Tin Man

by Dale Brown

  put a four-foot piece of one-inch galvanized steel

  pipe in it. Patrick tossed the pipe to Wohl, who

  caught it easily in one hand. "Take your best shot,

  Gunny," Patrick said.

  "Excuse me, sir? You mean, hit you?"

  "That's right, Gunny. As hard as you can."

  "Hey, I'm not going to be part of your testing

  program, sir," Wohl said. "I came here to see a demonstration

  , not to get you hurt or injured while Dr.

  Masters takes readings. Get someone else to

  At that instant, Patrick leaped off the floor with a

  sharp hiss of compressed air and slammed into

  Wohl full force in a flying body tackle. He landed on

  all fours and got back up to his feet after taking a

  moment to get his bearings, but Wohl sailed over

  backward like a small wide receiver hit by a speeding

  linebacker. "I said hit me, dammit!" Patrick's

  electronic voice shouted. "Just do as you're goddamn

  told!"

  Chris Wohl got on his feet like an enraged grizzly

  bear. He picked up the steel pipe and swung it with

  all his might, hitting Patrick squarely in the left

  shoulder. They all heard the dull thud and Patrick

  reeled, stumbled slightly over to the right, but did

  not go down. Wohl swung again. The pipe landed on

  Patrick's left rib cage. Again, no effect. He blocked

  two even harder blows with his forearms. The next

  blow, weaker now that Wohl was winded, landed

  right on hishead, across his right temple. His head

  jerked to the left from the impact, but he remained

  standing. Then, as if from the depths of a wild-boar

  pit, Patrick cried out, a loud, almost animal-like

  cry, and clutched his head in pain.

  "Patrick!" Masters shouted. "Are you all right?

  Doc, help him!"

  Carlson Heinrich ran over to Patrick, ready to get

  him out of the suit and administer first aid, but Patrick

  swung his left arm and swatted Heinrich away.

  One of Heinrich's ribs cracked loud enough for everyone

  in the hangar to hear it.

  As Wohl looked at him in amazement, Patrick

  stepped over to him and rarnmed his left hand into

  his chest. The blow felt like a sledgehammer. The

  wind gushed out of Wohl's lungs, and he fell to his

  knees, grasping his midriff in pain. Then Patrick

  reached down, picked up the steel pipe-and hit

  him square on the side of the head with a tremendous

  swinging blow. Wohl's head snapped over to

  the right in a cloud of blood. He landed flat on his

  face and lay still, blood oozing from his ears, his

  mouth, his eyes. Then, with another growl, Patrick

  raised the pipe over the fallen man, aiming one end

  of it at his skull . . .

  "What the fuck!" Hal Briggs shouted in shock.

  Patrick McLanahan, their friend and colleague, was

  going to kill Chris Wohl! He ran over and bodytackled

  Patrick. They both fell over onto the concrete

  floor, Briggs on top. "Patrick, what the hell are

  you doing, man?" He intended just to hold Patrick,

  to calm him down-but both of Patrick's arms

  swung up and hit him in the jaw. Briggs felt as if a

  steel girder had hit him-the force was no different

  from being hit by a man, but it didn't feel like arms

  striking him; they felt like huge steel rods, corn-

  pletely unyielding. Briggs's head snapped upward,

  blood spattering from a chomped tongue and broken

  nose, teeth flying.

  Shouting like a madman, Patrick struggled to his

  feet, again clutching his helmeted head. He picked

  up the steel pipe and turned on the first person he

  saw: the prone Chris Wohl. He raised the pipe like a

  woodsman getting ready to split a log and . . .

  "No!" Briggs shouted. He pulled his .45 colt

  from his holster, aimed, and fired three rounds, hitting

  Patrick twice in the back and once in the helmet

  . Patrick screamed, the electronically distorted

  voice sounding like the squealing brakes of a locomotive

  against the ' rails, metal on metal. He

  dropped the steel pipe and again clutched his head,

  writhing in pain-but still on his feet. He turned

  toward Briggs, screamed again, and charged.

  "Patrick, stop!" Briggs fired five more rounds,

  emptying his Colt. Patrick fell to his knees after the

  last slug hit him. The air was filled with blue smoke

  and the walls echoed from the gunshots. The scene

  was surreal: a costumed figure howling like an animal

  , writhing in pain, crouched on the concrete

  floor.

  But he still wasn't down. Patrick crawled to his

  feet, his chest heaving, his electronically amplified

  breathing heavy and labored. Briggs couldn't believe

  his eyes. Patrick had just taken eight slugs from a

  .45-caliber automatic from no more than twenty

  feet away and he was still alive. Or was he really

  alive? Was this some kind of sick, homicidal automaton

  ? Briggs dropped the empty magazine, pounded

  a full one home, and took aim . . .

