by Dale Brown
Patrick had been to many formal military funerals. The last one, a secret service in the desert of central Nevada just four short months ago, had been for his friend and superior officer Lieutenant General Bradley James Elliott, who had been killed in a crash of his experimental EB-52 Megafortress bomber while on a top-secret strike mission inside the People’s Republic of China. The President of the United States and the president of the newly independent Republic of China on Taiwan attended that service. Brad Elliott was buried in a small graveyard in the Nevada desert near the secret base now named for him, a graveyard reserved for those who died while test-flying America’s newest and most top-secret warplanes.
But cop funerals were different. The police usually strive to stay low-key, even anonymous, on a day-to-day basis, but when a cop is killed the display of solidarity and strength is anything but low-key. Was this for the public’s benefit, their attempt to show the public that the police might be hurt but they weren’t defeated? For the law-enforcement community’s benefit, an attempt to rally their strength in the face of death? For the crooks’ benefit-again, demonstrating the sheer power, strength, and brotherhood of their adversaries? Patrick couldn’t begin to guess.
Hearing a commotion out in the corridor, Patrick got up and headed for the door. To his surprise, he saw Arthur Barona striding down the hallway with a knot of aides, cops, and reporters with microphones, tape recorders, and TV cameras following close behind. At the door to Paul’s room the cop on duty, who had been instructed just minutes earlier not to let anyone in, moved out of the way without a word. Barona and another cop with captain’s bars on his uniform, whom Patrick recognized as Thomas Chandler, walked right in.
“Hey!” Patrick shouted. “You can’t go in there!” Everyone ignored him. Enraged, he sped down the corridor, pushed past the cop on duty, and stormed inside. Barona was already seated beside Paul’s bed, holding his left hand. Paul was awake but clearly groggy-and when Patrick saw his eyes begin to roll up into his head in exhaustion, he exploded. “Hey, you motherfucker,” he snapped, “get the hell out of this room! The doctor ordered no visitors!”
Cameras and microphones swung in Patrick’s direction, and a couple of reporters fired questions at him while warily staying out of his reach. The cop on duty grabbed him from behind, pinning one arm behind him with a come-along grip, and pressing a finger into the mandibular nerve behind his jaw. Patrick yelled in pain. The cop had him but good-he could go in no direction except straight down at the floor, right in front of all the reporters and cameras.
“Hold it, Officer, hold it,” Barona said quickly. “Let him go. That’s Officer McLanahan’s brother.” Patrick fought to keep from swinging back at his attacker. The cameras and microphones were squarely on him now. Barona said, “I’m very sorry, Mr McLanahan, but the police force is at a very high state of readiness and alert, and anyone can be considered a threat. Now, what was it you had to say to me?”
“The doctor ordered uninterrupted rest, no visitors at all, for twenty-four hours. That order includes family, friends, and chiefs of police and reporters. Look at him. He’s totally wiped out. You should have checked with the doctor before barging in like this.”
Barona looked down at Paul as the cameras swung back toward him. He gave his hand a squeeze, patted him on the head, and nodded. “Let’s let this brave officer rest now, guys. Everyone outside.” He led the reporters out of the room, then stood in front of the door as if on guard himself. “That’s one tough rookie cop in there, folks,” he said to the reporters, who had arrayed themselves around him, with Paul visible over Barona’s shoulder through the windowed panel in the door. “He wounded three terrorists in the Sacramento Live! shootout before being gunned down himself. Seriously injured, he still had the toughness and spirit to get up out of that hospital bed and attend his partner’s funeral. That’s a Sacramento cop for you: the best of the best.” He turned toward the windowed panel, gave a thumbs-up, and said, “Get well soon, Officer McLanahan. We need more soldiers in blue like you out there protecting our streets.” As he averted his head as if hiding a tear, his aides used the moment to end the photo opportunity, and the reporters were quickly hustled toward the elevators.
