by Dale Brown
“Jon, what in the world are you up to?” Helen asked.
“We’ll talk on board,” Jon said. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
“Oh, I thought we’d go to Catalina for the weekend,” Jon said. “Depends on the weather. Or we can go to Dana Point, or Mexico…”
“Mexico?” Helen asked. “Jon, what is all this?”
“Helen, we can talk on board,” Jon said again. He looked up and down the wharf. Attracted by the soft violin music, a small crowd of gawkers had stopped to watch, which was making Jon uncomfortable. “Your chariot awaits, madame.”
“We’re not going anywhere until you answer me,” Helen demanded. “What’s going on? Is this another one of your elaborate pranks? If it is, I haven’t got time for any of it.”
“This is no prank, Helen,” Jon said. His face was beginning to show the dejection of someone realizing his grand plan maybe wasn’t going to work. “This is a night out for both of us. A chance to be together, to talk, to have a nice dinner, to see the coast at night.”
“No one else?”
“No one else.”
“What makes you think I’d fall for any of this, Jon?” Helen asked.
“ ‘Fall’ for this? There’s nothing to ‘fall for,’ Helen,” Jon responded. “We have a lot to talk about. There’s so much I want to tell you…”
“This isn’t about the settlement agreement, about the buyout?”
“No, it’s not about any of that,” Jon replied.
“Well, what then?”
“It’s about… it’s about you and me, Helen. About us.”
“Us? There is no ‘us,’ Jon.”
“I want there to be an ‘us,’ Helen,” Jon said sincerely. “Can’t we go on board?”
“Talk to me right now, Jon,” Helen insisted. “What are you saying?”
Thankfully, the crowd had started to go on its way. The violin player stepped inside but continued to play. “Helen, I sensed something in you during the BERP demonstration up in Sacramento,” Jon said. “I don’t know if I’m right or not, but I know what I sensed. And when I thought about it, thought about you, I felt really good.”
“You mean… you mean, you like me?” Helen asked, sounding perhaps a bit more incredulous than she meant. “As in, romantically like me?”
Jon took her hands in his. “Yes, Helen. Romantically. I want to see if there’s anything there, you know?”
Helen paused, looking into Jon’s eyes. This was 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 resolve 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, full market value of the stock, and your stake in the underlying Dun amp; 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 you’re 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,” 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 you.”
“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 FT
Jon Masters stepped into the middle of the largest 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 yea
rs, 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 twenty-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, resembling 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 drive-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, and 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 fine 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 delays would 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 that?”
“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 anymore-he jumps in. The soldier can jump about twenty to thirty feet vertically and a hundred and fifty 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 man-portable 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 everyone 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 sensors aimed at his eyeballs. “I see infrared sensors, microphone-what else have you got in there, sir?”
“Complete communications system-secure tactical FM, secure VHF, secure UHF, even a secure cellphone,” Patrick replied. “I have an omnidirectional 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 selected 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’ money on a soldier my grandmother can push over? And where’s your damned weapon?�
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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 out of 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 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!”
