The Tin Man

Chapter One

Sacramento, California

Friday, 19 December 1997, 2146 FT

Patrick Shane McLanahan stood at the head of the long table and raised his glass of Cuvйe Dom Pйrignon. “A toast.”

He waited patiently as the sexy young waitress, Donna, finished filling all the glasses-she was spending a lot of time at the other end of the table with his brother, Paul, he observed with a smile. When everybody was ready, he continued, “Ladies and gentlemen, please raise your glasses to our honored graduate, my little brother, Paul.” There was a rustle of laughter around the long linen-covered table at Biba’s Trattoria in downtown Sacramento. Patrick’s “little” brother, Paul, had seven inches and thirty pounds on him.

The brothers were as different as could be, on the inside as well as the outside. Patrick was of just below average height, thick and muscular, fair-haired, a masculine and worldly version of their soft-spoken, sensitive mother. Patrick had graduated from California State University at Sacramento with a degree in engineering and a commission in the United States Air Force, then was lucky enough to stay in Sacramento for the next eight years, becoming a navigator student, B-52 Stratofortress navigator, radar navigator-bombardier, and instructor radar navigator.

After winning his second consecutive Fairchild Trophy in annual “Giant Voice” Air Force bombing competitions, confirming his reputation as the best bombardier in the US Air Force, Patrick was selected for a special assignment as a flight-test engineer at a secret Air Force base in central Nevada-and then virtually disappeared. Everyone assumed he had been assigned to test top-secret warplanes at the Air Force’s super-secret air base in the deserts of central Nevada, called the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, or HAWC, better known by its unclassified nickname, Dreamland. No one really knew exactly what he was up to, where he was assigned, or what he did to get promoted from captain to lieutenant colonel in such a short period of time.

Then, just as suddenly, he was retired and back in Sacramento tending bar at the family pub with his new wife, Wendy, a civilian electronics engineer who had been seriously injured in an aircraft accident-again, there was very little explanation. No one knew exactly what had happened to Patrick or Wendy, or why two such successful and rewarding careers suddenly ended. Patrick said little about it to anyone.

But then, Patrick preferred not to talk about himself or call attention to himself in any way. He was a loner, a book-worm, and the “go-to” guy everyone wanted on their team, but who never would have been chosen as team captain. He even preferred solo sports and pastimes, like weight lifting, cycling, and reading. Although he was a fit and hearty forty-year-old, he could not bowl a strike or hit a softball to save his life.

Paul McLanahan, on the other hand, could hit a softball a hundred miles. Although he was fifteen years younger than Patrick, in some ways he appeared to be the older brother: tall, dark, and handsome, a more ebullient, electric version of their tough, hard-as-nails father. Paul was the outgoing, gregarious one, the one who enjoyed the company of others, the more the merrier. He had graduated with a degree in management from the University of California-Davis, and with honors from the UC-Davis Law School-then startled everyone by applying to the police academy while waiting for the results of his California bar exams. He surprised everyone even more by deciding to stay in the academy after learning he passed the bar exam on the first try-only twenty percent of all test-takers did-and after taking the oath as a new California attorney.

But anyone who knew Paul would agree that being confined to a cubicle or law library writing briefs, or tongue-lashing some witness on the stand in a courtroom, was not his style. He was a team player all the way, a natural-born leader, a people person. He’d even refused to sit at the head of the table during his own celebration dinner, in the place of honor. Instead he grabbed his chair and moved it from place to place to be with as many of his friends and well-wishers as he could.

Patrick had not been surprised. The toast could wait. But when Paul had finally turned his attention from Donna, the two brothers made eye contact across the table, and both smiled and exchanged wordless salutes.

I could never do what you are about to do, Patrick said to his brother over the telepathic connection that bound them. I wish I could care more about people the way you do.

I could never do what you do, Patrick, Paul silently responded. You know all there is to know about machines and systems that I could never understand in a million years. I wish I could know more about science and technology the way you do.

Patrick tipped his champagne flute to his brother in a silent response: I’ll teach you, bro. Paul tipped his glass as well: I’ll teach you, bro.

“Paul, you’re carrying on a tradition of McLanahan cops in the city or county of Sacramento that dates back almost a hundred and fifty years,” Patrick began proudly. “Back in 1850, our great-great-great-great-grandfather Shane traded in his gold pan, pickax, and pack mule for a lawman’s star because he saw his town sliding into lawlessness. He knew he had to do something about it-or maybe he found out that the gold nuggets weren’t just lying around in the streets the way everyone back in the old country said. We don’t really know.

“Anyway, Grandpa Shane could have kept on panning and maybe would have made enough to buy himself a big ranch in the valley that he could have handed down to us so we’d all be stinking rich today, but he didn’t…” Patrick paused, then added, “So why in the heck am I even mentioning him?” When the laughter died down, Patrick went on, “But since Grandpa Shane pinned on that star and became the ninth sworn lawman in the city’s history, there have been six consecutive generations of McLanahan lawmen or women in Sacramento. Paul, you represent the first of the seventh generation to join them.

