by Dale Brown
Skywalker’s other nickname was HEARSE, which stood for High Endurance Aerial Reconnaissance and Surveillance Equipment. It carried almost half a ton of sophisticated all-weather sensors and communications equipment. It could photograph an object the size of a rabbit from thousands of feet in the air in any weather, and beam the pictures in real time to a ground station or command aircraft.
Under cover of darkness and a light springtime drizzle, Skywalker’s engines were started up and it was taxied to the end of the alert parking ramp. A push of a button activated its preprogrammed flight plan and it zoomed down the parking ramp, airborne before it reached the end of the throat. It made a steep left turn away from the buildings over the airport and continued its climb southwestbound. The aircraft had a small transmitter, similar to a light plane’s transponder, that would send out a “ 1200” code to allow air traffic controllers to “see” it and help any aircraft flying in the area avoid it. To anyone on the ground, however, the plane was invisible.
This was Skywalker’s third flight since arriving at Mather Jetport earlier in the week. In its first six-hour flight alone, it had photographed the majority of south Sacramento County, about six hundred square miles. The second flight was used to pinpoint specific locations and to provide comparison photographs that would show activity at any of the targeted locations.
This third flight was not designed for reconnaissance-it was designed for surveillance. The target had been pinpointed. Skywalker would now be used to watch over the target area as tonight’s mission got under way.
Special Investigations Division Headquarters,
Bercut Drive, Sacramento, California
the same time
The side door rattled, clunked awkwardly, then closed. It sounded as though yet another surveillance team was coming in to do its debrief before heading home. Tom Chandler thought he’d sit in on the debrief, show the troops that the old man was still on the job, then go home and get some rack time before beginning the shit all over again in about six hours. Just as he was getting up there was a knock on his door. “Come.”
The door swung open. Chandler nearly jumped out of his skin. There, standing before him, was the guy. The vigilante. The… whoever it was. It was him. He fit the description provided by Chandler’s Narcotics officers exactly: dark gray outfit resembling a wetsuit, full-face high-tech helmet, backpack, the works.
He entered the office and closed the door behind him. Chandler drew his SIG Sauer P226 automatic from his shoulder holster and aimed it at the apparition. Neither spoke for a moment. Then Chandler said, “Well, well, if it isn’t the Tin Man. You know, that’s what the guys in my division are calling you now. We’ve been looking for you. Who the hell are you?”
“A friend,” the intruder replied in an electronically altered voice.
“What do you want?”
“To give you information.”
Chandler blinked in surprise, but kept the gun level. “Why the outfit? Why the disguise?”
“A German-speaking commando was at the Rosalee drug house last week,” the guy said, ignoring Chandler’s question. “He was the one who murdered the biker, not me. And a biker at the Bobby John Club told me that Mullins was hired by a German-speaking gang to help in the Sacramento Live! robbery. Those two guys with the broken legs that you let go-they were Germans. That’s the tie-in you were looking for…”
But Chandler wasn’t interested in the Tin Man’s theories. “You’re under arrest, bub,” he said. “You’re wanted for the murder of that biker, plus attempted murder of my police officers and a couple of civilians, for breaking and entering, assault, battery, malicious mayhem, and trespassing.”
“I won’t allow you to arrest me,” the guy said matter-of-factly. “Your officers tried. You can shoot me if you like. It won’t hurt me. But as I told your officers: I didn’t kill that sonofabitch biker. Although after I saw what kind of conditions he kept that kid in, I wish I had.”
“Is that so?” Chandler asked. “Listen, mister, you can tell all that to the judge. You’re under arrest. Turn and face the wall, hands behind your back.”
“Chandler, you will not be able to arrest me,” the Tin Man said. “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t want to fight you-I’m trying to assist you. I’ll do anything I need to do to prove I’m on your side. But you can’t arrest me.”
“Bullshit,” Chandler said, holstering his weapon. “My guys told me you can be had.” He reached out and grabbed the guy’s right wrist with a come-along hold. He had been practicing various holds just in case he ever encountered him.
But the guy simply reached over with his left hand and, as though he were swatting a mosquito, smacked Chandler’s hand. It was only a tap, but it felt as though the hand had been sandwiched between the bumpers of two crashing cars. He jerked it away in pain. “Motherfucker!” He drew the gun and aimed it again, stepping back so the guy couldn’t reach it. “No more shitting around, asshole! Turn around, hands behind your back!”
“Don’t waste your bullets, Chandler,” the Tin Man said. He picked up a letter opener from the desk, held it in both hands, and plunged it into his chest. The blade bent, then snapped. He picked up a silver pen and jabbed it into his arm, and it broke in two. “You tell me when you’re convinced you won’t be able to hurt me, Chandler,” the guy said.
“All right, all right!” Chandler said. “Don’t wreck everything on my desk.” He started running through the suspect identification and memorization checklist in his head: height, weight, build, age, voice, other distinguishing characteristics. The guy sounded white, male, maybe late thirties, but it was almost impossible to tell much with the electronically altered voice. The suit might have increased his height and weight, so maybe five seven to five eight and medium build. Keep him here until help arrives…
“Now what, big shot? Are you going to break my head and my shoulder bones like you did those bikers’?”
