had automatically cut off fuel and power to the engines
, so it rolled forward until it hit a blast fence
on the north side of the main runway and came to a
stop.
The Tin Man got back to his feet, scanning the
area with his infrared visor. It was too late to reach
Townsend in the number one F- 117. By the time the
thrusters were fully charged, Townsend had already
lifted off into the night sky. The one he really
wanted had escaped.
"Well, General McLanahan," he heard in his helmet
radio, which was set to monitor the emergency
UHF channel. "Yours was a valiant effort. But one
plane will still make my buyers very happy. Good
night, and enjoy what is left of your city."
But astoundingly there was one last chance. A
UH-1 Huey helicopter with CA NATIONAL GUARD
markings touched down on the apron directly in
front of the security hangars where the F- 11 Ts had
been parked. It had arrived as planned to pick up a
few chosen members of Townsend's assault team,
and the soldiers ran to board it. The Tin Man shot
across the runways, and as the fully loaded helicopter
was lifting off, he jumped up and grabbed on to
the right skid, then the belly cargo hook, straddled
the skids, and held on for the ride. The pilot didn't
even notice the additional weight because the aircraft
was already wallowing from its heavy load as
it lifted into the sky.
The Huey headed almost directly east, climbing
to eleven thousand feet as it cleared the Sierra Nevada
Mountains. It took all the Tin Man's strength
and concentration to hold on in the frigid night air
whistling around him at 120 miles an hour. Two
hours later, the helicopter swooped across steep,
rocky crags and flew low through a high-desert valley
. An airfield came into view. It was surrounded
by what appeared to be abandoned military hangars
and industrial structures. As the helicopter moved
low over a group of wooden buildings, the Tin Man
dropped free, using his thrusters to break his fall.
The place had a weird look to it; it was like stepping
into an abandoned city. The hangars were large
enougfi to hold the biggest military or commercial
aircraft, but they were empty and falling apart. He
saw the twisted, rusted hulks of what'might once
have been an oil refinery or, -large factory. The
ground was covered with cactus, tumbleweeds, and
thick dust. There was a long unlit runway ahead,
and a very large aircraft-parking ramp lit by blue
taxiway lights. The only other lights were on a lone
building on the northern edge of the ramp, which
had a rotating airport beacon and several radio antennas
on top, a few scraggly trees in front, and a
fuel truck parked nearby. The Tin Man headed for
it.
A sign indicated that the building was a generalaviation
fixed-base operator-an FBO-called Tonopah
Flying Service. He knew there was a Tonopah
, Nevada, a small desert town in the
southwestern part of the state, midway between
Reno and Las Vegas. This had to be it, and from the
look of it, he guessed the airport must once have
been a military base.
Moments later, the UH-I Huey helicopter
touched down on the ramp in front of the FBO
building and Townsend's terrorists dismounted.
Within minutes, the Tin Man could hear shouts in
German coming from inside-they were taking over
the facility. He peered through a side window and
was startled to see a terrified woman cowering in
front of a man with a gun.
At the sound of a muted whistling out on the
runway, the white runway edge lights snapped on.
Then an F- 117 Night Hawk stealth fighter swooped
down, paralleling the long runway on a downwind
leg. He switched to his infrared visor to watch as it
touched down at the very edge of the'runway,
careened down it, and stopped just in time at the
north end. Then it turned off on the taxiway,
swerved around as soon as it had room to maneuver
on the aircraft apron, and taxied right back onto the
runway, now heading south. The fuel truck drove
out in its direction.
The Tin Man's first concern was the hostage, not
the F- 117. No one was in sight when he sneaked to
the front of the building and looked through the
glass door, which meant that the gunman had to
have taken the hostage inside the office behind the
short counter. He dashed inside, hit his thrusters,
and jetted directly at the office door. It crashed in,
and he discovered it had come right down on the
terrorist himself, knocking the gun he was holding
out of his hands. One punch from the gauntleted
fist, and the man was out cold.
"You're all right now," the Tin Man said to the
frightened woman. "But these are terrorists taking
over the airfield. You've got to get out of here quietly
and call for help. Is there a phone anywhere?"
She nodded. "There's one behind the building,"
she said, her voice quavering.
"Tell the police that the terrorists who stole the
stealth fighters from the Air Force base in Sacramento
are here, and they're going to refuel and take
off again. Then hide yourself until help comes."
When she left he grabbed the terrorist's gun, peered
out the door, and crept outside.
Hurry up, damn you!" Townsend shouted.