“We all realize, grudgingly, that with your brains or skills or good looks or dumb luck or whatever it is you’ve got, you could have gone into business, or law, or anything else you desired,” Patrick went on. “Instead, you decided to go into law enforcement. Someone not as charitable as I am could accuse you of pulling another Grandpa Shane, that if you went into business or law you’d make enough of the really big bucks to support your mother and your dear loving siblings.” His face and tone turned serious: “We also know the dangers of your decision. The names of two McLanahans, Uncle Mick and Grandpa Kelly, are on the Sacramento Peace Officers Memorial, and we all know the McLanahan families that have had troubles, or have even been destroyed, because of the stresses of the job.

“But we all know that you’re following a dream that’s been twenty-two years in the making, ever since Dad first let you hit the siren on his old squad car,” Patrick went on proudly. “We are here to celebrate your decision and wish you the very best. Congratulations for graduating, and congratulations for being awarded the City’s Finest Recruit Award for being first in your graduating class in all areas, and for being chosen Most Inspirational Recruit by your fellow grads. Good luck, good hunting, and thanks for making this commitment to your city and your neighbors. Cheers.” The rest of the invited guests and many of the patrons at surrounding tables shouted, “Cheers!” and they took a deep sip of the champagne.

“And now, with all due respect to our gracious and beautiful hostess, Miss Biba, we will adjourn this social gathering and reconvene at a proper establishment, the Shamrock Pub on the waterfront, for the real celebration,” Patrick said with a grin. The owner, Biba Caggiano, tried with her generous smile to persuade the partisan crowd to stay, but it was no use. Biba’s and the Shamrock were both longtime Sacramento landmarks, but for entirely different reasons-Biba’s meant fine food, fine atmosphere, and elegance, and the Shamrock-informally known as McLanahan’s-didn’t.

“The rule at McLanahan’s tonight is, as I’m sure every cop in town is well aware,” Patrick reminded them, “that if you carry a badge, your money’s no good-except maybe for the chief, that is.” That remark earned Patrick a raucous round of applause. “The primary purpose of reconvening this gathering at the Shamrock is to get young Probationary Officer McLanahan accustomed to working the graveyard shift, since that’s where he will most likely be for the next several months on the force. So we must all do our part and stay up until dawn with Officer McLanahan and his buddies so they can get a good idea of what it’s like to see the sun rise at the end of the day. Lastly, we meet there to prove the old Irish maxim: God invented liquor so the Irish wouldn’t rule the world. It’s time to prove how correct that saying can be. Last civilian at the bar buys it!” With a flurry of kisses for Biba, the crowd headed for the waiting taxis that would take them to the second half of the evening’s festivities.

Its real name was the Shamrock, but everyone knew it either as McLanahan’s or the Sarge’s Place, after Patrick’s father’s rank when he retired as a Sacramento police officer and ran the bar. Whatever its name, it was one of a handful of bar-and-grills in the downtown area that catered to cops, kept cop schedules, and was attuned to what was going on in the law-enforcement community. It was known to sometimes be open at six A.M., right around graveyard-shift change after a particularly busy or bloody night, or on a Sunday evening after a cop’s wake. Although it was no longer fully owned by the McLanahan family, Patrick, as de facto head of the clan-their mother, Maureen, was now retired and lived in Scottsdale, Arizona-was tasked to pour the first round of Irish whiskey, and they raised their glasses to the new crop of California peace officers who had graduated earlier that day.

He poured a lot of whiskey that night. Most of the academy grads, and all of them with assignments in the Sacramento area, were there, along with dozens of active, reserve, and retired cops from all sorts of agencies, from the Sacramento Unified School District Police to the FBI; and McLanahan’s extended its invitation to party to anyone who carried a badge into harm’s way or in support of law enforcement-which included a few firemen, parole and probation enforcement officers, dispatchers, and even district attorneys and DA investigators. Everyone was welcome to join in the party-but cops give off a definite air of distrust bordering on hostility to anyone they don’t recognize as one of their own, so no outsiders dared venture toward the free drinks. Not that any cop actually prevented a civilian from going near the bar; it was simply made clear by the eye signals and body language that the free drinks were for cops only.

As they had been for the past twenty-two weeks, the grads were together at one very large table, passing frosty pitchers of beer around and accepting congratulations and words of encouragement and advice from well-wishers. Although the academy was run by the city of Sacramento, only seven of the fifty-two graduates were going to the Sacramento Police Department: eleven were going to the Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department; fifteen others to other California police, sheriff’s, and different law-enforcement agencies. The remaining nineteen graduates had no positions waiting for them: They had paid their own way to attend the five-month program, half junior college, half boot-camp academy, hoping to be hired by one of the agencies sometime in the future. Needless to say, they took full advantage of the free drinks and aggressively buttonholed the highest-ranking officers they could find, hoping to meet an influential sergeant or administrator and make a favorable impression.

