."
"Very good, Herr Oberst," said Reingruber. "We
will be ready to go in two hours. It will be a glorious
operation. And what about Masters, sir?"
"We may have use for Dr. Masters in the future;
his psychological reprogramming has been very successful
. Bring him along too."
Townsend walked over to the room where Jon
was working on the suit. He was eating breakfast.
Faulkner was wearing the suit, experimenting with
its mobility. Jon put down his coffee cup and stood
at attention. "Good morning, sir," he said.
"Good morning to you, Dr. Masters." Townsend
extended a hand, and Jon shook it, formally bowing
his head and standing until Townsend had seated
himself. Reingruber passed by the open door and
Townsend saw the fear in Masters's face. "Has the
Major been bothering you, Doctor?"
"No, not really," Masters replied, "But I'm always
afraid he's going to hurt me. He keeps watching
me, and he speaks to some of the men while
they're working with me. It's as if he's plotting to
hurt me and make it look like an accident."
"You need not worry about him. Stay close to me
and it will be all right," Townsend said. "I am the
one in command here."
Jon seemed reassured.
Townsend was pleased. They had organized the
psychological dismantling of Jonathan Masters
well. Reingruber had had another session with him
yesterday afternoon, after the water drum, pressuring
him to tell how to work the electronic suit.
Masters did a creditable job of resisting the threats,
but the pressure took its toll. Reingruber barely
even touched him, but he was terrified. When
Townsend appeared, he was ready to run into his
arms like a child.
From then on, he confided in Townsend, describing
his inventions to the point of forgetting who he
was talking to, where he was, and the fact he was a
captive. Before long, he began to explain the intrica-
cies of the suit-the real evidence of a successful
indoctrination, Townsend decided. He and Faulkner
had made him feel included, liked, respected. He
was eager to please them in return. The belligerent
John Wayne attitude was gone. He agreed to let
Faulkner wear the suit, and got up before dawn that
morning to start working with him, explaining all
its systems.
"How is everything progressing?" Townsend
asked. "I understand Dr. Faulkner is having a little
trouble with the suit."
"It's going well, sir," Masters said. "Richard's a
fast learner and he's patient."
"But he doesn't seem to be learning to use the
systems as well as I'd hoped."
"It takes time," Masters said. "The coordination
necessary to use the eyeball sensing menu system is
complex. It may take another day or two. But we
should be able to try a test outdoors tomorrow
morning, perhaps even with live, ammunition."
"We really need to do it much sooner than that.
We have very little time to waste. Can you set it up
for early this afternoon?"
"I'm not . . . yes, sir. We'll make it work.
Sir . . . it
"Yes?" Townsend said patiently.
"I wondered-have you reconsidered perhaps
having the suit fitted for you? It will take some
time, but I think I can do it."
"Perhaps later, Doctor," said Townsend. "Now
get back to work."
' Masters jumped to his feet, snapped to attention,
and hurried back to Faulkner, who was about to try
on the gauntlets. The helmet lay on the table; it
would come next.
As Townsend walked off, one of Reingruber's
lieutenants came running up, out of breath. Rein-
gruber was following, as angry as Townsend had
ever seen him. "Wir haben ein Problem, Herr
Oberst," the lieutenant said.
"What is it?"
The fieutenant held up a portable receiving unit.
sweep this morning. We found this." A needle on
the receiving unit was oscillating across the scale.
"It is a high-power onmidirectional UHF satellite 61
uplink," the lieutenant explained. "A tracking bea- A
con."
Townsend didn't need to be told more. "Get your
men assembled and out the door immediately!" he
ordered Reingruber. He drew his Calico automatic
pistol and went back into the room where Masters
was working with Faulkner.
Masters saw his livid face and froze. Faulkner,
oblivious, raised his arms proudly. "What do you
think, Colonel?" he said. "I get a shock every time I
get hit, but the sucker works."
"Oh, it works, all right," Townsend said. 'Very
clever, Doctor. Pretending to be brainwashed so you
could get your hands on the suit and activate some
sort of tracking beacon, correct?"
Jon Masters positioned himself behind a confused
Faulkner. There was no point in dissembling. "Listen
, Townsend," he said, "I spent enough years with
real military guys to know when I'm being braindrained
. Hell, if the only way to survive was to let I
you think you screwed with my head, it was worth
the try." He looked at Faulkner mockingly. "And
you a Dartmouth grad? Not in a million years, loser.
A child could see that newspaper was phony."
Townsend raised the automatic. "Well, your
friends are too late to save you, Doctor, " he said.
"And they're too late to save your friend Helen."
