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!"
Chris Wohl got on his feet like an enraged grizzly
bear. He picked up the steel pipe and swung it with
all his might, hitting Patrick squarely in the left
shoulder. They all heard the dull thud and Patrick
reeled, stumbled slightly over to the right, but did
not go down. Wohl swung again. The pipe landed on
Patrick's left rib cage. Again, no effect. He blocked
two even harder blows with his forearms. The next
blow, weaker now that Wohl was winded, landed
right on hishead, across his right temple. His head
jerked to the left from the impact, but he remained
standing. Then, as if from the depths of a wild-boar
pit, Patrick cried out, a loud, almost animal-like
cry, and clutched his head in pain.
"Patrick!" Masters shouted. "Are you all right?
Doc, help him!"
Carlson Heinrich ran over to Patrick, ready to get
him out of the suit and administer first aid, but Patrick
swung his left arm and swatted Heinrich away.
One of Heinrich's ribs cracked loud enough for everyone
in the hangar to hear it.
As Wohl looked at him in amazement, Patrick
stepped over to him and rarnmed his left hand into
his chest. The blow felt like a sledgehammer. The
wind gushed out of Wohl's lungs, and he fell to his
knees, grasping his midriff in pain. Then Patrick
reached down, picked up the steel pipe-and hit
him square on the side of the head with a tremendous
swinging blow. Wohl's head snapped over to
the right in a cloud of blood. He landed flat on his
face and lay still, blood oozing from his ears, his
mouth, his eyes. Then, with another growl, Patrick
raised the pipe over the fallen man, aiming one end
of it at his skull . . .
"What the fuck!" Hal Briggs shouted in shock.
Patrick McLanahan, their friend and colleague, was
going to kill Chris Wohl! He ran over and bodytackled
Patrick. They both fell over onto the concrete
floor, Briggs on top. "Patrick, what the hell are
you doing, man?" He intended just to hold Patrick,
to calm him down-but both of Patrick's arms
swung up and hit him in the jaw. Briggs felt as if a
steel girder had hit him-the force was no different
from being hit by a man, but it didn't feel like arms
striking him; they felt like huge steel rods, corn-
pletely unyielding. Briggs's head snapped upward,
blood spattering from a chomped tongue and broken
nose, teeth flying.
Shouting like a madman, Patrick struggled to his
feet, again clutching his helmeted head. He picked
up the steel pipe and turned on the first person he
saw: the prone Chris Wohl. He raised the pipe like a
woodsman getting ready to split a log and . . .
"No!" Briggs shouted. He pulled his .45 colt
from his holster, aimed, and fired three rounds, hitting
Patrick twice in the back and once in the helmet
. Patrick screamed, the electronically distorted
voice sounding like the squealing brakes of a locomotive
against the ' rails, metal on metal. He
dropped the steel pipe and again clutched his head,
writhing in pain-but still on his feet. He turned
toward Briggs, screamed again, and charged.
"Patrick, stop!" Briggs fired five more rounds,
emptying his Colt. Patrick fell to his knees after the
last slug hit him. The air was filled with blue smoke
and the walls echoed from the gunshots. The scene
was surreal: a costumed figure howling like an animal
, writhing in pain, crouched on the concrete
floor.
But he still wasn't down. Patrick crawled to his
feet, his chest heaving, his electronically amplified
breathing heavy and labored. Briggs couldn't believe
his eyes. Patrick had just taken eight slugs from a
.45-caliber automatic from no more than twenty
feet away and he was still alive. Or was he really
alive? Was this some kind of sick, homicidal automaton
? Briggs dropped the empty magazine, pounded
a full one home, and took aim . . .
"Wait!" Masters shouted. He ran over to Patrick
with Heinrich, plowing into him from the right side
and tackling him back to the floor. Patrick swung
an arm, clubbing Heinrich painfully on the right
arm. Heinrich cried out in pain and rolled free,
clutching a broken arm, but it gave Masters enough
time to touch a tiny hidden switch under the left
edge of Patrick's helmet. An invisible seam appeared
, and the helmet popped open and clattered to
the concrete hangar floor.
What they saw made their blood turn cold. Patrick's
face was contorted in agony. His eyes were
bulging, his mouth wide open. The veins on his
head and neck protruded so much that they looked
ready to burst through his skin, and his neck muscles
were horribly swollen. His maddened eyes
rested on Briggs. He scrambled drunkenly to his
feet, ready to pounce again, ready to rip Briggs's
heart out, ready to spill his blood. Briggs aimed for
the contorted head and closed his eyes . . .