The target of most of the jokes and abuse that night was the honor grad, Paul Leo McLanahan. Every veteran cop wanted a piece of him, wanted the opportunity to see what the number one grad of the latest crop of “squeaks” (so named because of the sound of the leather of their brand-new Sam Browne utility belts) was made of. Paul did the one thing that raised the blood pressure of most of his tormentors: He was polite. He called them “sir” or “ma’am” or by their rank if he knew it. He gracefully extricated himself if he was in danger of being drawn into an argument-“So what do you think of the fucking chief?”-a drinking contest-“Stop sipping that beer, rookie, and have a bourbon with us like a real man!”-or an arm-wrestling match-“Hey, I’ll show you a good short guy can take a big guy any day!” When Paul entered an argument, it was to pull a friend away from the confrontation or to keep it from getting out of hand; when he walked away, he made it look to everyone as if he was on their side.

Paul had come around behind the bar to help Patrick and Wendy wash some mugs and shot glasses, and he saw his big brother grinning at him. “What?”

“You,” Patrick said. “Sometimes I can’t believe you’re the same kid who used to drop out of trees and ambush me or your sisters. You’re so laid back, so damned… what? Diplomatic.”

“That’s the main thing they taught us, Patrick-sometimes what you do in the first few seconds of a conflict, or even before you arrive on the scene, will determine the outcome,” Paul said, finishing the glasses and giving his sister-in-law an appreciated shoulder massage. “Go in pissed off, hard charging, and kick-ass, and everyone rises to the challenge and wants to kick ass too, and before you know it the fight’s on. Being polite takes the wind out of most guys’ sails-you call a guy ‘sir’ enough times and sound like you mean it, and he’ll go away from sheer boredom.”

“Nah. I’d just pull out my gun and shoot ‘im,” Patrick joked.

“That’s the absolute last option, bro,” Paul said seriously. “Dad told me that in thirty-two years on the force, he’d only been involved in a half-dozen shooting incidents, and he regretted firing every bullet even though he used it to protect his life or that of another cop. There are guys on the force who have never fired their weapons except at the range. I want to be one of those guys.”

“In this city? I doubt it,” Wendy said dryly. Wendy McLanahan was very close to term, but she didn’t show it at all-her belly pooched out only a little, which made it hard for most folks to believe she was due in less than three weeks. She wore preggie slacks and a baggy Victoria’s Secret silk blouse, but even without them she carried her baby close under well-conditioned stomach muscles and had no sign of a ponderous or waddling walk. She had let her reddish-brown hair grow long and straight; it curled seductively over her shoulder and nestled between her ample baby-ready breasts. “I do like your attitude better than your brother’s-but you have to remember, he’s been trained to drop bombs on folks for years.”

“Yes, I know-the SAC-trained baby-killer,” Paul said with a smile. “What was it you always said SAC stood for? Your target list, right?-‘schools and children.’ Hey, Cargo.” Paul grabbed a passing uniformed cop. “Cargo, meet my brother, Patrick, and his wife, Wendy. Patrick, Wendy, this is Craig LaFortier. We call him Cargo.” Patrick could see why-the guy was huge, at least six four and close to three hundred pounds. “Kicks butt in the Pig Bowl football game every year. He’s my FTO.”

Patrick and Wendy shook hands with LaFortier, the cop’s hand engulfing theirs. “I assume an FTO is the guy you’ll be riding with for the first few months?” Wendy asked.

“Yep,” said LaFortier in a deep, foghornlike voice. “It stands for…”

“ ‘Fucking training officer,’” Paul interjected.

“Field training officer,” LaFortier corrected him, with a scowl fierce enough to darken the entire waterfront. “And that better be the last time I ever hear that crack, rook, or you’ll be washing patrol cars at the South Station instead of riding in ‘em. Yes, Paul gets a little on-the-job training for six months. We start tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow? You just graduated!” Patrick exclaimed. “They don’t give you an orientation or anything?”

“Normally, yes,” said LaFortier, “but my shift begins tomorrow, and I have off for Christmas, so instead of waiting two weeks, Paul gets to start right now. He’ll come in a couple of hours early and we’ll get him a locker, show him how to make coffee the way I like it, all that important stuff. But we need guys on the street.”

“So we heard,” Wendy said worriedly. “Seems like gangs and drugs are worse than ever here in Sacramento.”