Jon blanched. "What did you say?"
"Did I forget to tell you?" Townsend asked. "Yes,
Dr. Helen Kaddiri is a guest of mine. An unexpected
bonus. She will be my insurance policy. If your
friends try to come after me, she will die.. As for
it
you . . .
An enormous blast shook the room and the wall
behind Masters crashed down. The concussion
threw the three men to the floor, and as the sound
of the blast subsided they heard heavy rotors coming
close. Masters curled himself up behind Faulkner
, as if willing himself to become even smaller
than he was.
"You bloody bastard!" Townsend shouted. He
lifted himself on one arm and pulled the trigger on
the Calico, but the shots went wild as heavy cannon
fire erupted outside. Townsend fired again, raking
the floor with automatic gunfire. The suit protected
Faulkner, and Masters behind him, until one shot
hit Faulkner in his unprotected head. Another missile
hit the building, then another volley of heavycaliber
cannon fire.
"Heir Oberst!" Reingruber shouted. "Helicopters
! We must get away fast!"
Townsend leaped to his feet, reloading a fresh
magazine into his autopistol as he fled. "Remember
, Doctor," he shouted, "I have Kaddiri. Tell your
friends to back off or she dies!"
The MV-
22 Pave Hammer tilt-rotor aircraft swept
over the rolling wooded terrain. The pilot had activated
the helmet-mounted targeting system,
which directed the 20-millimeter Hughes Chain
Gun onto a target when he turned his head and
pulled the trigger. The targeting system also gave
him a virtual targeting reticle for the MV-22's
pylon-mounted laser-guided Hellfire missiles. Once
he designated a target by looking at it and pushing a
button, the targeting computer locked on to the target
and illuminated it with a laser beam. One push
of a button, and a Hellfire missile leaped off the
Pave Hammer's weapon pylons, followed the beam
of laser light, and scored a direct hit.
"They're scattering!" the MV-22's copilot
shouted. "I see a helicopter lifting off to the northwest
, and several vehicles heading west. Do you
want me to go after them?" F,
"No!" McLanahan shouted. "I want to get Jon
Masters first! Set it down by the building where the
tracking signals are coming from." Minutes later,
the MV-22 had transitioned from airplane to helicopter
mode and set down a few dozen yards from
the main building on the isolated Sierra Nevadafoothill
ranch.
The first ones off the MV-22 were California
Highway Patrol SWAT officers, who surrounded the
landing pad and moved out to secure the landing
zone. This was done deliberately. It was highly illegal
for the federal government's Intelligence Support
Agency to run any operations within the
United States, but it could fly support missions for
state or local law-enforcement authorities. As long
as the ISA was in a support function only, its men
could fly and fight inside the United States.
Lieutenant Colonel Hal Briggs led the way into
the main building, armed with his .45-caliber Uzi
submachine gun. Right behind him was the commander
of the California Highway Patrol Special
Weapons and Tactics Detail, Deputy Chief Thomas
Conrad, followed by a sergeant representing the
Placer County Sheriff's Department's SWAT team.
Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl and Patrick McLanahan
followed behind, guarding their rear. Three
more four-man squads of SWAT officers fanned out
across the ranch and began to search the grounds,
but there were no signs' of resistance. Afraid of
booby traps, Briggs recalled the teams as soon as
they completed their sweeps.
To Briggs's amazement, he found Jon Masters
running through the main house, darting from room
to room. "Jon!" Briggs shouted, lowering his
weapon. "What in hell are you doing?" ,
"I've got to find a phone! I've got to find a
phone!" he was screaming. Briggs grabbed him and
held him tight. "Let me go, dammit! . . ."
"What in hell are you talking about, Doc?"
"Helen! They've got Helen!" he cried. "We've got
to find her!"
"Jon!" Patrick McLanahan shouted when he
caught up with them. "My God, Jon, are you all
right? What's that about Helen?"
"They got her," Jon told him. "Townsend and
Chandler grabbed her. I don't know how, I don't
know where, but they've got her."
"We'll find her," Briggs said. "Don't worry. We'll
scour this whole state until we . . ."
"No! You can't!" he shouted. "Townsend said
he'd kill her if we tried to interfere!"
"That's exactly why we must go after her,"
Briggs said. "They'll kill her anyway. We've got to
find her before they try to harm her."
"No!" Jon shouted. "We can't take the risk! Oh
God, it's all my fault. I called her after I got out of
the jail. I told her . . . told her I wanted to see her.
She must've come to Sacramento."
"Jon, we'll do everything we can," Briggs said.
