by Dale Brown
Chandler was all worked up by now. "A friend of
mine retired after thirty-one years on the force. He
gets up to receive his plaque from the city and
they've misspelled his name and service dates on
the plaque. Then he gets home and he's the victim
of a home-invasion robbery. He goes into a coma
and dies two weeks later. No recognition from the
city, no tribute, not even flowers for his gravesite. I
stood over his damned grave and, I saw myself staring
up from that hole in the ground. I decided right
then, no way I was going to check out like that."
"Your friend checked out as the unfortunate victim
of a violent crime," Masters said. "You'll check
out as a traitor who sold out."
"At least I'll check out grabbing for the brass
ring, instead of having it shoved up my ass," Chandler
said.
"Real mature attitude," Masters said. "You ever
stop to think that I might not help you out at all?"
"Dr. Masters, you won't be helping me out,
you'll be helping yourself out," Chandler said. "I get
my money when you get delivered to Townsend.
Whatever happens to you then is up to him and you.
The colonel is an honorable guy . . ."
"Oh sure. Is he the one with the British accent
who tied up and threatened to kill Patrick's wife
and child, or is he the one who got two cops killed
and several others wounded in the Sacramento Live!
shootout?"
"He may be ruthless to his enemies," Chandler
retorted, "but he stands up for his friends. He's assured
me that if you do what he says, he'll let you
go free. You keep breathing, and you're free to build
more Tin Man suits and beeping pens and earset
cellphones and whatever the hell else you build."
"And you call me the naive one," Masters said.
"You're worm food the second the suit and I get
delivered. Then as soon as this colonel bozo figures
out how to use the suit, I'm toast. And if he starts
using the suit, the entire city of Sacramento could
be toast. You know it and I know it. I've just accepted
the fact that I'm going to die today, Chandler
. You still think you're going to have some
naked bimbo on your lap tonight. Give it up. You
got the gun. Kill that German guy driving the car,
and let's get back to town. You tell your side of the
story to the cops, you get immunity from prosecution
, and
"Nice try, Doctor," Chandler said. "But I've already
received a down payment for my services, and
I can't disappoint Colonel Townsend. I advise you
not to disappoint him either. Do what he says and
you'll live throughthis. Act like a hero, you'll end
up dead, and your technology will be in his hands
anyway.11
RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT FACILITY,
SACRAMENTO -MATHER JETPORT,
RANCHO CORDOVA, CALIFORNIA
LATER THAT AFTERNOON
The visitor picked up the phone mounted on the
outer fence outside the research facility that Sky
Masters, Inc. was leasing. it rang a few times, then:
"May I help you, ma'am?"
"Yes," the visitor replied. "I'm Dr. Kaddiri, Helen
Kaddiri. I'm supposed to meet Dr. Masters. I'm not
sure where he's staying or where he is. Can you help
me find him?"
i'Of course, Dr. Kaddiri," the guard said. "One
moment, please." He buzzed open the outer entrapment
door to let her in.
As Helen walked toward the guard room, the security
guard picked up a walkie-talkie and radioed,
"Kontrolle, Wache drei. Eine Dr. Helen Kaddiri ist
hier. Was sind Ihre Anweisungen.
"Lassen Sie sie rein," came the response a few
moments later. "Sie soll warten.
"Okay," the guard responded. He opened the ID
port. "May I please see a picture ID and your company
ID badge, Dr. Kaddiri?" She still had her
badge-she had no intention of surrendering it before
her resignation was legally finalized-and she
handed it to the guard with her driver's license. He
did a cursory check, then gave them back. He
pressed the button to unlock the revolving security
gate. "Thank you, ma'am. Please step through the
gate. Someone will meet with you right away."
Helen stepped through the gate and was greeted
by a good-looking man in a suit and tie. "Dr. Kaddiri
?"
She did not recognize him. "Yes, I'm Helen Kaddiri
. I am the corporate vice president of . . ." She
stopped, realizing he didn't have a Sky Masters ID
badge. "Who are you?"
"I'm Captain Thomas Chandler, Sacramento Police
Department," the man replied. "I am the officer
who assisted in the arrest of Dr. Masters and General
McLanahan the other night."
"Can you please explain what's going on?"
,'Of course," Chandler said. "Did you bring your
car in? Is there anyone else with you?"
"I left the car outside, and no, there's no one else
with me," Helen replied. "I didn't know if Id be
leaving right away. Where's Jon?"
"He's out on bail, as you know," Chandler said.
They walked toward the semi-underground research
facility. "He and his attorney are assisting me in my
investigation of your company's activities here."