When they were well out of range, Barona said to Patrick, “My staff should have checked first.” He shot a sideways glance at Tom Chandler, as if silently blaming him. Chandler extended a hand, and Patrick took it reluctantly. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, Mr McLanahan,” Chandler said, “and I’m sorry for what’s happened. I promise you we’ll find out who did this.”
Patrick didn’t think any more of either apology than he did of the grandstanding in Paul’s room, but he let it slide. “No problem,” he said, and turned to Barona-“Paul’s doing okay. He’s tough.”-only to find he had already turned to speak with his aides. He took a step toward him and the aides noticed. “Excuse me, Chief Barona. I was wondering if I could speak with you for a moment?”
Barona wiped the instant look of irritation off his face-he didn’t want to seem impatient with any member of a cop’s family. “Of course, Mr McLanahan,” he answered. They stepped away, far enough to feel as if they were carrying out a private discussion, but near enough to be overheard. Chandler joined them. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“I was wondering if you could give me any more details of the incident in which Paul was hurt,” Patrick asked. “Any details about the robbers, where they came from, where they went, who they are-anything that might help to explain how something like this could happen here in Sacramento.”
“It’s not just in Sacramento, Mr McLanahan,” Barona responded. “It’s a nationwide problem. The increase in crime, in gang violence, in the use of assault weapons, in the brazenness of the criminal element-it’s happening all over the country.”
Christ, a political statement at a time like this. Patrick felt that flush of anger again. “I understand, Chief, but about the robbers-are you saying they were gang members? As in Crips or Bloods? What kind of gangs? Do you know specifically who did this?”
“We don’t have that information yet, Mr McLanahan,” Barona said with an edge of impatience. “My deputy in charge of public affairs will provide that information when it becomes available. If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’d better get back to my office so I can organize the hunt for those bastards that attacked your son…”
“My brother,” Patrick corrected him curtly. “Listen, Chief Barona, I want to help with the investigation. From what the press and the speakers at the memorial service said, they were heavily armed military types. I can help track them down and fight them. I’d like to speak with you and your investigators about ways I can help…”
Barona again glanced at Chandler, as if asking, Why in hell are you allowing weirdos like this near me? “What is it you do, Mr McLanahan?” he said.
“I work for a defense contractor in San Diego. We produce communications, surveillance, and space systems for the US military.”
“You mean satellites? I don’t see how a satellite can help us. If you’ll excuse me…”
“We make other things as well, Chief,” Patrick said. “Weapons. Sensors. We can access information from all over the globe. If you can tell me what you need or what your special objectives might be, I’m sure we can design a system that can help you.”
Barona regarded Patrick with complete exasperation. “Mr McLanahan, you’re not trying to sell me a communications system, are you? Are you a salesman? If you are, this is hardly the time…”
“I’m not trying to sell you anything, Chief,” Patrick retorted. “I’m trying to give you something. I can give you any kind of exotic weapon, sensor, or electronics system you might need to help locate and capture the bastards who killed those cops and put my brother in the hospital. I can outfit your officers so they’d never have to enter a building without knowing exactly how many people are inside and where each and every one is. I can give them the ability to paralyze a roomful of criminals with a single s
hot. I can make it so an officer would never have to fear a bullet ever again. I can give a single officer the power of-”
“Mr McLanahan, please,” Barona interrupted, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “This all sounds fascinating, but I don’t have the time to-”
“Chief Barona, I’m not making any of this up-I can do all of what I’m saying,” Patrick said. “But it would be better if you gave me some kind of idea about what we’re up against…”
“ ‘What we’re up against’?” Barona mimicked. He closed his eyes, then stepped past Patrick, poised to head away. “Listen to me carefully, Mr McLanahan,” he said. “Let me caution you about something. Interfering with a police investigation is a crime. This crime will also be investigated by agents of the US military, ATF, FBI, the state police, and by volunteers from agencies all across the West. No one kills a cop anywhere in America without brother officers coming to help. But civilians are not permitted to participate. You’d be needlessly endangering yourself and those around you. You don’t have the training and experience it takes to-”
“But I do have the training-and I’ve got the advice, assistance, and equipment necessary to do the job,” Patrick said. “Let me talk to you about this in more detail. I can demonstrate technologies that will astound you.”
