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 reit
solve 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,
f
11 market value of the stock, and your stake in the
u
underlying Dun 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 youre 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, I " 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 yM."
"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,
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 PT
I on Masters stepped into the middle of the largest
U 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 years, 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 twe
nty-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, resernbling 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 dnive-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, an
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 flne 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 delayswould 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 thatV
"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 anymorehe
jumps in, The soldier can jump about twenty to
thirty feet vertically and a hundred and flfty 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 manportable
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 6veryone 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 se
sors aimed at his eyeballs. "I see infrared sensc
microphone-what else have you got in there, sir?"
"Complete communications system-secure tactical
FM, secure VHF, secure LJHF, even a secure
cellphone," Patrick replied. "I have an onmidirectional
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 selecte
d 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'moriey on a soldier my grandmother
can push over? And where's your damned weapon?"
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 outof 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