Tin Man

by Dale Brown

  too much to believe, too much even to grasp. Was

  this really happening? She became acutely aware

  that he was holding her hands, and she took them

  away.

  "Jon . . . Jon, this is very nice," Helen said awkwardly

  . "I've never been treated to anything like

  this before. But

  "But what?"

  "We are in the middle of a multimillion-dollar

  buyout negotiation, Jon," Helen said. "You're paying

  three thousand dollars a day in legal fees to reit

  solve our differences ...

  "Well, that's over," Jon said. "Whatever you

  want, you can have. Full rights to the patents, full

  ownership of the unpatented designs you created,

  f

  11 market value of the stock, and your stake in the

  u

  underlying Dun Bradstreet value of the company

  in cash or in percentage of profits. You deserve it;

  you should have it."

  Helen Kaddiri was flabbergasted. "Two months of

  legal negotiations ended just like that?" she asked.

  "What's the catch?"

  "There is no catch," Jon said.

  "I don't have to go on this boat with you? I don't

  have to have dinner with you? I don't have to sleep

  with you?"

  Jon gave her a mischievous grin and, shrugged.

  "Well . . ."

  "You are a piece of work,,Jon, you really are,"

  Helen said angrily. "You can't browbeat me with a

  bunch of lawyers, so you decided youre going to try

  to woo 'me to sign your buyout deal?"

  No! That's not it at all!" Jon said. "The deal's

  already been done. I signed your last counteroffer

  four hours ago."

  "You did?"

  "Yes, I " Jon said. He took her hands again. "So

  maybe we can consider this a celebration cruise, or

  perhaps a reconciliation cruise?"

  . Helen looked at Jon, at the yacht, then back into

  his eyes. "Are you serious, Jon?" she asked. "You

  just . . . want to spend time with me?"

  "Yes," Jon said. "Maybe more, in the future, if

  you want. But let's make this the first step, shall

  we? I've got so much to tell you, so much I want to

  share with yM."

  "Oh, Jon," Helen said disapprovingly. She let his

  hands drop again, not as sharply as before but still a

  rejection. ."I guess I'm just not a dinner-on-a-yacht

  girl."

  Jon motioned to the upper deck, where a small

  rigid-hulled inflatable boat was waiting on davits.

  "They've got a cool little Nouverania up there we

  ,can use."

  "It's not that," Helen said after a little laugh that

  made Jon's heart do a somersault with hope. "Jon,

  after all we've been through together, this is just not

  the way I imagined it ever happening. I never expected

  to be . . . courted, I guess. And I certainly

  never expected to be . . . to be swept off my feet.

  Especially by Jonathan Colin Masters."

  "Well, believe it," Jon said. "C'mon, Helen. You

  know me. I'm a kid trapped in a man's body. I don't

  know how anything is supposed to work. I know

  how it works in my head, and-I just do it. I follow

  my head and my heart because I don't know any

  other way. A yacht ride to Catalina . . . well, that

  seemed to be the way to do it."

  "Not with me, I guess, Jon," Helen said. "Thank

  you. But I can't go. I can't do this. You and me, we

  have too many bouts under our belts. It would be

  hard for me to believe that this cruise would be anything

  else but a prelude to . . . heck, I don't know.

  Throwing me overboard."

  "Helen, give me a chance," Jon said. "I've finally

  realized that I'm happier with you, that I care about

  what you think and feel about me, that I want to be

  with you. I don't know if there's anyone else in your

  life right now, but I definitely know that I want to

  be in it. I . . ."

  Helen shook her head to stop him. "I'm sorry,

  Jon. You've given me a lot to think about. I wish I

  could go with you. But I can't. Good-bye."

  All sound seemed to evaporate as Jon watched

  Helen turn and walk down that wharf. The gentle

  throbbing of the twin diesels was gone, the soothing

  sounds of the violin, the soft creaking of nearby

  boats straining on their lines. The only thing he

  could hear were her quickly fading footsteps, walking

  out of his life for good.

  SACRAMENTO-MATHER JETPORT,

  RANCHO CORDOVA, CALIFORNIA

  WEDNESDAY, 25 FEBRUARY 1998, 0717 PT

  I on Masters stepped into the middle of the largest

  U hangar inside the security development center at

  the old alert facility. It was empty except for

  those looking on: Lieutenant -Colonel Hal Briggs,

  Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl, and Dr. Carlson

  Heinrich, Sky Masters, Inc.s staff project medical

  consultant. Briggs and Wohl were dressed in their

  typical black battle-dress uniforms, each with

  sidearms, but the others were in business suits.

  Masters and Heinrich were both wearing wireless

  earset commlinks so they could talk with the test

  subject.

  Briggs looked a little puzzled. "We still on for the

  test, guys?" he asked. "ISA wants a report yesterday

  . Where's Patrick? This is his show, right?"

