regulation length again."

  "Mr. Detective here," Patrick laughed. "Just

  graduates from the academy and he thinks he's

  Columbo. No, I work for Sky Masters, Inc., and

  that's all I can say."

  "I know you, Patrick," Paul said. "This company

  you work for, they're involved in some real hightech

  shit, aren't they? I mean, real twenty-firstcentury

  Star Wars stuff, right?"

  "Paul, I

  "You can't talk about it," Paul finished for him.

  "I know, I know. Someday, though, I'd -like to know

  more about it. I've always been fascinated by all the

  stuff you could never tell me about, ever since you

  were flying B-52s." Paul hesitated, and Patrick felt

  that old telepathic connection again. It sounded

  silly, but it was nonetheless true: His brother could

  tap his head and find out all he wanted to know

  anytime he wanted. That was reassuring, somehow

  . . . . .. I know you had something to do with

  what happened to that aircraft carrier, and that nuclear

  attack on Guam," Paul went on. "I got the

  same feeling when I heard those stories about the

  conflict in Europe between Russia and Lithuania,

  and earlier with China and the Philippines. You

  were there both times. You were up to your elbows

  in it."

  "Someday, maybe I can tell you," Patrick said

  with a smile. "Right now, all I can tell you is this:

  It's really cosmic."

  "Well, be sure to let me know when you invent a

  phaser and force field for cops on the beat," Paul

  said, clapping his brother warmly on the shoulder

  before heading off to make another circuit of the

  room. "I'll be first in line to try them out."

  N

  er touch was light and soothing, loving and caring-but

  her hand was warm and moist, and as if

  a Klaxon had suddenly gone off, Patrick, was instantly

  awake. "Wendy?"

  "I love you, sweetheart," she answered.

  Patrick pushed himself up and peered at the red

  LED numerals of the clock on the nightstand; it

  read 5:05 A.m. He turned on his bedside light.

  Wendy was sitting upright in bed, her right hand

  still touching him, her left hand gently rubbing her

  V belly. "Are you okay?" he asked.

  111/m fine."

  But she obviously wasn't fine. "Are you having

  contractions? "

  "Oh, yes," she replied, and he heard a twinge in

  her voice. If his wife ever used foul language, he

  d
ecided, the likelier answer would have been,

  "Fucking-A, Sherlock, I'm having contractions!"

  "How long?"

  "A couple of hours. But no real pattern. Very irregular

  . It's probably Braxton-Hicks again."

  "Oh. Okay." It was a lame response, but what

  else do you say? "Gee, dear, you're in pain, and I'm

  really concerned, but it's not that pain, the official

  pain, so I'll go back to sleep now"? Braxton-Hicks

  contractions, sometimes mistaken for real labor

  pains, had been a regular occurrence for Wendy all

  during her pregnancy. So things were stirring, but

  the action probably wouldn't start for several days.

  Right? Wendy wasn't due for another three weeks.

  And first babies were more often late than earlyright

  ?

  They had left the party downtown right after

  midnight. They were staying in a suite at the Hyatt

  Regency Hotel in downtown Sacramento, not far

  from the tavern. During the ride back to the hotel,

  he sensed that Wendy seemed a bit more uncomfortable

  than usual, but that was probably due to

  ratigue-her normal bedtime was closer to nine P.m.

  They probably never should have come to Sacramento

  at this stage-hers was the definition of a

  high-risk pregnancy. Wendy Tork McLanahan, an

  electronics and aeronautical engineer first on contract

  to the U.S. Air Force and now an executive and

  chief designer for a small Arkansas-based high-tech

  aerospace firm, had spent most of the past two years

  in and out of hospitals after twice ejecting out of

  experimental military bombers, the latest just last

  June over the People's Republic of China, along

  with Patrick and the crews copilot, Nancy Cheshire

  . Wendy had just recovered from her injuries from

  the ftrst ejection when she was forced to eject from

  the second plane.

  Thankfully, she did not lose the fetus. After a

  brief hospital stay and a few weeks to recuperateand

  be debriefed by what seemed like every agency

  in the U.S. government except the Department of

  Agriculture-Wendy returned to work and kept on

  with her duties as vice president in charge of advanced

  avionics design at Sky Masters, Inc. until

  her maternity leave began two weeks ago.

  She was in great shape, the baby was fine, and she

  had insisted they could not miss Paul's celebration.

  And after all that had happened-over the past two

  years, Patrick wanted a family life, a normal life,

  more than anything else in the world. He hadn't

  done much of the family thing for most of the last

  ten years, and he was anxious to get reacquainted

  with everyone.

  But here they were, four hundred miles away

  from home, and the baby was obviously headed

  down the chute very soon. Decisions. Good, bad,

  who the hell knew? Stop waffling and deal with it

  now, Patrick told himself.

  "I'm going to call Dr. Linus in San Diego, just in

  case, get someone standing by," he told Wendy. Her

  nod and her touch told Patrick she really didn't

  think it was false labor this time, so he picked UP

  the telephone. Time to get moving. "Jon's got the

  company jet at Mather demoing that electroreactive

  cargo liner technology," Patrick reminded

  her. "I think we should try to make it back to San

  Diego." Dr. Jon Masters, their boss and president of

  Sky Masters, Inc., was at the Aerojet-General rocket

  plant east of Sacramento, to demonstrate a new

  lightweight technology he developed for protecting

  an airliner's cargo compartment from a bomb blast.