  "Wait!" Masters shouted. He ran over to Patrick

  with Heinrich, plowing into him from the right side

  and tackling him back to the floor. Patrick swung

  an arm, clubbing Heinrich painfully on the right

  arm. Heinrich cried out in pain and rolled free,

  clutching a broken arm, but it gave Masters enough

  time to touch a tiny hidden switch under the left

  edge of Patrick's helmet. An invisible seam appeared

  , and the helmet popped open and clattered to

  the concrete hangar floor.

  What they saw made their blood turn cold. Patrick's

  face was contorted in agony. His eyes were

  bulging, his mouth wide open. The veins on his

  head and neck protruded so much that they looked

  ready to burst through his skin, and his neck muscles

  were horribly swollen. His maddened eyes

  rested on Briggs. He scrambled drunkenly to his

  feet, ready to pounce again, ready to rip Briggs's

  heart out, ready to spill his blood. Briggs aimed for

  the contorted head and closed his eyes . . .

  "Don't, Hal," Jon Masters said in a remarkably

  calm voice, holding up both hands. "He'll be all

  -right now. The power in the suit is deactivated. just

  stay away from him." He stooped to help Heinrich,

  who was clutching his fractured arm against his

  body. Patrick got to his feet and charged, but Briggs

  sidestepped him easily, pushing him away to keep

  clear of those pile-driver arms.

  He watched the way Patrick's eyes darted from

  side to side; he'd clutch his head and then they'd

  flash sideways again. He stumbled about, trying to

  regain his footing, before finally collapsing to his

  knees on the floor. "What's he doing?" Briggs asked.

  "Why are his eyes doing that?"

  "He's trying to activate the eyeball sensors,"

  Masters explained, "Trying to activate the systems

  in the suit. He still thinks he has his helmet on.

  Don't touch him, Hal. The effect will
wear off, but

  you might set him off again. Look after Chris."

  Keeping a wary eye on Patrick, Briggs went over

  to Chris Wohl. The big Marine commando was

  moaning in pain, trying feebly to raise a hand to his

  head. He looked in very bad shape. "I think Patrick

  fractured his skull," said Briggs, "but he's conscious-though

  barely. He needs an ambulance."

  "I . I already called for an ambulance," they

  heard Patrick say. His breathing had returned almost

  to normal. He was still on his knees, his head

  listing to one side as if he couldn't hold it upright.

  "As soon as'I hit him, I got on the VHF radio and

  called the security office for an ambulance. It'll be

  here any second now."

  "What the hell were you trying to do, Patrick?"

  Briggs spat. "What got into you, man?"

  "I I don't know, Hal," Patrick said weakly.

  "It was as if I were . . . I don't know, on speed or

  something. When Chris pushed me, I felt-I just felt

  like I had to kill him. He was the enemy. I could see

  everything so clearly, as if I were watching myself.

  When those bullets hit me, I wanted to rip something

  apart-anything. I wanted to kill you, kill

  Chris, kill anyone who came near me. I knew what

  was happening. I knew who you were, I knew where

  I was-and I also knew I had to kill all of you."

  "Jesus. I think that suit messed up your head,

  Briggs said. "Jon, help Patrick out of here before the

  ambulance comes. I'll stay with the doc and Chris."

  Masters helped Patrick to his feet and supported

  him to an adjacent office. When the ambulance arrived

  , he went back to see Wohl safely loaded in,

  issued instructions to the security crews, and returned

  to look after Patrick.

  He found him where he had left him, sitting on a

  bench with his elbows resting on his knees, looking

  down at the floor. He had opened the top of the suit

  so he wouldn't pass out from the heat. Jon disconnected

  the backpack power unit, then helped him

  strip off the suit. Soon Patrick was sitting in a chair,

  wearing only a sweat-soaked light cotton undergarment

  . He was staring straight ahead, his.lips parted,

  the expression on his face suggesting he was replaying

  the past twenty terrible minutes in his mind's

  eye.

  . , Jon sat down in front of him. Blood vessels had

  popped around Patrick's eyes, and the muscles on

  his neck, shoulder, chest, and arms looked thick

  and chiseled, as if he had just finished a weightlifting

  workout. He began to weep.

  "Don't worry about it," Jon said. "I think they're

  all going to be all right."

  "I was afraid I killed Chris. Are they on their way

  to the hospital? How are they?"

  "Chris is hurt pretty bad," Jon said, "but he was

  conscious when they took him away. Carl has a broken

  arm and rib. Hal has some broken teeth and a

  cut tongue, but he'll be okay. He's staying with

  Chris." The two men sat quietly for a long moment,

  overwhelmed by what had happened. Then Jon

  cleared his throat and asked, "Patrick . . . Patrick,

  what, did it feel like?"

  "What?"

  "Come on, Patrick, you've got to tell me. You got

  hit over the head with a steel pipe. My God, you

  were shot in the head and in the back by a big-ass

  forty-five automatic from point-blank range! The

  gun blasts almost knocked me over!"

  "I . I don't want to talk about it.,,

  "You've got to, Patrick!" Masters retorted. "You

  know as well as I do that this program is dead. It

  failed with the airlines and the FAA,'and after this

  neither ISA nor any other government agency will

  come anywhere near BERP. It's over.

