Tin Man

by Dale Brown

  had automatically cut off fuel and power to the engines

  , so it rolled forward until it hit a blast fence

  on the north side of the main runway and came to a

  stop.

  The Tin Man got back to his feet, scanning the

  area with his infrared visor. It was too late to reach

  Townsend in the number one F- 117. By the time the

  thrusters were fully charged, Townsend had already

  lifted off into the night sky. The one he really

  wanted had escaped.

  "Well, General McLanahan," he heard in his helmet

  radio, which was set to monitor the emergency

  UHF channel. "Yours was a valiant effort. But one

  plane will still make my buyers very happy. Good

  night, and enjoy what is left of your city."

  But astoundingly there was one last chance. A

  UH-1 Huey helicopter with CA NATIONAL GUARD

  markings touched down on the apron directly in

  front of the security hangars where the F- 11 Ts had

  been parked. It had arrived as planned to pick up a

  few chosen members of Townsend's assault team,

  and the soldiers ran to board it. The Tin Man shot

  across the runways, and as the fully loaded helicopter

  was lifting off, he jumped up and grabbed on to

  the right skid, then the belly cargo hook, straddled

  the skids, and held on for the ride. The pilot didn't

  even notice the additional weight because the aircraft

  was already wallowing from its heavy load as

  it lifted into the sky.

  The Huey headed almost directly east, climbing

  to eleven thousand feet as it cleared the Sierra Nevada

  Mountains. It took all the Tin Man's strength

  and concentration to hold on in the frigid night air

  whistling around him at 120 miles an hour. Two

  hours later, the helicopter swooped across steep,

  rocky crags and flew low through a high-desert valley

  . An airfield came into view. It was surrounded

  by what appeared to be abandoned military hangars

  and industrial structures. As the helicopter moved

  low over a group of wooden buildings, the Tin Man

  dropped free, using his thrusters to break his fall.

  The place had a weird look to it; it was like stepping

  into an abandoned city. The hangars were large

  enougfi to hold the biggest military or commercial

  aircraft, but they were empty and falling apart. He

  saw the twisted, rusted hulks of what'might once

  have been an oil refinery or, -large factory. The

  ground was covered with cactus, tumbleweeds, and

  thick dust. There was a long unlit runway ahead,

  and a very large aircraft-parking ramp lit by blue

  taxiway lights. The only other lights were on a lone

  building on the northern edge of the ramp, which

  had a rotating airport beacon and several radio antennas

  on top, a few scraggly trees in front, and a

  fuel truck parked nearby. The Tin Man headed for

  it.

  A sign indicated that the building was a generalaviation

  fixed-base operator-an FBO-called Tonopah

  Flying Service. He knew there was a Tonopah

  , Nevada, a small desert town in the

  southwestern part of the state, midway between

  Reno and Las Vegas. This had to be it, and from the

  look of it, he guessed the airport must once have

  been a military base.

  Moments later, the UH-I Huey helicopter

  touched down on the ramp in front of the FBO

  building and Townsend's terrorists dismounted.

  Within minutes, the Tin Man could hear shouts in

  German coming from inside-they were taking over

  the facility. He peered through a side window and

  was startled to see a terrified woman cowering in

  front of a man with a gun.

  At the sound of a muted whistling out on the

  runway, the white runway edge lights snapped on.

  Then an F- 117 Night Hawk stealth fighter swooped

  down, paralleling the long runway on a downwind

  leg. He switched to his infrared visor to watch as it

  touched down at the very edge of the'runway,

  careened down it, and stopped just in time at the

  north end. Then it turned off on the taxiway,

  swerved around as soon as it had room to maneuver

  on the aircraft apron, and taxied right back onto the

  runway, now heading south. The fuel truck drove

  out in its direction.

  The Tin Man's first concern was the hostage, not

  the F- 117. No one was in sight when he sneaked to

  the front of the building and looked through the

  glass door, which meant that the gunman had to

  have taken the hostage inside the office behind the

  short counter. He dashed inside, hit his thrusters,

  and jetted directly at the office door. It crashed in,

  and he discovered it had come right down on the

  terrorist himself, knocking the gun he was holding

  out of his hands. One punch from the gauntleted

  fist, and the man was out cold.

  "You're all right now," the Tin Man said to the

  frightened woman. "But these are terrorists taking

  over the airfield. You've got to get out of here quietly

  and call for help. Is there a phone anywhere?"

  She nodded. "There's one behind the building,"

  she said, her voice quavering.

  "Tell the police that the terrorists who stole the

  stealth fighters from the Air Force base in Sacramento

  are here, and they're going to refuel and take

  off again. Then hide yourself until help comes."

  When she left he grabbed the terrorist's gun, peered

  out the door, and crept outside.

  Hurry up, damn you!" Townsend shouted.

