The Tin Man

by Dale Brown

  “It must be the nature of the BERP process,” Jon surmised. “We never tested the system with a soft or slowly penetrating force, only a sharp impact. The same characteristic of the suit that allows you to move freely means that a slowly penetrating force won’t activate the electro-reactive collimation.”

  “So a bomb blast won’t kill me,” Patrick said, “but a knitting needle pushed in slowly will go through my heart with ease?”

  “We should be able to fix that,” Jon said, cringing at the image. “We might be able to have you selectively harden sections of the suit. What about the power levels?”

  “Dropped way down after the cut in the suit,” Patrick said again, “especially after being hit repeatedly.”

  “Hit?”

  “Hit… as in shot,” Patrick said.

  Jon’s gulp was audible. “How many times were you shot, Patrick?”

  Patrick took a moment to count. “About a dozen times in the space of six minutes. Plus I got hit by a baseball bat a couple of times and bitten by a pit bull-I nearly killed it too.” He said all this so matter-of-factly, Jon noticed, that he could have been a piece of stone relating what had happened.

  “So we need to bump up the power reserves a bit, and reprogram the power-monitoring logarithms,” Masters said. “We still haven’t cured those discharges inside the suit, have we?” No reply. “Patrick, are you sure you’re okay?”

  Patrick’s tone changed a bit as he went on: “You know what I did, Jon? When I planted that charge by the door, I didn’t take cover. I just stood there and let it rip. It was almost as if I was thinking, If this bomb kills me, fine. If I survive, fine, I’ll do this mission. I survived. I don’t know why I did that. Maybe I thought it was like a test or something, a validation, proof that what I was doing was the right thing.” Patrick was quiet for a long moment, but Jon could actually feel the tension, the rage building in the backseat. “Those sonofabitches,” Patrick went on in a low, angry voice. “They kill, they terrorize, they poison others, they abuse their children-I want to kill every last one of them!”

  Then he added, “I got some information on where the Major might be hiding. There was a German-speaking commando already inside that house when I arrived. I think he was there to take out the surviving Satan’s Brotherhood members. Another biker gave me information on a hideout in Wilton. I want to go there. Tonight. Right now.”

  “Patrick, you can’t and you know it,” Jon said. “The reason we were successful today is because we did pretty good intelligence work and planning. We don’t have another target planned right now. You have some initial intel on a potential target. Fine. Let’s build on that. But now is not the time to do it. Your suit is damaged, it’s not taking a charge, and there are cops and National Guard troops everywhere. The only reason we haven’t been bothered so far is because there are already so many Hummers on the streets right now that we blend in.”

  Patrick thought for a long moment. “You’re right,” he said at last. “And we’ve got to get the cops involved in this too. I realize I’m fighting the cops even more than I’m fighting the bad guys. That’s no good. Let’s get the suit fixed, and then we’ll plan our next move.”

  Special Investigations Division Headquarters,

  Bercut Drive, Sacramento, California

  a short time later

  “What in the hell is going on?” Arthur Barona thundered as he strode into Tom Chandler’s office at Special Investigations Division headquarters. His suit was rumpled; he had clearly dressed in a hurry. Chandler was on the phone, trying to listen to the information being passed to him and to the bellowing chief of police at the same time. “I just got tossed out of bed by the damned mayor himself,” Barona went on. “He’s been getting calls about a rogue Narcotics cop killing civilians and busting up people’s homes and businesses? I want answers, and I want them now!” He stormed out of the office to the conference room across the hall.

  Chandler put the phone down and went to join Barona. “That was Deputy Chief Ohrman, Chief,” he said. “He’s ordered Homicide to take over the investigation.”

  “What in hell is going on?” Barona repeated. “Reports of an officer in body armor and full riot gear blowing up somebody’s home, killing the occupant and nearly killing a youngster? Another cop in riot gear breaking into the Bobby John Club, nearly killing three patrons? Cops not trying to apprehend the suspect as he flees on foot?…”

  “That’s inaccurate information, Chief,” Chandler said. He started from the beginning, detailing the two incidents of the strange invader in body armor who appeared to be rushing around the city in a Hummer going after drug dealers and biker-gang members. “That’s all we know right now,” he ended.