“They’re bad everywhere, in every big city in America,” LaFortier responded, “but this new wave of drug activity has got us back on our heels. The hard stuff is back-LSD, heroin-but now homegrown junk like methamphetamines are exploding on the streets. And the competition between the criminal organizations is increasing too. Northern California is the collision point-it’s a natural nexus of white, black, Latino, Asian, and even European gangs. They’ve all found a home here, and the violence is bound to escalate.”

At the sight of Patrick’s face, LaFortier added hastily, “You don’t need to worry about Paul, Mr and Mrs McLanahan. He can handle it. He’s the rising star, the guy everyone’s watching. And he comes from good stock-the Sarge will be watching over him, I know it. He’ll do fine.”

As he was speaking, an eerie hush enveloped the tavern, as if all the air were being sucked out into space. All four of them turned. The chief of police of the city of Sacramento, Arthur Barona, was entering the bar, together with one of the department’s captains, Thomas Chandler, the commander of the Special Investigations Division.

Patrick was fascinated. In sixteen-plus years in the US Air Force, he had never seen anything quite like the open hostility that radiated from the street cops in that room. But if Barona noticed it as he made his way to the bar, he wasn’t letting on one bit.

He was a tall, powerfully built man in his early fifties, and had been the city’s chief of police for five years. He wore a dark suit instead of his chief’s uniform, a political judgment that attested to his administrative and political career background, first as a Dade County, Florida, prosecutor, then as a law-enforcement bureaucrat and consultant to a number of governors and to the US Department of Justice. It was no secret to anyone that being the police chief of a major metropolitan city was not Arthur Barona’s ultimate career goal. In fact, it was just a stepping-stone, a square-filler, a device to get some practical, on-the-street experience to flesh out his rйsumй for higher political office.

Barona’s energetic personality, his knowledge of the newest trends and philosophies of police-department management techniques, and his nationwide political connections made him popular with city officials and government leaders, but decidedly unpopular with his own rank and file, who generally resented having a politician running their department. The rumor was that Barona could not even qualify on the police shooting range and had had to be given special permission by the state Department of Justice to carry a firearm in California.

But Arthur Barona moved through the bar with absolute confidence that evening, smiling and greeting everyone as if he were the most-liked man in the state. If he caught an eye that didn’t seem actively hostile, he extended a hand and exchanged a pleasantry. He seemed adept at avoiding empty handshakes or unreturned greetings. The academy grads still looking for positions helped break the ice by going up and introducing themselves to Barona, handing over business cards and chatting him up, hoping to stick in the chief’s memory when it came hiring time.

“Well, I heard this was the place to find all the grads,” Barona said cheerfully as he finally approached Patrick and Wendy at the bar and put out his hand in greeting. “I’m Arthur Barona. This is Captain Tom Chandler, one of my boys. We had a late-night meeting and thought we’d swing by to congratulate the graduates.”

They all shook hands. “I’m Patrick McLanahan, and this is my wife, Wendy,” Patrick said. “Son of the former owners and honorary bartender tonight. Welcome.”

“Ah yes, another of the Sarge’s sons,” Barona said. “Your father was a legend in this town.”

“Is a legend in this town, Chief,” Craig LaFortier interjected, not looking up from his beer.

Barona looked at LaFortier and nodded. “Hello, Craig,” he said, acknowledging LaFortier but his smile dimming a bit in irritation.

Having been away from Sacramento for so long, Patrick hadn’t known about the strained relations between the city, the chief of police, and the rank and file. When he returned earlier that year to run the tavern, he had heard all the crass remarks against the chief, the sour jokes, the not-too-subtle digs, the derogatory and sometimes out-and-out hostile articles in the police officers association’s newsletter. But he assumed this was all standard employee-employer ribbing. The chief was accused of siding with the city against the cops in contract negotiations. That was understandable, of course-he reported to the city manager and the mayor-but to the cops on the street, the chief wasn’t “one of us.” He carried a badge under false pretenses, they thought. And, of course, every other problem associated with running a big police department was heaped on Barona’s shoulders, with budget and manpower cuts the big points of conflict.

“What’ll you have, Chief Barona?” Wendy asked. “It’s on the house. We’re toasting the new officers tonight.”

“Just an ice water, please,” the chief replied.

LaFortier snorted his displeasure. “Can’t drink a real drink with the street cops tonight, Chief?” he asked.

“I’ve still got a deskful of papers to go through, and alcohol just slows me down. It can screw up your judgment and make you say things you wish you hadn’t said too,” Barona said. LaFortier just shook his head and took a deep pull at his beer. Barona turned to Paul, held out a hand, and said, “So this is the new lion on the force. Congratulations on being named honor grad, Officer McLanahan. Fine job.”

“Thank you, Chief,” Paul said, shaking hands. “I’m anxious to get started.”