“No,” the Tin Man said. “I came here to deliver my information, and to tell you I’m going after the ones responsible for the violence in this city. I can do it without your help, but I prefer to work with you.”
“Who are you to think you’re the one to take this on? What makes your information worth anything? Because you wear this high-tech wetsuit and bust some bad guys’ heads?”
“You don’t have to believe me,” the guy said. “I’m just informing you of what I’m going to do. We can work together on it. You give me the information I’m looking for, and I’ll do what I have to do, what the Constitution prohibits you from doing.”
“I’ve got a newsflash for you, bub,” Chandler said, praying that one of his patrols showed up soon. “The Constitution prohibits you from doing it too. It’s called breaking the law. You do this, and you’ll be just as much a dirtbag as the bums you’re going after.”
“Except the real dirtbags will be off the street, and I’ll go home and stay out of the way,” the intruder said.
“The problem with you vigilantes is that you never go home,” Chandler said. “The rush you get by breaking heads stays with you, and soon you spin out of control. You think you can just take the law into your own hands like this? What gives you the right to break into people’s homes and businesses and tear them up?”
“I don’t care if you or anyone else thinks it’s right or wrong, Chandler,” the intruder said. “I’ve got the power to do it. Are we going to work together, or will you just hear about it on the radio and pick up the pieces afterward?”
“Work together? What the hell do you mean, work together?” Chandler asked. He lowered the gun but kept it in his hand. “How the hell can you see me working with you? And if I did, who’s your first target, hotshot?”
“One of the bikers said Mullins was going to report to a ranch in Wilton,” the intruder said. “I think that’s where we’ll find the German terrorists. I’m looking for a British-sounding terrorist who may be working with them too.”
Chandler’s throat turned as
dry as sand. Shit, he knows about the Brit too? Was it some incredible coincidence, or was it possible that they could be hunting the same guy? And if they were, could it be possible to join forces with this guy, the Tin Man, and maybe take on the Brit and his German terrorists together? Perhaps… but face it, this character was as much a wild card as the Brit.
“There’s only about a dozen suspected labs and possible hideouts in Wilton,” Chandler said. “You going to hit them all?”
“I was hoping you’d give me a clue.”
“We don’t have the foggiest idea,” Chandler said. That wasn’t entirely true. But surveillance was extremely difficult because the ranches were so big and the houses were so far off the road. “Besides, that’s Sacramento County, not the city. You got any targets in the city?”
“Why don’t you give me a couple?” the intruder asked.
“Because I’m not sure I want to risk losing my badge and my career to help you,” Chandler said. “Giving you information so you can go out and commit a crime is conspiracy and aiding and abetting. For all I know, this is some kind of elaborate setup.”
“You’re a little paranoid, aren’t you? I’ll go out and find my own targets. See you in the funny papers, Chandler.”
“Wait!” Chandler shouted. Shit, where were those guys?… “How can I get in contact with you?”
“Don’t call me-I’ll call you.”
Chandler followed the guy to the side door-and to his relief, saw headlights turning into the parking area. His cops were finally back.
The Tin Man saw them at the same time, heading for the main entrance. Chandler noticed that the front door had been smashed in and realized his guys saw it too. Within seconds, three of them were approaching it with their guns drawn. Two others came around to the side door. Chandler raised his weapon again. “You’re surrounded, mister. Surrender right now.”
The intruder raised his hands. “I’m unarmed,” he said through the electronic mask.
“That’s him!” one of the officers shouted. “He’s the Tin Man! That’s the guy who was at the Bobby John Club!”
“Chandler, your officers won’t be able to take me,” the Tin Man said calmly, “and if they open fire in here or try to tackle me like they did before, someone can get hurt. I’m asking you to call your officers off. I won’t hurt anyone if they leave me alone.”
“Captain, he’s a murder suspect,” one of the officers said. “He’s wanted for the murder at the Rosalee stakeout-and he put a uniform in the hospital too.”
“I know, dammit, I know!” Chandler shouted to his men. “But you saw what he can do. Do you think it’s realistic to think we can take him?”
The cops were silent. They got the point, recognized they’d need a lot more help or a lot more firepower-but they didn’t want to admit it.
“Let him go,” said Chandler.
“But Captain-”
“I said, let him go. We have no choice. Until we can figure out how to shut him off, leave him alone.”
The cops stood there and listened as the Tin Man turned to Chandler. “Thank you, Captain,” he said. “I do want to work with you, not fight you. You need to believe I’m on your side-I’ll prove it to you. Just wait. I’ll be in touch.”
Then Tin Man calmly walked outside. They watched as he ran northbound across the parking lot, leaped over the low one-story buildings, and vanished. “Christ Almighty!” said one of the shaken officers. “I’ve never seen anything like that! Who the hell is he?”
Chandler ordered his men back inside headquarters and had them write out statements detailing everything they knew or had heard about the guy they called the Tin Man. While they were at work, he slipped back into his office. Holding his broken letter opener in his hand, he dialed a tollfree voice-mail number. He had already checked it out; it was a dead phone drop, a computerized voice-mail service, paid for with cash with a PO box as the customer’s address. He dared not check further-the Brit was bound to find out.