  "The jet can be fueled up and ready to go in less

  than two hours, and we can be at Mather- in thirty

  minutes and at the hospital in Coronado in four

  hours."

  "All right," Wendy responded. "I'll get dressed."

  She swung her legs out of bed and headed for the

  bathroom, then stopped halfway. "Dear?"

  "What, sweetheart?" Patrick replied. He turned.

  Wendy was reaching for a towel-and then he saw

  the growing bloody puddle on the white tile floor,

  and leaped out of bed with a speed and agility he

  thought he had lost long ago.

  He knew then that they weren't going to make it

  back to Coronado.

  ROCKET-TESTING FACILITY,

  AEROJET-GENERAL CORPORATION,

  RANCHO CORDOVA, CALIFORNIA

  SEVERAL HOURS LATER

  W

  hat's the latest on Patrick and Wendy, Helen?"

  Jonathan Colin Masters, Ph.D, asked by way of a

  voice check. The boyish-looking chief engineer and

  president of Sky Masters, Inc. was setting up a small

  video camera in front of a first-class seat inside a

  Boeing 727 airliner fuselage.

  "What? Jon, are you listening to me at all?" his

  vice president and chairman of the board of directors

  , Dr. Helen Kaddiri, asked through the videoconference

  link. Kaddiri was several years older

  than Masters, one of the original founders of the

  small high-tech aerospace firm that now bore Jon

  Masters's name. She tolerated his high-school an-

  ties and laid-back style of doing business because

  Jon knew how to build systems that the government

  wanted, and he knew how to sell them-but

  this, Kaddiri thought, was going way too far. Worse,

  Masters didn't even seem to care that he was risking

  his life just to sell a product. He was nuts.

  "Can you hear me? Is this thing working?"

  "I hear you fine, Jon," Kaddiri said.

  "I asked, have you heard anything about Wendy

  since the message that they were heading to the

  hospital?" Masters repeated.

  "Jon, pay attention to what I'm saying to you,"

  said a frustrated Kaddiri. "We have other ways of

  doing this demonstration-"

  "Helen, we've been over this a million times,"

  Masters interrupted. "I'm doing this. Now, is there

  any word from Patrick and Wendy or not?"

  Kaddiri closed her eyes, unable to argue any

  longer. Nuts-that was the only logical explanation.

  Insane. Definition of a death wish, of childlike feelings

  of invulnerability.

  Kaddiri was conducting the technology demonstration

  briefing at a videoconference center at the

  Federal Aviation Administration headquarters in

  Washington, D.C. Several research directors of the

  FAA, along with aerospace-manufacturer and airline

  representatives, were outside the conference room

  awaiting the start of Masters's remote video demonstration

  , beamed via a two-way datalink using Sky

  Masters's low-Earth-orbit satellites, called NIRTSats

  (for Need It Right This Second satellites), specifically

  launched for this demonstration. Jon was

  back in California, about to conduct the demonstration

  itself. He was literally sitting atop a powder

  keg, as both of them knew, and all he could think

  about was Patrick and Wendy McLanahan's new arrival.

  "Stand b
y one, Jon, " Kaddiri replied with an exasperated

  sigh, then turned to her assistant, who

  made a phone call and came back with an answer a

  few moments later. "Wendy McLanahan was admitted

  to Mercy San Juan Hospital in Citrus Heights,

  east of Sacramento, this morning around five-thirty.

  Everyone's doing fine," Kaddiri responded over the

  videolink. "No other word. Happy?"

  "She's been in labor since five-thirty?" Masters

  asked incredulously.

  "She's apparently been in labor since three A.M.,

  Jon," Kaddiri corrected him. She could see him

  wince at the thought of being in pain for that long.

  If Jon were a woman, she decided, he'd get one contraction

  and immediately want to reach up inside

  and yank the kid out himself. "Everything's going

  to be fine. Wendy's a tough girl, and they've got

  some -good docs up there."

  "Excellent," Masters replied, relieved. "Can't believe

  they're going to have a kid. After all they've

  been through . . ."

  "Jon, pay attention to me for once," Kaddiri said.

  "Forget about the McLanahans for a momentthey're

  going to be fine. It's you I'm worried about.

  This is nothing but a dangerous grandstanding stunt

  that is likely to get you killed. I know you don't

  care about yourself or your fellow officers, so think

  about our company-your company. The company

  would suffer a tremendous loss if you were hurt or

  killed. Don't do this. Let's put the telemetric mannequin

  in place the way we originally planned."

  "Helen, you crazy kid, you're really concerned

  about me," Masters said as he slipped into the seat,

  smiling his maddening, cocky grin. "I'm touched."

  "You are touched, Jon-touched in the head!"

  Kaddiri retorted, upset that he appeared to be making

  fun of her anxiety for him.

  Jon Masters was closing in on his fortieth birthday

  , but in many ways he really was still a teenager-probably

  because he had bypassed most of his

  adolescence and teen years and pursued his studies

  rather than girls. He was a savant, a boy genius. He

  received his undergraduate degree from Dartmouth

  College at age thirteen; by age eighteen he had a

  Ph.D from,the Massachusetts Institute of Technology

  , and by age twenty he held over a hundred patents

  as a NASA engineer, doing work for the

  National Strategic Defense Initiative Organization