  "We're ready, Hal," Jon said. "Patrick is standing

  by." He folded his hands in front of him, suddenly

  looking like a schoolboy giving a talk about his

  summer vacation to his classmates.

  "It is believed," Masters began, "that gunpowder

  was invented by the Chinese in the seventh century

  A.D. When it was brought to Europe in the fourteenth

  century, it changed the face of an entire continent

  ' an entire society, The first man-portable gun

  used in anger was used in the fourteenth century by

  Arabs in North Africa. It too changed the face of the

  entire planet-that first gunshot truly was 'the shot

  heard round the world.'

  "Despite all of the technological advances we've

  made in the past seven hundred years, the gun, and

  the tiny pieces of metal it propels, continues to

  change lives, change humankind. It is simple technology

  hundreds of years old, but still deadly, still

  lethal. When you think about it, it's pretty frustrating

  : Our company builds all kinds of cool weapons

  technology, but the best-equipped soldier is usually

  killed by essentially the same weapon used by a nomadic

  guerrilla desert-fighter centuries ago.

  "The soldier of the twentieth century may have

  better training, better education, and better equipment

  , but when it comes right down to it, the infantryman

  of the fourteenth century would probably

  immediately recognize him," Masters went on.

  "Their tactics, their mind-set, their methods for attack

  , defense, cover, concealment, movement, and

  assessment all remain the same. All that, guys,

  changes right now. Colonel, Gunny: Meet the soldier

  of the twe
nty-first century."

  They heard a tiny woosh! of compressed gas echo

  inside the empty hangar-and then, as if out of nowhere

  , a figure appeared before them, dropping out

  of the air from the shadows in a corner of the hangar

  . The figure landed on its feet and bent into a

  crouched position, then slowly rose and stood silently

  before them.

  It wore a simple dark gray bodysuit, resernbling a

  diver's three-mil 'wetsuit; a large, thick helmet;

  thick gauntlets and boots; and a thin, wide backpack

  . A helmet covered the entire face and head,

  molding smoothly out to the shoulders. It had a

  wide visor, with-extensions over the visor containing

  other visual sensors that could slide into place

  over the eyes. The helmet appeared tightly sealed

  from the outside; a breathing apparatus was obviously

  necessary.

  For a long moment, all of them stood and looked

  at the dark-clothed figure, saying not a word. The

  figure made one turn, showing itself from all sides,

  then stood quietly. "He looks like that dude from

  Sea Hunt," Hal Briggs finally quipped, "except

  shorter and chubbier. Brigadier General McLanahan

  , I presume?"

  Patrick nodded stiffly. "That's right, Hal," came

  an electronically enhanced voice.

  "You sound like the voice coming through the

  clown's head at the dnive-up window of a fast-food

  joint," Hal said with a grin. .

  On a secondary comm channel, one that Briggs

  and Wohl could not hear, Patrick said, "Jon, I felt

  that power surge again when I landed."

  "Then I recommend we terminate the test/ Dr.

  Heinrich responded immediately on the commlink.

  "The problem hasn't been fixed."

  "Patrick?" Masters asked. "It's your project, an

  you're wearing the gear. What do you say?"

  Patrick McLanahan hesitated, but only for a moment

  : "Let"s go on," he said. "The shock wasn't too

  bad, and I feel flne now."

  "I recommend against it," Heinrich said.

  "We're on schedule and on budget right 'now,"

  Patrick snapped, his voice much more impatient,

  even agitated. "Any delayswould be costly. We go

  on.//

  "So how do you take a dump or a piss in that

  getup, Patrick?" Briggs asked.

  "You finish the mission and go home," Patrick

  responded flatly.

  "Touchy, touchy," Hal said. "I don't mean to

  crack wise, guys, but it's not exactly what we were

  expecting. How did you fly in here like thatV

  "A short burst of air compressed at three thousand

  psi," Jon replied proudly. "The soldier of the

  future doesn't run or march into combat anymorehe

  jumps in, The soldier can jump about twenty to

  thirty feet vertically and a hundred and flfty feet

  horizontally. The power unit he wears can recharge

  the gas generators in about fifteen seconds."

  "It'd be fun to watch a squad of these dudes hopping

  into battle," Briggs commented. "How long

  does the power unit last?"

  "The specs you gave us called for durable manportable

  power units to last a minimum of six

  hours--ours can last eight," Jon Masters replied.

  "Ours can be recharged by any power source available-a

  twelve-volt car battery, a home electrical

  outlet, a commercial two-twenty line, an aircraft

  auxiliary-power unit, or even by solar photovoltaic

  cells mounted on the back. If all power is lost, just

  drop the backpack, and the suit becomes a standard

  combat-ready insulated suit and battle-ready helmet

  . Patrick?"