  "The pump on this truck is very slow, sir,"

  the soldier answered. The base obviously wasn't

  used often, and the Jet-A truck even less.

  Townsend cursed again. The guard he'd stationed

  inside the FBO had missed a second five-minute

  check-in-an ominous sign. A burst of fire, then an

  explosion, tore into the Huey. Gunfire erupted from

  the reat of the FBO building but was silenced moments

  later. "Disconnect!" Townsend shouted.

  "Prepare to repel attackers!" Silence. Where were

  his men? He looked toward the. fuel truck and saw

  all four of them lying on the ground. My Godwhen

  had that happened? Dammit, he hadn't heard

  a thing and he was right here!

  He had just put on his helmet and finished strapping

  himself into his seat when a voice came over

  the UHF guard emergency channel: "Townsend.

  Gregory Townsend. Can you hear me?"

  Quickly Townsend checked his switches and

  skimmed through the checklist, but realized it

  would be suicidal to try to take off. He lowered the

  cockpit canopy. "The Tin Man, I presume? Very

  good of you to see me off, General McLanahan. My

  men reported that you had been killed by Major

  Reingruber."

  "Indeed. As you can see, I'm here. But I'arn not

  seeing you off. You are going nowhere, Townsend.

  It's time you paid for all the death and destruction

  you've caused."

  "I'll tell
you what I'll pay for, General," Townsend

  said. "I'll make you the same deal I made before

  , only better: you and I as partners. With one

  phone call, General, I can wire ten million dollars

  into an offshore bank account in your name. Moreover

  , I'll give you half of whatever we can negotiate

  for the sale of this aircraft. We should be able to

  split two hundred, perhaps three hundred million

  dollars. I make one phone call and it's yours."

  The response was a burst of automatic gunfire.

  The left main landing-gear tires, blew out. Then the

  nose-gear tires exploded and the aircraft's nose

  wheel settled into the asphalt up to its hubs. "You

  may as well shut 'em down and come on out,

  Townsend," said the Tin Man. "You're going to

  prison."

  With an angry yank, Townsend pulled the throttles

  to cutoff, threw open the canopy, unfastened

  his seat belts, and climbed out of the Night Hawk.

  He stood directly in front of the dark-clad figure,

  shaking with rage. "You miserable cretin!" he

  snapped. "You've just thrown away millions of dollars

  for us both."

  "You're not going to need money where you're

  going, Townsend."

  "Is that so?" Townsend retorted. "Tough talk for

  someone hiding behind an electronic suit of armor.

  Coward! Why don't you take that thing off and let's

  have at it, you and me, man to man. Or are you too

  cowardly for that?"

  Stunned, he watched as the figure dropped the

  backpack power unit off his shoulders. "Well, well.

  You do have some sporting blood in you after all,

  General . . ."

  But the surprises were not over. As the Tin Man

  unfastened and removed his helmet, Townsend saw

  before him not General Patrick McLanahan but his

  brother. He could not believe his eyes. "Good Lord!

  It's Officer McLanahan! Following in your dead

  brother's footsteps, I see."

  "Patrick is very much alive, Townsend," Paul

  said coldly. "He survived the fight on the dam. Major

  Reingruber did not."

  Townsend managed to maintain his composure.

  "Be that as it may, Officer, you are here and he is

  not. And there is still a business accommodation we

  can make, you and I. It would be worth ten million

  dollars to me for my freedom right now. You have

  the stealth fighter and all my surviving men, including

  the ones who killed your fellow officers in

  downtown Sacramento. As I understand it, you also

  have no job now, nothing but an inconsequential

  disability pension. There are no witnesses out here.

  One single phone call, and a, secret Cayman Islands

  bank account will be established in your name, ten

  million dollars in it, all for you. You can go back to

  being a lawyer, or you can live out your lifelong

  fantasies in a country where the law can't touch

  you.//

  "I've got an even better idea for you, Townsend,"

  Paul said. He walked over to one of the soldiers lying

  unconscious next to the fuel truck and withdrew

  the combat knife from his leg sheath.,"You

  kill me, and you keep your ten million dollars and

  walk away free."

  Townsend smiled a satisfied grin and pulled out

  his knife with theatrical flourish. "You are a sporting

  man, Officer McLanahan," he said-and attacked

  with the speed of a cobra.

  The fight appeared to be over before it had begun.

  Townsend feigned a slash to Paul's head, then reversed

  the knife and brought it down full force on

  his left shoulder. Paul made no effort to counterattack

  ; he simply raised his left arm in a feeble attempt

  to block the assault. But he was far too late.

  Townsend's knife buried itself to the hilt. Townsend

  laughed right in his face, then tried to remove

  the knife-and found it stuck fast . . .

  . . . and before he knew it, Paul's own knife

  lashed up and deep into his belly.