“We need tough, smart young troops like you out on the street, Paul,” Barona went on. “But Captain Chandler and I were remarking earlier that a man with your impressive background, with a law degree and as a member of the bar, might better serve the city in an advisory role at headquarters, or in SID. Plenty of high-profile cases coming through the system-good state and national visibility for a hard-charging guy such as yourself.”

“I appreciate the consideration, sir,” Paul responded, “but I joined the force to work the streets. My dad said that Patrol was the only place to be.”

“It’s true that Patrol is our biggest and most important division, Paul,” Barona said, his face indicating his surprise that Paul wasn’t embracing his generous offer. “But our job is to investigate crime, and that’s accomplished in many ways other than in a radio car or walking a beat. We have dwindling resources and manpower, and we can put our most talented young men and women in many different areas where their skills can be put to optimal use…”

“So what you’re saying, Chief,” LaFortier interjected, still refusing to look up from his glass of beer, “is that Patrol, which is already only seventy-five percent manned, might lose another good cop to go work for you in your office or get stuck behind a desk in SID on another ‘task force’ or ‘special project’ that some politician in the state house or in Washington cooked up. Do you really think that’s such a good plan, Chief?”

Barona was not smiling now. It seemed to Patrick that every cop in the place had moved three paces closer to listen. “Paul will still have to prove himself on the street, just like any rookie, Craig,” Barona said. “Alongside you, I’m positive he will be a standout. But he was recruited and chosen because of his unique background and education, and with all the necessary and vital programs mandated for us by various government agencies, we need to utilize every member of this department to their fullest extent.”

“These ‘programs,’ Chief, are sucking manpower and resources away from everyday law enforcement and investigations,” LaFortier said, finally facing Barona. “Every time a new program gets started, another officer or two is pulled out of squads and stuck behind a desk shuffling papers and punching data into a computer. Some city councilman’s car gets keyed by some vandals in broad daylight, so we have a truancy task force, with six sworn officers dragging kids out of bed to go to school. You sent four of my guys to Mexico to work in some joint DEA-ATF task force, and they come back and say they sat out on the beach for four days. This so-called ‘new and improved’ community-oriented policing program took three officers off my graveyard shift just so you can…”

Chandler tried to lower the temperature. “Craig, c’mon, ease up.”

“Craig, those task forces are necessary in modern police-force management,” Barona responded, “and they bring in plenty of state and federal grant money to the department…”

“Where is all this money, Chief?” LaFortier pressed on forcefully. “South Station is slated to get only seven new bodies next year, which won’t make up for the sixteen we lost this year due to layoffs and early-outs. Half our new radios are still in boxes because we don’t have battery chargers for them. We’re still using shotguns that didn’t pass POST armorers’ inspection two years ago; and we still don’t have enough automatic rifles for all the shift sergeants, when we should have them for every officer-”

“Corporal LaFortier,” Barona interrupted, a stern edge to his voice, “now is not the time to go through the entire budget line by line with you. I’ll be happy to discuss it anytime during business hours. I came by to congratulate the new officers and wish them well.” He shook hands again with the McLanahans, studiously avoiding LaFortier and the others who had come over to lend him their unspoken support. “Whenever you get off graveyard shift again, Craig,” the chief said-meaning, Don’t ever expect to get off-“come by and we’ll discuss your opinions. Good night, all.”

Barona continued his good-byes as he headed toward the door, leaving Captain Chandler with the others at the bar. “What was that, LaFortier?” Chandler asked when the chief was out of earshot. “You making a show for the rookies tonight, or what?”

LaFortier looked at Chandler with disgust. Like Paul McLanahan, Tom Chandler had been one of the department’s hot young rookies when he came on the force twenty-five years ago. Tall, smart, tough, in excellent physical shape, and with a two-generation cop legacy behind him, Chandler was a fast-burner from the first day. He too had been assigned to LaFortier as a rookie to hone and polish his already-formidable cop instincts. He was promoted through the ranks at breathtaking speed.

But Chandler had lots of outside interests too-namely, Las Vegas, gambling, exotic cars, and especially women. Like most high rollers, he had his good times and bad. When he was hot, he drove to work in a Corvette and wore silk suits; when he was not, he took the bus and wore mail-order polyester.

He was now in his early fifties. Two divorces and seven years after making captain, he was struggling with a new marriage and a stalled career. As far as LaFortier could tell, Chandler’s newest tactic to try to jump-start that career and have any chance at all of making deputy chief or chief was to be the new department kiss-butt. “Since when did you become Barona’s doorman, Tom?” LaFortier retorted.

“What do you want, Cargo?” Chandler asked. “The chief plays the hand he’s dealt.”