"We'll save her if it's at all possible. But you've got
to be prepared for the possibility that she's dead. I'm
sorry, man-I promise we'll do everything we
can . . . "
Patrick's earset communications beeped. "McLanahan."
"General, this is Sky Masters Security Operations
Center," said the caller. Patrick recognized
the voice; it was the chief of the company's security
division at their headquarters in Blytheville, Arkansas
. "I'm patching an urgent call through to you
from Dr. McLanahan." There was a beep; then: "Go
ahead, Dr. McLanahan."
"Patrick?" Wendy asked.
"Wendy, are you all right?" Patrick asked. "Is
Bradley all right?"
"We're okay, Patrick," Wendy said, but he could
hear the fear in her voice. "Listen: A few minutes
ago, I got a message on my voice mail." The company
voice-mail system automatically notified the
recipient via nationwide pager when a message
came in. "It was from Tom Chandler, that police
captain from Sacramento PD."
"What? Chandler called you? What did he say?"
"He said he was out at the research facility at
Mather," Wendy said. "He said someone better get
out there right away or Helen was dead. He said
there were twelve of Townsend's men out there, going
through the company's computers."
"Helen at Mather? We'll get right on it-thanks,
love." Patrick turned to Briggs. "Get everyone on
board, Hal, now Chandler and Helen Kaddiri are
out at the alert facility at Mather." Hal radioed his
tactical ground crews to return to the MV-22, then
notified the cockpit to get ready for liftoff. "Jon,
where's the suit?"
"In the room over there," said Masters, and
brought Patrick over to where,the body of Richard
Faulkner lay. They stripped off the suit, hoisted the
body on board the MV-22, and were airborne moments
later.
RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT FACILITY
SACRAMENTO -MATHER JETPORT,
RANCHO CORDOVA, CALIFORNIA
A FEW MINUTES LATER
Ja, Herr Oberst! I understand. We will be airborne
in fifteen minutes!" The senior officer hung up
the secure cellular phone, then got on his handheld
radio and ordered everyone to the helicopters and
prepared to repel attackers. Then he dashed to the
main administration offices and the room where
Helen Kaddiri was being interrogated. She was still
conscious, but barely, strapped to -a chair with a
hood placed over her head. She did not look as if she
had been injured, but the lieutenant knew there
were many ways of torturing a prisoner without
leaving visible signs. The screen of thelaptop computer
on the desk beside her showed lines of error
messages, indicating the unsuccessful attempts to
gain access to the classified Sky Masters files.
"Get her to the helicopter!" the lieutenant ordered
. "Take that computer too!" He drew his sidearm
and headed across the corridor to the senior
engineer's office, where the renegade police captain
Chand
ler was being held. His orders were explicit:
to execute him immediately.
He unlocked the door and stopped in his tracks.
On the desktop, lying faceup, was the body of
Thomas Chandler, his hands still handcuffed behind
his back, his eyes open and staring up at the
ceiling. A streak of black-and-red crossed his neck,
and a pool of red spread out across the desk. The
dirty work had already been done for him, probably
by the guard assigned to watch him-it was a violation
of orders, since no one had given the order to
kill Chandler until now, but the lieutenant wasn't
going to complain. He turned toward the admin section
and brought his handheld radio to his lips . . .
Chandler brought the metal chair down on the
German bastard's head as hard as he could, and
slammed it again and again until he was dead. The
trick had worked. He had used a hidden handcuff
key to get out of the handcuffs-he had several of
them hidden on him and knew how to use them
even with his hands behind his back. Then he had
opened up the color ink-jet printer in the office and
spread the ink on his neck and the desktop to make
it look as if his throat had been slit.
He picked up the officer's pistol and ran out.
Through the engineering offices, a security door
opened on an upsloping concrete ramp that led to
the flight line, the same covered ramp that SAC
bomber and tanker alert crews used to run to the
flight line and their waiting planes. Chandler didn't
know what was going on, but it was sure as hell
time to get out and he was damned if those Nazis
were going to leave with a hostage.
The only way he could possibly redeem himself,
he figured, and save himself from spending the next
ten years in prison, was to start doing his job.
The German-speaking soldiers had left their
posts and run to the flight line in front of the halfunderground
R D facility, where two surplus
UH-1 Huey helicopters were waiting for them, rotors
turning. When Chandler emerged from the tunnel
, he saw two guards no more than fifty feet away,
half-carrying, half-dragging Kaddiri through the alleywa
between two hangars toward the waiting
y
helicopters. He took cover just inside the doors to
the ramp, raised the pistol, aimed, and fired.