  “What about this Hummer?”

  “A witness reported the suspect getting into a Hummer on Arden Way shortly after the Bobby John Club incident.”

  “Arden? That’s several blocks from Del Paso Boulevard.”

  “The guy moves fast,” Chandler said. “He’s got some kind of jet thing in his boots that lets him jump…”

  “Or there’s more than one of them,” the chief said. “It’s not any of your men, is it?”

  “I’ve started a telephone recall of the entire division and ordered Property to do a full inventory of our property rooms,” Chandler replied. “I don’t think it’s any of my men, but I’m going to do a full accounting just in case. Every man has to account for his whereabouts tonight. But I can tell you, it’s not any of them.”

  “What about you?” Barona asked. “Where have you been tonight?”

  “At home with my wife, Chief,” Chandler replied irritably. That wasn’t entirely accurate-until about eleven-thirty, he was with a woman friend up near Folsom Lake. But his wife would vouch for him if anyone bothered to check. She was accustomed to putting up with his antics. “Yeah, DC Ohrman thinks I was the guy, as if I’ve got nothing better to do these days than to run around in tights busting heads. That’s bullshit. I was home.”

  “All right, Tom, all right,” Barona said. “What else? What about the witnesses?”

  “Witnesses and officers on the scene describe an individual, probably male, five eight or five nine, medium build, wearing what appeared to be a dark gray tight-fitting outfit similar to a wetsuit, stiff but flexible; a strange high-tech-looking helmet that altered and amplified the suspect’s voice; and a thin backpack, similar in size and shape to a sport-jumping parachute but thinner,” Chandler answered, checking his notes. He paused, then added, “Our officers at both the Del Paso Heights and Elder Creek scenes report that the outfit worn by the suspect was probably some sort of new lightweight body armor. Several officers reported discharging their weapons at the suspect and hitting him, but the suspect appeared unhurt or only slightly injured.”

  The chief asked something, but Chandler’s mind had drifted off momentarily. High-tech, high-tech… it reminded him of a conversation he’d had with someone not too long ago. Who was it? Chandler couldn’t remember…

  “Chandler! What about weapons?”

  Chandler shook himself from his reverie. “No weapons reported, Chief, except my surveillance officers said the suspect planted a satchel charge at the door of a known meth house in the Rosalee section of Elder Creek that was under surveillance at the time.”

  “So what it looks like is that we have a vigilante or some well-equipped militia type with explosives roaming the streets,” said Barona, “taking out the last of the Satan’s Brotherhood with more explosives-this time delivered in person by a soldier in body armor. Sounds like whoever booby-trapped those drug machines is looking to finish the job by picking off the survivors one by one.”

  “Looks that way to me too, Chief,” Chandler said absently. He was still trying to tease out that memory. Revenge… high-tech… soldier… what in hell was it?

  “And the DC is turning this over to Homicide?” Chandler nodded. He couldn’t tell whether Barona was perturbed by this news or not. “Okay, but I still w
ant you working with them. I want to know the results of your division internal investigation too. We might have to do the entire department. We’ve got to make sure this wasn’t a rogue cop.”

  “I can guarantee it wasn’t,” Chandler said. “And if it was a cop, he’s a pretty stupid, sloppy one-he’ll get caught soon enough.”

  “Better make that happen, Chandler,” Barona said. “Find him and throw his ass in jail. Whoever this guy is, I want him hung out to dry.”

  Good for you, Chief, Chandler said to himself as Barona stalked out. You bust my hump even though I’ve been taken off the case-and you’ll proudly take all the credit for busting the guy if you have the chance.

  Chandler looked over the notes of his conversations with his surveillance teams. It seemed incredible-too incredible to tell the chief: a guy who seemed invulnerable to bullets. A guy who had an outfit that moved like nylon but could instantly harden into a suit of armor, A guy who could leap fifty feet away and twenty feet up. It was a vigilante or militiaman, all right-but a vigilante unlike anyone ever seen before. Either this was some kind of joke, a ploy by his officers in the field to cover for the work of a vigilante or militia group, or it was a science-fiction movie come true.