"Then I don't think I should be talking to you,"
Helen said. "Anything I have to say to you should
be with the company's attorney present."
"Dr. Kaddiri, I know what you, Patrick, and Jon
are going through," Chandler said. "I'm here to help
them."
"By arresting them?"
"I think both of them are heroes. I had to arrest
them because it's my job. But even though they're
guilty of most of the lesser charges against them, I
can make sure they get the most lenient sentence
possible. But I can't do it alone."
"But shouldn't I have our attorney present?"
"This is not an interrogation," Chandler said.
"I'm not going to ask you anything that will incriminate
either Jon or Patrick. You can refuse to answer
anything you feel uncomfortable with."
Kaddiri still looked apprehensive. "If you don't
mind, Captain, I'd like to meet up with Jon and our
attorney first, before I talk with you," she said
warily. "He didn't tell me where he was staymig,
only that he . . . wanted me here, with him."
Chandler nodded, looking into Kaddiri's eyes.
"He mentioned that he'd called you," Chandler
lied. "He thinks a great deal of you." He paused,
then added, "Obviously you think very much of
him too or you wouldn't be here."
"We've had our differences," Helen said,
"but . . . yes, I guess that's true."
"That's nice," Chandler said. "That's very nice."
They passed two men dressed in black battle-dress
uniforms and carrying submachine guns, but Helen
barely noticed them, or that they weren't wearing
Sky Masters ID
badges either. "I'm not sure when
Jon was going to be back," said Chandler, "but we'll
just go up to General McLanahan's office inside and
wait for him to call. If he isn't coming back, we can
take you. to his hotel. Please, this way
SACRAMENTO COUNTY JAIL,
651 1 STREET, SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
LATER THAT EVENING
The Sacramento County jail in downtown Sacramento
was a fairly new, modern facility. Each of
the four inmate floors had a common area, surrounded
by twenty-four cells, each holding up to six
prisoners depending on its capacity. Each cell had a
steel door with a large, thick glass window in the
center, and an unbarred narrow window looking
outside. A guard tower overlooked the entire floor.
An exercise room and medical holding facility were
on the fifth floor, and booking and administrative
offices on the first. The common area served as the
dining hall, indoor rec room, and meeting hall.
The dynamics of the -downtown jail made for a
tense atmosphere. It was where prisoners were held
from the time of their arrest and arraignment until
they were convicted, after which they would be
transported to the larger Rio Cosumnes Correctional
Facility in Elk Grove to serve their sentence.
All the prisoners at the downtown jail were thus
innocent in the eyes of the law, and mostly innocent
in their own eyes as well. Many came from
violent or oppressive environments, often of their
own making. They were fresh from the hurt, ignominy
, indignity, and betrayal of the arrest and the
cold indifference of arraignment, and were now
faced with the arcane babble of legal proceedings
and the uncertainty of their future while the trial
process creaked along.
That tension was pervasive even in peaceful, socalled
normal times. But there was nothing normal
about what was going on in Sacramento County
these days. Within the confines of the jail, the
threat of retaliation and escalating gang violence
following the deaths of the Satan's Brotherhood
members sent the level of fear sky-high. It was just
as pervasive among the jail authorities, who mcreased
the number of guards, dogs, and weapons to
compensate, and in a snowball effect generated still
more fear.
Actually, today had been a fairly quiet day for
Patrick. When he was in solitary, he was more or
less out of the minds of the bikers, neo-Nazis, white
supremacists, and other wackos who were looking
to kill him. When he was out among the other prisoners
, he kept his distance, with more or less success
. Usually one guard was assigned to watch over
all the isolation inmates and try to prevent trouble.
The common area on each floor of the jail had ten
steel star-shaped tables fixed to the floor, with five
fixed chairs at each table. Hot meals were prepared
in the kitchen, then placed on paper plates on fiberglass
trays and wheeled out to the common area on
large carts. Utensils were cardboard. Prisoners selected
a meal, either vegetarian or nonvegetarian, a
beverage, and a dessert, then found a seat.
Except for sick or very violent prisoners, there
was normally no preplanned segregation of any
kind in the jail. The prisoners did their own segregating-blacks
sat with blacks, whites with
whites, Hispanics with Hispanics. There was usually
enough available seating at meals to allow the
members of rival gangs to be seated apart. But even
when space was relatively tight, the prisoners knew
that meals were not the time to get into a fight.
Besides, despite the dangerous tension level, the jail
was not a hard-core facility. These were prisoners
awaiting trial, not yet convicted and sentenced.
Most of them minded their own business and stayed
out of trouble.