  Townsend dropped to his knees, clutching his

  midriff. He watched dumbfounded as Paul McLanaban

  jiggled the big knife in his shoulder and freed it.

  There was no blood. Not a drop.

  "Ironic, isn't it, Townsend?" Paul McLanahan

  asked. He removed his gauntlets, opened the suit

  front, and shrugged off the left sleeve. Underneath

  was a dull aluminum prosthesis. It moved like a

  real arm, but it was definitely not human. It was

  one of the prototype Sky Masters, Inc. prosthetic

  arms, attached and activated without any cosmetic

  enhancements. "I owe you thanks for this," he said.

  "Your bloodthirsty attacks gave it to me. I felt sorry

  for myself and I told them I didn't want it, but I'm

  glad they helped me change my mind. What do you

  think of this, Colonel?"

  But Gregory Townsend was a long, long way from

  being able to answer.

  EPILOGUE

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  MONDAY, I JUNE 1998, 1015 PT

  The city does look like it's getting back to normal

  , " Wendy McLanahan said to her brother-inlaw

  . Bradley was in the car seat between Patrick

  and her, and Paul was accompanying them to

  Sacramento-Mather Jetport to see them off to San

  Diego. They were all glad to have the last few

  months behind them.

  "Yes and no," Paul answered, his electronically

  synthesized voice sounding more natural all the

  time. "It looks that way on the surface. But the old

  problems haven't gone away. I think the wars are

  just starting up. The biker gangs are still at it, only

  now they're vying to fill the void left by the Satan's

  Brotherhood. The meth production hasn't even

  started to gear up again, and I know the Mexicans

  are going to come in hard. This whole county's been

  hit pretty hard. It'll take a long time to recover."

  Wendy shook her head. "I still find it almost impossible

  to believe anyone could cause so much

  death and devastation simply to create a diversion

  to cover a robbery-even a huge one."

  "It's useless to look for rational explanations for

  his actions-though I admit I keep trying to also,"

  Patrick said. "Townsend was far crazier than Henri

  Cazaux was ever rumored to be-he outdid his

  ex-boss. And he would've gotten away with it if it

  weren't for you, bro."

  "Well, the county owes you big-time for what

  you and Hal did on the dam, Patrick," said Paul. "If

  any more of those gates had blown, the loss of

  life would've been much worse. Sacramento was

  lucky."

  "It's a good thing they'll never know exactly

  what happened up there," Patrick said. "My name's

  been in the Sacramento papers too much as it is. It's

  a relief to have it cleared and the charges dropped.

  I'm ready to go home and leave the town to you."

  "It does feel great to be back," Paul agreed. "I

  didn't think I'd ever be saying this, but I really owe

  Chief
Barona."

  "You're right. We both do. He sure came through

  for us in the end. The city's lucky to have you back

  as a cop. It really needs you." But Patrick could see

  a touch of sadness in his brother's face. "I know

  what you're thinking," he said. "No, light duty

  won't be the same as being on the street-but

  you're back on the payroll, you're still wearing

  Dad's badge, and you're still out there helping your

  community. This place really needs that help."

  Paul took the badge out of his pocket and fingered

  it. "Yeah. That's true. And who knows? It'll

  take time, but maybe down the road I can prove

  that the arm and the voice synthesizer aren't problems

  and I can get switched back to regular duty. I

  know they're not." He sounded more cheerful.

  "What's going to happen to Tom Chandler?"

  Wendy asked. "That's not resolved yet, is it?"

  "Well, they're giving him a little consideration

  because of what he did trying to help Helen," Paul

  said. "But he's still looking at time. We'll see what

  kind of man he really is when he's faced with being

  not a cop but an ex-convict. Actually, I have a feel-

  ing he'll rebound. He's lucky to have survived. A lot

  of good people died at Townsend's hands."

  As if on cue, there was a commotion on

  Placerville Road as they approached the turnoff to

  Mather Field Road. Amid the sound of sirens, a man

  ran from a bank with a bag in his hands just as Sacramento

  County Sheriff's deputies roared up to the

  scene. They watched in a kind of slow motion as

  the robber pulled a gun from his pants and the deputies

  ducked for cover. Wendy looked at her husband

  and her brother-in-law. She could read their faces

  and their minds: The suit is in the trunk; the backpack

  is charged; I can have it on in minutes . . .

  Then the robber tossed his arms straight up in

  the air, turned around, and was instantly in custody

  . No casualties on either side. The brothers sat

  back and relaxed.

  As if by telepathy, Patrick answered Paul's unspoken

  question. "Yeah, Hal Briggs and his team are

  still interested in the BERP technology. But we

  want to work the kinks out of it before we offer it to

  anyone. And Jon still wants the airlines to have it to

  protect cargo compartments."