"Don't, Hal," Jon Masters said in a remarkably
calm voice, holding up both hands. "He'll be all
-right now. The power in the suit is deactivated. just
stay away from him." He stooped to help Heinrich,
who was clutching his fractured arm against his
body. Patrick got to his feet and charged, but Briggs
sidestepped him easily, pushing him away to keep
clear of those pile-driver arms.
He watched the way Patrick's eyes darted from
side to side; he'd clutch his head and then they'd
flash sideways again. He stumbled about, trying to
regain his footing, before finally collapsing to his
knees on the floor. "What's he doing?" Briggs asked.
"Why are his eyes doing that?"
"He's trying to activate the eyeball sensors,"
Masters explained, "Trying to activate the systems
in the suit. He still thinks he has his helmet on.
Don't touch him, Hal. The effect will
wear off, but
you might set him off again. Look after Chris."
Keeping a wary eye on Patrick, Briggs went over
to Chris Wohl. The big Marine commando was
moaning in pain, trying feebly to raise a hand to his
head. He looked in very bad shape. "I think Patrick
fractured his skull," said Briggs, "but he's conscious-though
barely. He needs an ambulance."
"I . I already called for an ambulance," they
heard Patrick say. His breathing had returned almost
to normal. He was still on his knees, his head
listing to one side as if he couldn't hold it upright.
"As soon as'I hit him, I got on the VHF radio and
called the security office for an ambulance. It'll be
here any second now."
"What the hell were you trying to do, Patrick?"
Briggs spat. "What got into you, man?"
"I I don't know, Hal," Patrick said weakly.
"It was as if I were . . . I don't know, on speed or
something. When Chris pushed me, I felt-I just felt
like I had to kill him. He was the enemy. I could see
everything so clearly, as if I were watching myself.
When those bullets hit me, I wanted to rip something
apart-anything. I wanted to kill you, kill
Chris, kill anyone who came near me. I knew what
was happening. I knew who you were, I knew where
I was-and I also knew I had to kill all of you."
"Jesus. I think that suit messed up your head,
Briggs said. "Jon, help Patrick out of here before the
ambulance comes. I'll stay with the doc and Chris."
Masters helped Patrick to his feet and supported
him to an adjacent office. When the ambulance arrived
, he went back to see Wohl safely loaded in,
issued instructions to the security crews, and returned
to look after Patrick.
He found him where he had left him, sitting on a
bench with his elbows resting on his knees, looking
down at the floor. He had opened the top of the suit
so he wouldn't pass out from the heat. Jon disconnected
the backpack power unit, then helped him
strip off the suit. Soon Patrick was sitting in a chair,
wearing only a sweat-soaked light cotton undergarment
. He was staring straight ahead, his.lips parted,
the expression on his face suggesting he was replaying
the past twenty terrible minutes in his mind's
eye.
. , Jon sat down in front of him. Blood vessels had
popped around Patrick's eyes, and the muscles on
his neck, shoulder, chest, and arms looked thick
and chiseled, as if he had just finished a weightlifting
workout. He began to weep.
"Don't worry about it," Jon said. "I think they're
all going to be all right."
"I was afraid I killed Chris. Are they on their way
to the hospital? How are they?"
"Chris is hurt pretty bad," Jon said, "but he was
conscious when they took him away. Carl has a broken
arm and rib. Hal has some broken teeth and a
cut tongue, but he'll be okay. He's staying with
Chris." The two men sat quietly for a long moment,
overwhelmed by what had happened. Then Jon
cleared his throat and asked, "Patrick . . . Patrick,
what, did it feel like?"
"What?"
"Come on, Patrick, you've got to tell me. You got
hit over the head with a steel pipe. My God, you
were shot in the head and in the back by a big-ass
forty-five automatic from point-blank range! The
gun blasts almost knocked me over!"
"I . I don't want to talk about it.,,
"You've got to, Patrick!" Masters retorted. "You
know as well as I do that this program is dead. It
failed with the airlines and the FAA,'and after this
neither ISA nor any other government agency will
come anywhere near BERP. It's over.
"But you experienced it, Patrick. You know what
it's like to survive something- like that. I'd never
have the guts to put that thing on and have a Hal
Briggs fire live forty-five-caliber rounds at me!