  "But you experienced it, Patrick. You know what

  it's like to survive something- like that. I'd never

  have the guts to put that thing on and have a Hal

  Briggs fire live forty-five-caliber rounds at me!

  You're the only one who will ever know what it felt

  like to be He paused, then went ahead and

  said it, ". . . be invulnerable, like Superman. What

  was it like? How did it feel?"

  Patrick whispered something too low to be audible

  , then began to weep again.

  "Never mind," Jon said reassuringly, putting a

  hand on his'shoulder. "It's over. We'll destroy the

  suit. I promise it'll never hurt anyone else again."

  "Jon . . . dammit, Jon, it felt great, it felt wonderful

  !" Patrick exclaimed, his tears now more

  shame than pain. "When I felt that energy rush

  through the suit, I felt more alive than I've felt in

  months. The power is incredible, Jon, enormous.

  It's like a drug, like a shot of adrenaline jammed

  right into the heart. But the energy surge did something

  else too-it made me a little crazy, like a berserker

  . Everything was running in slow motion. The

  gunshots felt like ocean waves hitting you-you get

  pushed around, and you can feel the force behind

  them, but then the impact is gone and you're still

  left standing."

  "Did it hurt? Did the energy surges hurt youz"

  Patrick laughed. "Oh God, yes," he said. Jon

  looked at him as if he had gone off his rocker. "The

  pain was . . . exquisite. That's the only way I can

  describe it. Exquisite. It was what I always imagined

  slow death would be like, once you accepted the

  fact that you were going to die. I felt liberated, powerful

  , free. My whole body felt as if it were on fire.

  Every nerve was alive, jangling my brain. The incredible

  pain made me feel He shook his

  head, shrugged, and said, immortal. I was dying

  , but I felt immortal. It felt . . . good. "

  "I'm destroying that damned suit, Patrick," Jon

  said firmly. "Apart from what it made you feel like

  doing, even if it protected you from Hal's bullets the

  suit itself could have killed you. It's not worth it.

  No government contract or big breakthrough is

  worth it."

  But Patrick didn't seem to be listening anymore.

  He looked totally wiped out. "I'll call Wendy

  if

  too . . .

  "No," Patrick said. "I'll tell her."

  The first thing Patrick did, after visiting Chris

  Wohl and Carl Heinrich in the hospital, was go

  home and hug his wife and child. But he said nothing

  . He simply held them close and let their

  warmth wash away the memories of that terrible

  morning.

  UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA-DAVIS MEDICAL

  CENTER, STOCKTON BOULEVARD

  AND FORTY-SECOND STREET,

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  THE NEXT MORNING

  W

  hen Patrick arrived at the UC-Davis Medical

  Center the next morning, he was startled to find

  a crowd of reporters and TV cameras at the entrance

  . "Mr. McLanahan!" they shouted. "Over

  here, Mr. McLanahan! What do you think of the

  court's decision?"

/>   Patrick always tried to avoid the media, but they

  were everywhere this time, and he could not hide

  the confusion on his face. "Mr. McLanahan, you

  heard about the appeals court's decision, didn't

  you?"

  "No, I haven't," Patrick responded, curious now.

  "A judge in the state appeals.court has over-

  turned the superior court's no-bail ruling for the

  two defendants charged with murder in the Sacramento

  Live ! shootout," the reporter said. "He said

  there's insufficient evidence to hold them on an

  attempted-murder charge."

  Patrick gasped. "What?" he exclaimed. "Nothat

  can't be!" The reporters circled him. like sharks

  around a wounded marlin. He knew he shouldn't

  react, should conceal the horror he felt, but he

  couldn't contain his disbelief. This can't be, he said

  to himself. The best, the,only opportunity to discover

  more about who had attacked Paul and killed

  the two Sacramento police officers seemed to be

  slipping out of their fingers.

  In a daze, Patrick pushed his way through the

  knot of reporters and into the entrance. There were

  more of them at the nurses' station on Paul's floor

  but the policeman on duty cleared a path for him as

  he made his way to the room.

  Jon Masters was already there, together with a

  technician who worked with Carlson Heinrich.

  Paul was sitting up in bed looking apprehensive, on

  his lap the ever-present notepad he used for communicating

  . A lot of the bandages and dressings had

  been removed from his neck and throat. The most

  horrible parts were his shoulder and left arm. Despite

  three separate surgeries, the shoulder, unprotected

  by his bulletproof vest, could not be repaired,

  and the damage to the left bicep and elbow was too

  extensive. A month ago, the decision had finally

  been made to amputate the arm. Paul had taken the

  news stoically, but the nurses told Patrick in private

  that they had seen him silently weeping when he

  was alone at night, and more than once he had

  buzzed them for something to alleviate the pain in

  the arm that was no longer there.

  "You hear about the court decision?" Jon asked.

  "Just did, from the reporters outside," Patrick

  said, sitting down beside the bed and clasping his

  brother's right hand, "but no details. What in hell