"The pump on this truck is very slow, sir,"
the soldier answered. The base obviously wasn't
used often, and the Jet-A truck even less.
Townsend cursed again. The guard he'd stationed
inside the FBO had missed a second five-minute
check-in-an ominous sign. A burst of fire, then an
explosion, tore into the Huey. Gunfire erupted from
the reat of the FBO building but was silenced moments
later. "Disconnect!" Townsend shouted.
"Prepare to repel attackers!" Silence. Where were
his men? He looked toward the. fuel truck and saw
all four of them lying on the ground. My Godwhen
had that happened? Dammit, he hadn't heard
a thing and he was right here!
He had just put on his helmet and finished strapping
himself into his seat when a voice came over
the UHF guard emergency channel: "Townsend.
Gregory Townsend. Can you hear me?"
Quickly Townsend checked his switches and
skimmed through the checklist, but realized it
would be suicidal to try to take off. He lowered the
cockpit canopy. "The Tin Man, I presume? Very
good of you to see me off, General McLanahan. My
men reported that you had been killed by Major
Reingruber."
"Indeed. As you can see, I'm here. But I'arn not
seeing you off. You are going nowhere, Townsend.
It's time you paid for all the death and destruction
you've caused."
"I'll tell
you what I'll pay for, General," Townsend
said. "I'll make you the same deal I made before
, only better: you and I as partners. With one
phone call, General, I can wire ten million dollars
into an offshore bank account in your name. Moreover
, I'll give you half of whatever we can negotiate
for the sale of this aircraft. We should be able to
split two hundred, perhaps three hundred million
dollars. I make one phone call and it's yours."
The response was a burst of automatic gunfire.
The left main landing-gear tires, blew out. Then the
nose-gear tires exploded and the aircraft's nose
wheel settled into the asphalt up to its hubs. "You
may as well shut 'em down and come on out,
Townsend," said the Tin Man. "You're going to
prison."
With an angry yank, Townsend pulled the throttles
to cutoff, threw open the canopy, unfastened
his seat belts, and climbed out of the Night Hawk.
He stood directly in front of the dark-clad figure,
shaking with rage. "You miserable cretin!" he
snapped. "You've just thrown away millions of dollars
for us both."
"You're not going to need money where you're
going, Townsend."
"Is that so?" Townsend retorted. "Tough talk for
someone hiding behind an electronic suit of armor.
Coward! Why don't you take that thing off and let's
have at it, you and me, man to man. Or are you too
cowardly for that?"
Stunned, he watched as the figure dropped the
backpack power unit off his shoulders. "Well, well.
You do have some sporting blood in you after all,
General . . ."
But the surprises were not over. As the Tin Man
unfastened and removed his helmet, Townsend saw
before him not General Patrick McLanahan but his
brother. He could not believe his eyes. "Good Lord!
It's Officer McLanahan! Following in your dead
brother's footsteps, I see."
"Patrick is very much alive, Townsend," Paul
said coldly. "He survived the fight on the dam. Major
Reingruber did not."
Townsend managed to maintain his composure.
"Be that as it may, Officer, you are here and he is
not. And there is still a business accommodation we
can make, you and I. It would be worth ten million
dollars to me for my freedom right now. You have
the stealth fighter and all my surviving men, including
the ones who killed your fellow officers in
downtown Sacramento. As I understand it, you also
have no job now, nothing but an inconsequential
disability pension. There are no witnesses out here.
One single phone call, and a, secret Cayman Islands
bank account will be established in your name, ten
million dollars in it, all for you. You can go back to
being a lawyer, or you can live out your lifelong
fantasies in a country where the law can't touch
you.//
"I've got an even better idea for you, Townsend,"
Paul said. He walked over to one of the soldiers lying
unconscious next to the fuel truck and withdrew
the combat knife from his leg sheath.,"You
kill me, and you keep your ten million dollars and
walk away free."
Townsend smiled a satisfied grin and pulled out
his knife with theatrical flourish. "You are a sporting
man, Officer McLanahan," he said-and attacked
with the speed of a cobra.
The fight appeared to be over before it had begun.
Townsend feigned a slash to Paul's head, then reversed
the knife and brought it down full force on
his left shoulder. Paul made no effort to counterattack
; he simply raised his left arm in a feeble attempt
to block the assault. But he was far too late.
Townsend's knife buried itself to the hilt. Townsend
laughed right in his face, then tried to remove
the knife-and found it stuck fast . . .
. . . and before he knew it, Paul's own knife
lashed up and deep into his belly.