You're the only one who will ever know what it felt
like to be He paused, then went ahead and
said it, ". . . be invulnerable, like Superman. What
was it like? How did it feel?"
Patrick whispered something too low to be audible
, then began to weep again.
"Never mind," Jon said reassuringly, putting a
hand on his'shoulder. "It's over. We'll destroy the
suit. I promise it'll never hurt anyone else again."
"Jon . . . dammit, Jon, it felt great, it felt wonderful
!" Patrick exclaimed, his tears now more
shame than pain. "When I felt that energy rush
through the suit, I felt more alive than I've felt in
months. The power is incredible, Jon, enormous.
It's like a drug, like a shot of adrenaline jammed
right into the heart. But the energy surge did something
else too-it made me a little crazy, like a berserker
. Everything was running in slow motion. The
gunshots felt like ocean waves hitting you-you get
pushed around, and you can feel the force behind
them, but then the impact is gone and you're still
left standing."
"Did it hurt? Did the energy surges hurt youz"
Patrick laughed. "Oh God, yes," he said. Jon
looked at him as if he had gone off his rocker. "The
pain was . . . exquisite. That's the only way I can
describe it. Exquisite. It was what I always imagined
slow death would be like, once you accepted the
fact that you were going to die. I felt liberated, powerful
, free. My whole body felt as if it were on fire.
Every nerve was alive, jangling my brain. The incredible
head, shrugged, and said, immortal. I was dying
, but I felt immortal. It felt . . . good. "
"I'm destroying that damned suit, Patrick," Jon
said firmly. "Apart from what it made you feel like
doing, even if it protected you from Hal's bullets the
suit itself could have killed you. It's not worth it.
No government contract or big breakthrough is
worth it."
But Patrick didn't seem to be listening anymore.
He looked totally wiped out. "I'll call Wendy
if
too . . .
"No," Patrick said. "I'll tell her."
The first thing Patrick did, after visiting Chris
Wohl and Carl Heinrich in the hospital, was go
home and hug his wife and child. But he said nothing
. He simply held them close and let their
warmth wash away the memories of that terrible
morning.
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA-DAVIS MEDICAL
CENTER, STOCKTON BOULEVARD
AND FORTY-SECOND STREET,
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
THE NEXT MORNING
W
hen Patrick arrived at the UC-Davis Medical
Center the next morning, he was startled to find
a crowd of reporters and TV cameras at the entrance
. "Mr. McLanahan!" they shouted. "Over
here, Mr. McLanahan! What do you think of the
court's decision?"
Patrick always tried to avoid the media, but they
were everywhere this time, and he could not hide
the confusion on his face. "Mr. McLanahan, you
heard about the appeals court's decision, didn't
you?"
"No, I haven't," Patrick responded, curious now.
"A judge in the state appeals.court has over-
turned the superior court's no-bail ruling for the
two defendants charged with murder in the Sacramento
Live ! shootout," the reporter said. "He said
there's insufficient evidence to hold them on an
attempted-murder charge."
Patrick gasped. "What?" he exclaimed. "Nothat
can't be!" The reporters circled him. like sharks
around a wounded marlin. He knew he shouldn't
react, should conceal the horror he felt, but he
couldn't contain his disbelief. This can't be, he said
to himself. The best, the,only opportunity to discover
more about who had attacked Paul and killed
the two Sacramento police officers seemed to be
slipping out of their fingers.
In a daze, Patrick pushed his way through the
knot of reporters and into the entrance. There were
more of them at the nurses' station on Paul's floor
but the policeman on duty cleared a path for him as
he made his way to the room.
Jon Masters was already there, together with a
technician who worked with Carlson Heinrich.
Paul was sitting up in bed looking apprehensive, on
his lap the ever-present notepad he used for communicating
. A lot of the bandages and dressings had
been removed from his neck and throat. The most
horrible parts were his shoulder and left arm. Despite
three separate surgeries, the shoulder, unprotected
by his bulletproof vest, could not be repaired,
and the damage to the left bicep and elbow was too
extensive. A month ago, the decision had finally
been made to amputate the arm. Paul had taken the
news stoically, but the nurses told Patrick in private
that they had seen him silently weeping when he
was alone at night, and more than once he had
buzzed them for something to alleviate the pain in
the arm that was no longer there.
"You hear about the court decision?" Jon asked.
"Just did, from the reporters outside," Patrick
said, sitting down beside the bed and clasping his
brother's right hand, "but no details. What in hell