  And if it was true, this guy could be the ultimate police officer, the ultimate weapon in the hands of law enforcement-or the ultimate nightmare for them.

  Swan Creek Road,

  Granite Bay, California

  Wednesday, 25 March 1998, 0213 PT

  Women. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em-can’t shoot ‘em.

  After all the shit that happened in the past couple of months, Tom Chandler thought, and just when it seemed as if he’d be able to come up for air-hell, now Kay wanted a commitment from him, wanted to stop sneaking around, wanted him to divorce his wife. Shit.

  He had come to his girlfriend’s house to get away from the craziness and relax. Some welcome. They had a good thing going here. Why’d Kay want to screw it up by wanting a commitment? Of course, that still didn’t stop them from dropping down and doing it doggie-style right on the living room floor, but Chandler was glad to get the hell out.

  It was a long, dark drive from Kay’s place overlooking Folsom Lake to Douglas Boulevard, which would take him back toward the interstate and home. The heavy runoff from the deep snows in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, combined with nearly forty straight days of rain, filled Folsom Lake, a one-million-acre man-made reservoir thirty miles east of Sacramento, almost to capacity. They were releasing water from four of the eight big steel gates on the dam, but the water level in the lake was still rising. It was an annual balancing act for water officials in this area: measure releases from the dam to keep the reservoir full to supply the fast-growing Sacramento Valley with water through the upcoming long, dry summer; release enough water to keep the forty-year-old dam from rupturing; but don’t release so much as to cause flooding down the American River and inundate the city of Sacramento. State and federal water officials were not always successful keeping all three properly balanced.

  Folsom Lake had always been special for Chandler. As a kid, he used to skip school, ride his bike more than twenty miles, and hang out at the lake, trying to stay one step ahead of the truant officers. He lost his virginity at Folsom Lake; he met his first two wives at Folsom Lake. It could look like a raging ocean, as it did now; in four months it could look like a desert wadi with a little stream running down the middle, as it did the year one of the gates on the dam broke and three-quarters of the lake spilled out. It didn’t matter to Tom Chandler-he would always be drawn to it.

  Chandler was on a shoulderless, unlit road just west of the lake when he heard a loud bang, felt his steering wheel jerk to the right, and heard the sickening flopflopflop of a flat tire. Shit! He hadn’t changed a flat tire in forever, but it would take at least half an hour for a wrecker to get out here. It was a department vehicle and the city would pay for the call, but he didn’t want anyone to find out he was taking a city car out to his girlfriend’s house. Still swearing, he pulled off to the side of the road, stopped the car, got a Stinger flashlight from his glove compartment, and got out to inspect the damage.

  He had just stooped down to look at the flat when he was clubbed over the head with a thick rubber baton. He did not lose consciousness, but he saw stars and he couldn’t make his hands and feet work right. As he tried to cover up his sidearm, someone pinned his hands behind his back and the gun was snatched out of his holster. Then gloved hands dragged him off the road into the low brush and sand dunes, and dropped him facedown. A boot pressed down on the back of his neck.

  “Good evening, Captain Chandler,” said a cheerful British voice.

  “Who the hell are you?” Chandler shouted. “I’m a fucking cop! Get off me!”

  “Who I am is irrelevant and unimportant, Captain Chandler,” the voice said. “What I am is your salvation.”

  “My what?”

  “Your salvation,” the voice repeated. “I am here to help all your problems go away. Stop struggling and I will be happy to explain. Continue to resist, and I will be forced to end your police career-not to mention your life-sooner than I’m sure you desire.” Chandler realized he had no choice: No one except Kay knew where he was, and she wouldn’t try to contact him for at least a day. His wife didn’t really care if he was dead or alive. He stopped trying to free himself.

  “Thank you so much,” said the Brit, and the boot lifted off his neck. Chandler sat up in the damp sand. There was a figure standing in front of him, but a flashlight was shining in his face, blocking out the man’s features.