“Bullshit, Chandler. I want what we were promised, that’s all,” LaFortier said, “and it’s his job to get it for us, not get whatever he can for himself. The President promises a hundred thousand more cops on the streets, but after four years Sacramento gets half of what we were promised because the city can’t come up with the matching funds. After the North Hollywood shootout, they promise us more automatic weapons, better armor, better communications equipment, more training. We haven’t seen shit. My guys handle twenty percent more calls per hour than they did last year, but when I go to headquarters, I see all my guys sitting at desks writing memos or making slides for some presentation the chief is going to make on yet another trip to Washington. It sucks, Tom. Patrol is taking it in the ass again, as usual.”

“ ‘If you ain’t Patrol, you ain’t shit’-is that what you think, Cargo?” Chandler asked. “All other police work is a waste, right?”

“No,” LaFortier shot back. “But sworn officers to work a truancy task force, or a graffiti task force, or a ‘traffic-signal dodger’ task force? Give me a break. I need guys on Patrol, not giving speeches in front of the garden clubs on how we shouldn’t try to beat yellow traffic lights. Do away with all the bullshit, Tom, that’s all I’m saying.”

“The chief comes down here to congratulate the new rookies, and you gotta dump all this shit on him with the whole place listening in,” Chandler said, shaking his head. “Real smart. Makes you wonder why the graveyard-shift roster will permanently have your name on it.”

“You better get going, Captain-master’s waiting for someone to open the door for him,” LaFortier said acidly.

Chandler shook his head in exasperation. “Even the solid cops turn bitter after a while, I guess,” he said, then turned up the collar on his overcoat and left.

LaFortier finished his drink with a quick toss. “At least my ass is out on the street where it belongs, not sitting in a country club playing footsie with the mayor,” he said half-aloud. To Paul he said, “Tomorrow evening, be at the South Station by eight, ready for inspection, and we’ll go over a few things. Thanks for the party, Mr McLanahan.” LaFortier lumbered off.

“Sheesh, he’s a big guy. They make bulletproof vests big enough for him?” Patrick deadpanned.

“Oh yes,” Paul responded. “He looks like a big blue billboard.” He grinned. “Mr McLanahan,” he mimicked. “Sounds like you’re an old fart, bro.”

“I am an old fart, bro,” Patrick said. “But I can still kick your ass.”

“Have another drink, bro-you’ll stay in fantasy-land longer,” Paul shot back.

But Wendy’s face was serious. “What do you think about all this going on between the cops and the chief and the city, Paul?” she asked.

“I don’t think about it,” Paul replied. “Budget cuts are a way of life, but officer safety is never being compromised. Tensions will always exist, but the city and the chief always support the troops.” He smiled reassuringly, then put his arms around Wendy’s and Patrick’s waists. “It means a lot that you came up here from San Diego. I know the docs probably told you not to travel. You’re due next week, aren’t you, Wendy?”

“Not for almost three weeks. And unless I was confined to bed, Paul, we weren’t going to miss your graduation. Besides, the boss flew into town, so we were able to hop a ride on the corporate jet. We head back tomorrow afternoon.”

“Worked out perfectly then,” Paul said. Wendy gave him a kiss and scooped up more shot glasses and beer mugs. Paul turned to his brother. “Wendy looks great, and so do you. San Diego must agree with you.”

“Yep, it’s great,” Patrick said. “Seventy-two degrees and mostly sunny every day. We love it.”

“We didn’t hear much from you for a while there. It seemed like you dropped off the face of the earth last spring. Lot going on at work?”

“Yes.” Patrick wasn’t about to tell his brother that he had been busy flying secret attack missions over the Formosa Strait, trying without success to keep China from devastating Taiwan with nuclear weapons-or that he and Wendy had ejected from an experimental B-52 bomber over central China, were captured, and were part of a prisoner exchange.

“Well, at least can you tell me about this new company you work for? I remember you were forced to retire, because you came back here to work the bar-but then all of a sudden you’re gone again, and the next we know you’re in San Diego.”

“I can’t really talk about the company too much either, Paul,” Patrick said. “They’re involved in a lot of classified stuff for the military.”

“But you’re flying again, right?”

Patrick looked puzzled. “Flying? What makes you think I’m flying again?”

Paul gave his older brother a satisfied grin. Yup, he had guessed right and he knew it. “I remember your face, your talk, your entire body language when you were flying for the Air Force, bro,” he said. “You were one supercharged dude back then. You were groovin’, I mean, really getting into life! You look that way now. I know you’re all excited about having a kid and all, but I remember the only other time you were this-well, hell, alive!-was when you were flying, dropping bombs from big-ass bombers or flying some new supersecret plane you could never talk about.”

“What are you talking about? What’s all this about secret bombers? I never told you…”

“Don’t bother denying it-I know it’s true,” Paul said. “You practically salivate when something comes on the news about a war in Europe or the Middle East and the press thinks the Air Force flew a secret mission. Plus, you cut your hair-looks military-regulation length again.”

“Mr Detective here,” Patrick laughed. “Just graduates from the academy and he thinks he’s Columbo. No, I work for Sky Masters, Inc., and that’s all I can say.”