“No thank you, Mr McLanahan,” Barona said. “Again, I must warn you-stay away from this investigation. I would hate to punish any family member of a fallen cop, but I will if I must to protect the lives of other cops. Take care of your family and your brother, sir, and leave the investigation to us.” Barona snapped up the collar of his coat, signaling an end to the conversation, and strode off. Chandler nodded to Patrick, looking a little embarrassed by his chief’s tone, and followed behind.
Patrick could do nothing more. He went up to Paul’s room once more and looked through the door window. His brother was asleep. He could see his slow heartbeat and respiration registering on the monitors near the bed. Nurses had access to the room from an interior door that opened on the central nurses’ corridor, and a nurse’s aide was busy recording vital signs right now. The officer was back on duty outside the room, and he gave Patrick a look that clearly warned him to stay away. Now he’s doing his job, thought Patrick bitterly. He nodded to the officer and left.
The drive over to the hospital where Wendy was recuperating was twenty minutes by freeway, and after three days of shuttling back and forth, he could do it in his sleep. It gave him ample time to think.
Barona seemed completely befuddled by this incident. He was good at feeding the press plenty of reassuring and meaningless tidbits, but he seemed more concerned about looking good and engaged and in control rather than actually doing anything to capture the cop-killers. Barona wasn’t the one to talk to, Patrick decided. He had to find the guy in charge of the investigation itself. Maybe he’d be more willing to accept some unconventional assistance from a secret source.
When Patrick entered Wendy’s room a few minutes later, he found her asleep-and Jon Masters sitting in a chair beside the bassinet, cradling the baby in his arms with an expression of unabashed awe. “Jon!” Patrick exclaimed. “What a surprise!”
“Hey, Patrick, look at this little guy,” Jon said, his voice low and a big grin on his face. “He’s great, man, really great. Wendy said it was okay I hold him, and then she fell asleep, so here I am, stuck on baby patrol. Is it okay? You want him back?”
“As long as you don’t plan on keeping him, you’re welcome to hold him,” Patrick said with a smile. He kissed Wendy gently on the forehead, then took a seat beside Jon in the foldout chair-bed he had been sleeping in over the past few days.
They both gazed at the child as if he were a radiant being-which of course he was, at least in his dad’s eyes. He had a mass of soft wavy blond hair with tinges of red all through it, so much of it that it framed his face under his little knitted cap. He had tiny ears, round little shoulders, and solid arms like his father, but a soft, gentle face and a pert little chin like his mother. He opened his eyes when he sensed his father near him, and the two men found themselves looking into the clearest, roundest, most liquid blue eyes either had ever seen. Then he closed them, pursed his lips as if in approval, and fell asleep again.
“What are you going to name him?” Jon asked. “You know, Jon is always a good name…”
“Bradley,” they heard Wendy reply. They turned to see her struggling to sit up in bed. Her stomach muscles were almost useless after the cesarean, so moving was still painful, but she appeared determined to test her muscles more and more every hour. She had gathered her long hair into a ponytail again to keep it in check, and she looked as beautiful and as vibrant as ever. Patrick sat on the bed beside her. “I think we decided that months ago, whether it was a boy or a girl,” she told Jon, holding her husband’s hand. “And since James was my dad’s name…”
“Bradley James McLanahan?” Jon Masters exclaimed, rolling his eyes in mock disbelief. “You gave your son, this cute, innocent, tow-headed little boy, the same name as the scourge of the United States Air Force? Shame on you.” He grinned at them both, then asked, “What about your brother? How is he?”
“They say his condition is improving,” Patrick replied, “but of course that was before we sneaked him out of the hospital to go to the memorial service. He was just about unconscious when we got him back there. The doc prescribed bed rest and no visitors, not even family, for twenty-four hours.”
“How bad is he?”