  To demonstrate, Patrick reached up to hidden

  clips on his shoulders and unfastened the backpack

  power unit, then passed it around to Briggs and

  Wohl. It resembled an oval turtle shell, contoured to

  match the body; it was about an inch thick and

  weighed about twenty pounds. The helmet's oxygen

  visor automatically dropped open when the power

  unit was detached. Patrick pressed a tiny switch under

  the left edge of his helmet, and the helmet unlocked

  and popped open; he took it off and let Briggs

  and Wohl look it over.

  Briggs was interested in the design and features of

  the helmet but Chris Wohl was more interested in

  Patrick. He looked at him carefully and asked, "Hot

  in that getup, sir?"

  "A bit." Patrick was sweating, and his face

  looked a little red, like a football player who had

  just -finished a difficult series of plays and run in

  from the field. Heinrich handed Patrick a squeeze

  bottle of ice water, trying to check him over discreetly

  at the same time. Wohl's face showed uncertainty

  , but he remained silent. When the helmet

  and backpack power unit were handed back to him,

  Patrick put them on, slipping on the backpack and

  fastening the attach points on his shoulders. It automatically

  snapped into place, locked, and energized

  . . . and, unnoticed and unheard by Briggs and

  Wohl, Patrick let out a barely audible moan through

  the commlink.

  "Patrick? Was that you? Are you all right?" Dr.

  Heinrich radioed.

  "I . I felt that shock again when . . . when I

  put the fucking backpack on," Patrick answered,

  clearly in pain.

  "Terminate the test and get that power unit off

  now!" Heinrich radioed.

  "No!" Patrick shouted.

  This time 6veryone heard him. Hal's impressed

  smile dimmed a bit. Chris Wohl, the veteran infantryman

  and commando, was clearly concerned now.

  "You all right in there, sir?" he asked. "You don't

  sound too good."

  "The system's environment is completely controlled

  ," Masters explained quickly. "He can withstand

  heat to three hundred degrees, cold to minus

  twenty, and can even stay under ice-cold water, all

  for up to an hour. The suit uses a positive pressure

  breathing system, so it is even capable of being used

  in a chemical- or biological-warfare environment."

  Wohl stepped over to Patrick and looked at the

  suit carefully. If he looked closely, he could see his

  eyes through the tinted visor in the helmet. The

  helmet appeared to be fitted with several sensors

  pointing in different directions, as well as different

  visors that slid into place over his eyes. Wohl could

  see that Patrick had an oxygen mask fitted inside

  the helmet, plus a microphone and several tiny se

  sors aimed at his eyeballs. "I see infrared sensc

  microphone-what else have you got in there, sir?"

  "Complete communications system-secure tactical

  FM, secure VHF, secure LJHF, even a secure

  cellphone," Patrick replied. "I have an onmidirectional

  microphone that can pick up whispers at

  three hundred feet. The helmet visor has data readouts

  and small laser-projected virtual screens that

  show menus to change the various functions in the

  system; the menu items are selecte
d by an eyeball

  pointing, system. Miniature infrared warning systems

  mounted on the helmet warn of movement in

  any direction."

  "Is that right?" Wohl remarked. He took a step

  back away from Patrick. "How does it feel? Can you

  move around all right, sir?"

  "It's a little stiff," Patrick said, experimentally

  flexing his shoulders and knees, "but I can . . ."

  Wohl suddenly reached out and, to everyone's

  surprise, gave McLanahan a firm push. Patrick toppled

  over, landing on his back with a hard thud! on

  the concrete hangar floor.

  "You look like a soft, bloated, overbaked Pillsbury

  Doughboy, sir!" Wohl said angrily, almost

  shouting. "You look ridiculous! You can't move,

  you can't run, you can hardly stand up, and you

  look like you're either going to pass out or sweat to

  death inside.that thing! Do you expect us to spend

  all that friggin'moriey on a soldier my grandmother

  can push over? And where's your damned weapon?"

  Patrick struggled to his feet, very much like a

  diver in a wetsuit trying to get out of the surf. He

  seemed a little shaky at first, as if the fall had

  knocked some wind out of him, but he was up in

  fairly short order. Masters replied, "He doesn't have

  any weapons, Gunny."

  "Say what? No weapons? You're trying to tell me

  the soldier of the twenty-first century doesn't have

  any weapons? You've got to be shitting me!"

  "No, we're not shitting you," Patrick said, the

  anger in his voice coming through even in the distortion

  of the electronic speaker. He was on his feet,

  feet apart, arms away from his sides, facing Wohl in

  a challenging stance. "We're going to develop a new

  infantry combat system, then have the soldier fire

  bullets? Get your head outof your ass, Wohl!"

  Patrick's defiant words inflamed Wohl even

  more. "This is bull, sir," he said. "Part of the specs

  on this project included a new series of area and

  point offensive weapons. I don't see shit. What is all

  this? I've trained men in seventy degrees below zero

  without the wetsuit or power unit, and we've used

  helmet-mounted sensors and miniaturized comm

  gear for years. What's so special about this system?

  Because you've got compressed air in your boots.

  Patrick held out his left hand, and Jon Masters