“I know you, Patrick,” Paul said. “This company you work for, they’re involved in some real high-tech shit, aren’t they? I mean, real twenty-first-century Star Wars stuff, right?”

“Paul, I…”

“You can’t talk about it,” Paul finished for him. “I know, I know. Someday, though, I’d like to know more about it. I’ve always been fascinated by all the stuff you could never tell me about, ever since you were flying B-52’s.” Paul hesitated, and Patrick felt that old telepathic connection again. It sounded silly, but it was nonetheless true: his brother could tap his head and find out all he wanted to know anytime he wanted. That was reassuring, somehow… “I know you had something to do with what happened to that aircraft carrier, and that nuclear attack on Guam,” Paul went on. “I got the same feeling when I heard those stories about the conflict in Europe between Russia and Lithuania, and earlier with China and the Philippines. You were there both times. You were up to your elbows in it.”

“Someday, maybe I can tell you,” Patrick said with a smile. “Right now, all I can tell you is this: It’s really cosmic.”

“Well, be sure to let me know when you invent a phaser and force field for cops on the beat,” Paul said, clapping his brother warmly on the shoulder before heading off to make another circuit of the room. “I’ll be first in line to try them out.”

Her touch was light and soothing, loving and caring-but her hand was warm and moist, and as if a Klaxon had suddenly gone off, Patrick was instantly awake. “Wendy?”

“I love you, sweetheart,” she answered.

Patrick pushed himself up and peered at the red LED numerals of the clock on the nightstand; it read 5:05 A.M. He turned on his bedside light. Wendy was sitting upright in bed, her right hand still touching him, her left hand gently rubbing her belly. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

But she obviously wasn’t fine. “Are you having contractions?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, and he heard a twinge in her voice. If his wife ever used foul language, he decided, the likelier answer would have been, “Fucking-A, Sherlock, I’m having contractions!”

“How long?”

“A couple of hours. But no real pattern. Very irregular. It’s probably Braxton-Hicks again.”

“Oh. Okay.” It was a lame response, but what else do you say? ‘Gee, dear, you’re in pain, and I’m really concerned, but it’s not that pain, the official pain, so I’ll go back to sleep now’? Braxton-Hicks contractions, sometimes mistaken for real labor pains, had been a regular occurrence for Wendy all during her pregnancy. So things were stirring, but the action probably wouldn’t start for several days. Right? Wendy wasn’t due for another three weeks. And first babies were more often late than early-right?

They had left the party downtown right after midnight. They were staying in a suite at the Hyatt Regency Hotel in downtown Sacramento, not far from the tavern. During the ride back to the hotel, he sensed that Wendy seemed a bit more uncomfortable than usual, but that was probably due to fatigue-her normal bedtime was closer to nine P.M.

They probably never should have come to Sacramento at this stage-hers was the definition of a high-risk pregnancy. Wendy Tork McLanahan, an electronics and aeronautical engineer first on contract to the US Air Force and now an executive and chief designer for a small Arkansas-based high-tech aerospace firm, had spent most of the past two years in and out of hospitals after twice ejecting out of experimental military bombers, the latest just last June over the People’s Republic of China, along with Patrick and the crew’s copilot, Nancy Cheshire. Wendy had just recovered from her injuries from the first ejection when she was forced to eject from the second plane.

Thankfully, she did not lose the fetus. After a brief hospital stay and a few weeks to recuperate-and be debriefed by what seemed like every agency in the US government except the Department of Agriculture-Wendy returned to work and kept on with her duties as vice president in charge of advanced avionics design at Sky Masters, Inc. until her maternity leave began two weeks ago.

She was in great shape, the baby was fine, and she had insisted they could not miss Paul’s celebration. And after all that had happened over the past two years, Patrick wanted a family life, a normal life, more than anything else in the world. He hadn’t done much of the family thing for most of the last ten years, and he was anxious to get reacquainted with everyone.

But here they were, four hundred miles away from home, and the baby was obviously headed down the chute very soon. Decisions. Good, bad, who the hell knew? Stop waffling and deal with it now, Patrick told himself.

“I’m going to call Dr Linus in San Diego, just in case, get someone standing by,” he told Wendy. Her nod and her touch told Patrick she really didn’t think it was false labor this time, so he picked up the telephone. Time to get moving. “Jon’s got the company jet at Mather demoing that electroreactive cargo liner technology,” Patrick reminded her. “I think we should try to make it back to San Diego.” Dr Jon Masters, their boss and president of Sky Masters, Inc., was at the Aerojet-General rocket plant east of Sacramento, to demonstrate a new lightweight technology he developed for protecting an airliner’s cargo compartment from a bomb blast. “The jet can be fueled up and ready to go in less than two hours, and we can be at Mather in thirty minutes and at the hospital in Coronado in four hours.”