Townsend dropped to his knees, clutching his
midriff. He watched dumbfounded as Paul McLanaban
jiggled the big knife in his shoulder and freed it.
There was no blood. Not a drop.
"Ironic, isn't it, Townsend?" Paul McLanahan
asked. He removed his gauntlets, opened the suit
front, and shrugged off the left sleeve. Underneath
was a dull aluminum prosthesis. It moved like a
real arm, but it was definitely not human. It was
one of the prototype Sky Masters, Inc. prosthetic
arms, attached and activated without any cosmetic
enhancements. "I owe you thanks for this," he said.
"Your bloodthirsty attacks gave it to me. I felt sorry
for myself and I told them I didn't want it, but I'm
glad they helped me change my mind. What do you
think of this, Colonel?"
But Gregory Townsend was a long, long way from
being able to answer.
EPILOGUE
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, I JUNE 1998, 1015 PT
The city does look like it's getting back to normal
, " Wendy McLanahan said to her brother-inlaw
. Bradley was in the car seat between Patrick
and her, and Paul was accompanying them to
Sacramento-Mather Jetport to see them off to San
Diego. They were all glad to have the last few
"Yes and no," Paul answered, his electronically
synthesized voice sounding more natural all the
time. "It looks that way on the surface. But the old
problems haven't gone away. I think the wars are
just starting up. The biker gangs are still at it, only
now they're vying to fill the void left by the Satan's
Brotherhood. The meth production hasn't even
started to gear up again, and I know the Mexicans
are going to come in hard. This whole county's been
hit pretty hard. It'll take a long time to recover."
Wendy shook her head. "I still find it almost impossible
to believe anyone could cause so much
death and devastation simply to create a diversion
to cover a robbery-even a huge one."
"It's useless to look for rational explanations for
his actions-though I admit I keep trying to also,"
Patrick said. "Townsend was far crazier than Henri
Cazaux was ever rumored to be-he outdid his
ex-boss. And he would've gotten away with it if it
weren't for you, bro."
"Well, the county owes you big-time for what
you and Hal did on the dam, Patrick," said Paul. "If
any more of those gates had blown, the loss of
life would've been much worse. Sacramento was
lucky."
"It's a good thing they'll never know exactly
what happened up there," Patrick said. "My name's
been in the Sacramento papers too much as it is. It's
a relief to have it cleared and the charges dropped.
I'm ready to go home and leave the town to you."
"It does feel great to be back," Paul agreed. "I
didn't think I'd ever be saying this, but I really owe
Chief
Barona."
"You're right. We both do. He sure came through
for us in the end. The city's lucky to have you back
as a cop. It really needs you." But Patrick could see
a touch of sadness in his brother's face. "I know
what you're thinking," he said. "No, light duty
won't be the same as being on the street-but
you're back on the payroll, you're still wearing
Dad's badge, and you're still out there helping your
community. This place really needs that help."
Paul took the badge out of his pocket and fingered
it. "Yeah. That's true. And who knows? It'll
take time, but maybe down the road I can prove
that the arm and the voice synthesizer aren't problems
and I can get switched back to regular duty. I
know they're not." He sounded more cheerful.
"What's going to happen to Tom Chandler?"
Wendy asked. "That's not resolved yet, is it?"
"Well, they're giving him a little consideration
because of what he did trying to help Helen," Paul
said. "But he's still looking at time. We'll see what
kind of man he really is when he's faced with being
not a cop but an ex-convict. Actually, I have a feel-
ing he'll rebound. He's lucky to have survived. A lot
of good people died at Townsend's hands."
As if on cue, there was a commotion on
Placerville Road as they approached the turnoff to
Mather Field Road. Amid the sound of sirens, a man
ran from a bank with a bag in his hands just as Sacramento
County Sheriff's deputies roared up to the
scene. They watched in a kind of slow motion as
the robber pulled a gun from his pants and the deputies
ducked for cover. Wendy looked at her husband
and her brother-in-law. She could read their faces
and their minds: The suit is in the trunk; the backpack
is charged; I can have it on in minutes . . .
Then the robber tossed his arms straight up in
the air, turned around, and was instantly in custody
. No casualties on either side. The brothers sat
back and relaxed.
As if by telepathy, Patrick answered Paul's unspoken
question. "Yeah, Hal Briggs and his team are
still interested in the BERP technology. But we
want to work the kinks out of it before we offer it to
anyone. And Jon still wants the airlines to have it to
protect cargo compartments."