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."
IIMY 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
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 problems,
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 PT
S
acramento-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 IN
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 flbersteel, a composite
material stronger than steel but non-radarreflective
, so it was invisible to radar
. It had two
small, efficient propjet engines and enough fuel to
fly for several hours. A
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 southwest-
bound. 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 sixhour
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 tiein
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?"
III 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.