“The subject was just here,” Chandler spoke into the digital message service. “He says he’s found one of your hideouts and he’s heading your way. I think he’s heading toward Wilton, sometime soon if not tonight. Catch him yourself if you can. And I want my money, motherfucker.”
Wilton, California
later that night
“Heading two-three-zero… area’s clear… go,” Jon radioed to Patrick on the secure VHF channel. He was in the Hummer command post, a few miles from Skywalker’s target position, watching the blip Patrick made on the screen. The terminal in the Hummer showed a composite picture of infrared and light-intensified surveillance images from the reconnaissance aircraft and the satellite tracking data Patrick was sending, and Skywalker’s live video feed was displayed on the terminal.
The Skywalker images revealed several patches of recently disturbed ground, which could be assumed to be land mines planted by the bad guys around the Wilton ranch. There had been a lot of activity there in recent days, and a variety of vehicles moving in and out of the property-much more activity than could be properly accounted for. The number of individuals varied. Weapons were all over the place, and roving patrols kept crisscrossing the property. For a ranch that had no animals, no crops, and no ranch or farm equipment evident, all this was highly suspicious.
The thruster jump was a little long, but it placed Patrick between two rings of disturbed earth. They had no way of knowing whether he had landed far enough away from whatever was under there to be safe, but the farther away, the better. Patrick scanned the area with his low-light vision sensors. He was about five hundred yards from the house, where all the activity now seemed to be. “Can’t see that roving patrol anymore,” he radioed.
“The nearest patrol is to the east, about two hundred yards,” Jon radioed back. “You’re right in between two rows of something. You should be able to clear the inner row with the next jump. Turn left, head one-eight-zero, area’s…”
Jon’s report was cut off by a burst of heavy automatic gunfire. A row of bullets ripped into the ground a few feet from where Patrick was standing. He hit his thrusters and leaped toward the ranch house just before the next bullets hit. “Shit, Jon,” Patrick radioed as he landed. “Felt like a fifty-cal that time.”
“Gunfire’s coming from a ditch bearing one-five-five, range about seventy-five yards,” Jon reported. “The gun must be hidden in a culvert or under a building.” He couldn’t see the gun or the shooter from the Skywalker images, but the blasts looked like bright sparkles, and the red-hot bullets were visible as they plowed into the earth.
Patrick turned to his left and leaped. The machine gun tried to track him in midair, so he was able to identify the location of the nest perfectly. It was hidden in a large culvert that ran across a ditch. He landed right on the road over the culvert, then started running down the road toward the house. Seconds later, a huge explosion split the night. He had left an explosive charge on the road over the culvert, blowing the concrete bridge and the machine gunners underneath it into the mud.
“Wait, Patrick!” Jon radioed. “The road!…” But he was too late. Before Patrick could make the leap toward the house, he stepped on a mine planted in the road. The explosion blew him six feet into the air, swerving around and flopping like a rag doll caught in a twister. He landed hard and awkwardly, and lay there motionless.
“Patrick! Do you read me?” Silence. Jon zoomed the Skywalker cameras in and had a clear view of Patrick lying on the ground, still not moving. Moments later, two Jeeps headed from the house across the meadow toward him. “Patrick! Two vehicles approaching! Can you hear me? Patrick!” Silence. “If you can hear me, Patrick, wake up!” Jon screamed. “They’ll be on you in thirty seconds!”
Wearing night-vision goggles, three German soldiers dismounted when they were fifty feet from where they thought Patrick lay and approached on foot. At thirty feet they deactivated their image-intensifiers so the muzzle-flash of their guns wouldn’t blind them, and fired at the
intruder. Then they reactivated their night-vision optics and advanced on him-but no one was there.
A horn beeped behind them. They turned, found themselves staring into the full-bright headlights of one of the Jeeps, and ripped off their goggles in pain. One of them swore, leveled his machine pistol, and fired at the headlights. It took almost an entire clip to shoot them out.
“You missed me!” shouted an eerie electronic voice. The shooter swung his submachine gun left to track the voice.
“Nein! Nein!” came a shout-but too late. The gunman, still blinded, opened fire across the area where the voice had come from and cut down both his fellow soldiers.
Patrick checked his suit’s systems-running perfectly so far, although power levels had been cut in half after the land mine. “Down to three hours already,” he radioed.
“Thank God you’re okay,” Masters answered. “I copy that. Do you want to withdraw and get a full recharge? I can watch the area and let you know if anyone tries to escape.”
“No, let’s press on,” Patrick said. “I’ll try to conserve power every chance I get.”
Inside the ranch house, the two remaining guards heard and saw the gunfire but could not raise their comrades on the radio. “Patrouille zwei, berichten!” one of them called. “What is your status? Have you terminated the intruder? Patrol Two, report!”
“Here’s one heading back,” said the other lookout. “Patrol Three is heading back!” A Jeep was racing back across the meadow, bumping through the furrows. Then he shouted, “Wo wollen die hin?” The Jeep was headed straight for the ranch house at top speed. “It’s him! It’s the intruder! Open fire!”