  “I must say, Captain, you are a nasty man,” the Brit said with mock disapproval. “I don’t mean to sound judgmental, but you do seem to be letting your vices get the better of you. Although I truly believe that the true measure of any man is evident in his appetites, it seems you are allowing your appetites to destroy you.”

  “I never got slugged in the head by that little voice on my shoulder before,” Chandler said sardonically.

  “Indeed,” the Brit replied, all humor gone. “After some extremely cursory inquiries, I find you are several thousand dollars in debt; you owe several thousand dollars more to a variety of loan sharks and bookies; and you just cannot seem to-how shall I put it?-keep it zipped up.”

  “Who the hell are you? The morality police? The church’s strike force?”

  “I am the man who can make your problems go away, at least in part,” the Brit said. “What you do with your zipper is up to you. But your gambling debts can disappear tonight.”

  “And what do I have to do for you?”

  “A simple matter-information. Everything you have on the strange costumed man who has been running about this city. Everything you have on the suit he wears. I understand that suit has certain special properties that are of great interest to me.”

  “I don’t know squat about a suit,” Chandler said, “and whoever told you about ‘certain special properties’ has been yanking your chain.”

  The rubber baton came down on the back of his head again, not as hard as before but enough to make him cry out. “Stop being flippant, Captain, or I’ll terminate this offer to you right now, permanently,” the Brit said angrily. “I’ve monitored the police radio reports. Your men said this individual jumped twenty feet in the air and almost a half a city block in one leap. Your reports said not only was he bulletproof, but that his suit was like solid metal armor one moment and then like ordinary fabric the next. This is not conventional body armor. Whatever it is, Captain, I want it.”

  “Hey, asshole, I’m not in charge of the case-it’s been turned over to Homicide,” Chandler said. “But listen, maybe we can trade some information. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about any German-speaking terrorists in this area, would you? Maybe one called the Major?”

  The rubber baton was pressed around his neck so hard that he thought his windpipe would crack. “I am offering you help with your financial prob
lems, Captain-I’m not interested in becoming your snitch,” the Brit said, coming closer. “I have made you a very generous offer. Cooperate with me, and you’ll live to gamble, screw, and piss your career away as you choose. Cross me, and I’ll see to it that you witness the deaths of your wife and your girlfriends before you die yourself. I’m not precisely sure what it is in your pitiful life that you value the most, but I assure you I’m very good at finding out and taking it away from you in a very gruesome manner. When I next get in touch with you, sir, you had better have some information for me, or it will all end for you.”

  The choke hold let up just before Chandler thought he was going to pass out from lack of oxygen. He collapsed on the sand, trying not to panic as he took a long, thin breath through his constricted throat.

  At least now I’ve got a good excuse why I’m late getting home, he thought to himself.

  Research and Development Facility,

  Sacramento-Mather Jetport,

  Rancho Cordova, California

  Friday, 27 March 1998, 0052 FT

  Sacramento-Mather Jetport has two runways, one eleven thousand feet in length, the other six thousand, both one hundred and fifty feet wide. The old Strategic Air Command alert-aircraft “Christmas tree” parking area-so named because from the air it somewhat resembled a tree-was only two thousand feet long from the end of the ramp to where the throat of the taxiway joined Runway 22 Left. It wasn’t even a proper runway, because there was a steep drop from the alert ramp down to the runway. But it was more than adequate for this particular aircraft.

  Its nickname was Skywalker. Carried in three sections on board one of Sky Masters, Inc.’s transport aircraft from the company’s production facility in Arkansas, together with its self-contained control module, it was delivered to Mather Jetport and reassembled by two men inside one of the hangars at the research and development facility Sky Masters had leased. Skywalker resembled a manta ray, with long, thin, tapered forward-swept wings and a large oblong fuselage. Its skin was fibersteel, a composite material stronger than steel but non-radar-reflective, so it was invisible to radar. It had two small, efficient propjet engines and enough fuel to fly for several hours.