Patrick shrugged. “He’s alive, thank God. He was shot at close range with a nine-millimeter submachine gun on full automatic. The bulletproof vest saved his life, but he’s still in very serious condition. He’s got a cracked sternum, damaged esophagus, and some internal bleeding in his left lung that might require more surgery. A bullet grazed off his left collarbone and lodged in his larynx, so they had to remove it…”
Jon Masters shrugged. “No sweat. We can replace it.”
Patrick blinked. “What?”
“His larynx. We can replace it with an electronic one. A lot better than the ‘buzzers’ they use now. All internal microchip design. A pretty good duplication of human speech-he won’t sound like a dime-store wind-up robot. What else?”
Patrick looked at Wendy with surprise, and continued: “Some broken ribs, his left shoulder’s gone, his left arm might be destroyed, and his right leg was pretty badly injured…”
“We can fix all that too, Patrick,” Jon said confidently. “Sternum, ribs, scapulas, collarbones-easy. Lightweight fibersteel bone, stronger than steel but lighter than natural bone. Won’t set off any X-ray security machines like Brad’s stuff did.”
“Sky Masters builds prosthetic devices too, Jon?” Wendy asked.
“Are you kidding? With Brad Elliott on the staff? That was one of his pet projects,” Jon replied. “In typical Brad Elliott fashion, he buttonholed a bunch of folks on the board and badgered them into giving him a budget-he even got some grant money. He got a bunch of guys in R amp; D experimenting with prosthetic devices, and they’ve made a lot of progress. The arm and leg will be the most exciting. The prosthesis Brad Elliott had for his right leg is like a scurvy pirate’s peg leg compared to the devices we’ve got now…”
“We’re hoping he won’t need any prostheses, Jon,” Patrick said. “The docs can’t say for sure, but they’re hopeful. His leg isn’t that bad-he might get seventy-five percent back. The arm, the shoulder… well, it’s just too early to tell.”
“What I’m trying to say, guys, is don’t worry about Paul,” Jon said. “All he has to do is hold on to his will to live-and when I heard he actually talked you into putting him in a wheelchair and taking him to the church to be with his partner, I thought, This kid wants to live, all right! But I don’t want to hear this ‘seventy-five percent’ crap. Let me help him, and I can make him better than new. Like they said in the TV series, ‘We can rebuild him. We have the technology.’”
“This isn’t a TV series, Jon, and this
is not an experiment. He’s my brother, and it’s his life we’re talking about,” Patrick said seriously.
“I know, Patrick,” Masters said. “We’ll let the doctors care for him. He’ll need surgery, rehabilitation, and time. But if he needs anything more, I just want to let you know that our company’s resources are available to help him. I don’t want you to worry.”
Patrick nodded in appreciation, though the anger still seething deep within him was almost palpable. “Thanks, Jon,” he murmured.
They all fell silent, watching the baby sleep. Wendy finally broke the silence: “Tell us, how did the BERP demonstration go?”
Masters lowered his eyes to the floor, then shrugged. “No word yet. I thought it went really well. Awesome, in fact. The technology works perfectly.”
“Still got that glitch with the energy discharge through the material?” Patrick asked.
“Uh… yes, that problem’s still with us,” Jon admitted after a rather lengthy pause. “But good news: Your buddies Hal Briggs and that big scary Marine stopped by.”
“They did? Where are they?”
“They’re out at McClellan. They said something about servicing their aircraft…”
“Yep,” Patrick said. “McClellan does a lot of nondestructive inspection on aircraft, mostly high-value or classified aircraft like the stealth fighter, cruise missiles, stuff like that. Hal Briggs’s Madcap Magician cell uses stealth C-130 cargo planes for infiltration and extraction missions, and only McClellan can do maintenance on the stealth skins.”
“It sounds as if their organization is interested in pursuing some of your ideas for additional applications for BERP.”
“Great,” Patrick said. “But I still agree with you: This technology belongs on the world’s airliners. We can sell it to the government or the military later.” Jon looked a bit uncomfortable, but said nothing.