Patrick took the first available tray; he didn't
want to appear picky or slow the line for those behind
him. He poured himself a cup, of water,
grabbed a carton of milk from a large tub of ice and
a brownie from the dessert counter, and found a seat
between two older-looking guys. The meal was
what they called Salisbury steak: a piece of indeterminate
meat floating in a puddle of slimy gravy,
along with sodden boiled carrots, reconstituted
mashed potatoes with more gravy, and a slice of
white bread that had to be one or two days old but
had been steamed into a semblance of freshness.
The two guys on either side of him glanced at him
but said nothing.
Everything on the plate tasted pretty much alike,
which really characterized life in jail, Patrick
thought. In a way, it reminded him of pulling strategic
nuclear alert years ago: your life regulated by
horns, bells, whistles, shouted voices, and the PA
system; the sameness of everything, from the food
to the uniforms; the regimentation; and most of all,
the lack of freedom. Of course, there was no real
'comparison. But it was remarkably easy for Patrick
to put his mind back to those days when, for seven
days every three weeks, he was a virtual prisoner of
the Strategic Air Command jailers, serving an unwanted
but self-imposed sentence in support of the
laws of nuclear deterrence. He had always passionately
hated alert, hated the wasted time and wasted
resources, and he found it ironic that he was relying
on those memories to help keep his sanity now.
He left half of his plate untouched, finished the
brownie, and drank up the milk and water. Seconds
Weren't allowed, so he looked around for someone
who might want his leftovers. The two old characters
next to h im declined. He asked the other guy at
the table, "Hey, want any more?"
"Leave me the fuck alone," the guy spat. Patrick
was sorry he'd said anything. The man was big,
lean, and tall, with cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He
looked as though he'd been beaten up-his nose was
broken and twisted and his face bruised. There were A
tattoos on his arms-and not tattoo-parlor ones but
prison tattoos, made by inmates with sharpened
ballpoint pens . . .
. . . and one of the tattoos, the biggest one, on
his left arm-was a Satan's Brotherhood tattoo. Oh
shit . . .
The biker was hunched over his tray, enveloping
it with his arms as if protecting it from a thief. This
was a good time to get the hell out of the common
area, Patrick decided. He got up quickly. "Hey!" the
biker snapped, fixing wild, psychotic eyes on him.
"You! Who are you?"
"Nobody, chief," Patrick said.
"The fuck you are," the biker said. "I know you. I
hearda you. You're the guy who was goin' around
killing Brotherhood."
The two old guys scattered as fast as they could.
&n
bsp; The biker got to his feet, eyes burning. Patrick
looked up at the guard tower, but the guards up
there were busy. "Listen, chief," Patrick said,
liyou've got it wrong. I didn't kill any Brotherhood
members."
But the biker exploded like a volcano. "Die,
motherfucker!" he screamed, and launched himself
at Patrick. He tackled him to the ground, rolled
on top of him, pinned his arms, and pummeled
his face. "This-is-for-the-Brotherhood!" he
shouted with each blow of his fists.
By now the other prisoners had joined in the fray.
"Get him!" they shouted. "Kill the cocksucker! Kill
him for the Brotherhood!"
Patrick felt something warm on his face, and
through his blurry eyes saw blood all over the
biker's fists and shirt. Then the biker wrapped his
huge hands around Patrick's neck. In a daze, Patrick
heard a whistle blow and the PA system blare out
something about a lockdown. Then the biker
squeezed harder. He felt a hand on his throat, another
on the side of his head, then a sharp pushand
everything went dark.
MOUNT VERNON ROAD,
NEWCASTLE, CALIFORNIA
WEDNESDAY, I APRIL 1998, 090S PT
on Masters awoke to blackness. He found his
hands and feet handcuffed to what felt like a
chain-link gate, and a thick hood over his head.
He had been stripped naked. He had a colossal headache
, a result of the gas they had used to put him
asleep, and he could smell vomit on the inside of
the hood.
He lay there for what seemed like hours. Then he
heard a door open and footsteps approaching him.
"Guten Morgen, Dr. Masters," said a voice.
"You must be one of Townsend's goons," Masters
shouted. "Let me go, jerk-face,"
A blow from a leather whip struck him across the
face. "You will call me Major or sir," said Bruno
Reingruber. "You will conduct yourself like a man
and not a comic-book character in my presence.
Your situation is already dire enough without the
added unpleasantness of being punished for rudeness
."
"Fuck you," Jon said. "Let me go right now!
Help! Someone help me! Help! Some goddamn German
guy is going to kill me!"
"Sehr gut. Have it your way, Herr Doktor," Reingruber
said. Several pairs of rough hands grabbed
Masters, unfastened his handcuffs, and forced him