“All right,” Wendy responded. “I’ll get dressed.” She swung her legs out of bed and headed for the bathroom, then stopped halfway. “Dear?”

“What, sweetheart?” Patrick replied. He turned. Wendy was reaching for a towel-and then he saw the growing bloody puddle on the white tile floor, and leaped out of bed with a speed and agility he thought he had lost long ago.

He knew then that they weren’t going to make it back to Coronado.

Rocket-testing facility,

Aerojet-General Corporation,

Rancho Cordova, California

several hours later

“What’s the latest on Patrick and Wendy, Helen?” Jonathan Colin Masters, Ph.D, asked by way of a voice check. The boyish-looking chief engineer and president of Sky Masters, Inc. was setting up a small video camera in front of a first-class seat inside a Boeing 727 airliner fuselage.

“What? Jon, are you listening to me at all?” his vice president and chairman of the board of directors, Dr Helen Kaddiri, asked through the videoconference link. Kaddiri was several years older than Masters, one of the original founders of the small high-tech aerospace firm that now bore Jon Masters’s name. She tolerated his high-school antics and laid-back style of doing business because Jon knew how to build systems that the government wanted, and he knew how to sell them-but this, Kaddiri thought, was going way too far. Worse, Masters didn’t even seem to care that he was risking his life just to sell a product. He was nuts.

“Can you hear me? Is this thing working?”

“I hear you fine, Jon,” Kaddiri said.

“I asked, have you heard anything about Wendy since the message that they were heading to the hospital?” Masters repeated.

“Jon, pay attention to what I’m saying to you,” said a frustrated Kaddiri. “We have other ways of doing this demonstration-”

“Helen, we’ve been over this a million times,” Masters interrupted. “I’m doing this. Now, is there any word from Patrick and Wendy or not?”

Kaddiri closed her eyes, unable to argue any longer. Nuts-that was the only logical explanation. Insane. Definition of a death wish, of childlike feelings of invulnerability.

Kaddiri was conducting the technology demonstration briefing at a videoconference center at the Federal Aviation Administration headquarters in Washington, D.C. Several research directors of the FAA, along with aerospace-manufacturer and airline representatives, were outside the conference room awaiting the start of Masters’s remote video demonstration, beamed via a two-way datalink using Sky Masters’s low-Earth-orbit satellites, called NIRTSats (for Need It Right This Second satellites), specifically launched for this demonstration. Jon was back in California, about to conduct the demonstration itself. He was literally sitting atop a powder keg, as both of them knew, and all he could think about was Patrick and Wendy McLanahan’s new arrival.

“Stand by one, Jon,” Kaddiri replied with an exasperated sigh, then turned to her assistant, who made a phone call and came back with an answer a few moments later. “Wendy McLanahan was admitted to Mercy San Juan Hospital in Citrus Heights, east of Sacramento, this morning around five-thirty. Everyone’s doing fine,” Kaddiri responded over the videolink. “No other word. Happy?”

“She’s been in labor since five-thirty?” Masters asked incredulously.

“She’s apparently been in labor since three A.M., Jon,” Kaddiri corrected him. She could see him wince at the thought of being in pain for that long. If Jon were a woman, she decided, he’d get one contraction and immediately want to reach up inside and yank the kid out himself. “Everything’s going to be fine. Wendy’s a tough girl, and they’ve got some good docs up there.”

“Excellent,” Masters replied, relieved. “Can’t believe they’re going to have a kid. After all they’ve been through…”

“Jon, pay attention to me for once,” Kaddiri said. “Forget about the McLanahans for a moment-they’re going to be fine. It’s you I’m worried about. This is nothing but a dangerous grandstanding stunt that is likely to get you killed. I know you don’t care about yourself or your fellow officers, so think about our company-your company. The company would suffer a tremendous loss if you were hurt or killed. Don’t do this. Let’s put the telemetric mannequin in place the way we originally planned.”

“Helen, you crazy kid, you’re really concerned about me,” Masters said as he slipped into the seat, smiling his maddening, cocky grin. “I’m touched.”

“You are touched, Jon-touched in the head!” Kaddiri retorted, upset that he appeared to be making fun of her anxiety for him.

Jon Masters was closing in on his fortieth birthday, but in many ways he really was still a teenager-probably because he had bypassed most of his adolescence and teen years and pursued his studies rather than girls. He was a savant, a boy genius. He received his undergraduate degree from Dartmouth College at age thirteen; by age eighteen he had a Ph.D from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and by age twenty he held over a hundred patents as a NASA engineer, doing work for the National Strategic Defense Initiative Organization and the Department of Defense.

And today, with billions in government contracts and licenses in the works, Jon Masters now had a little time to kick back and do what he really enjoyed doing-tinkering, experimenting, lab work-and it was as if he had regressed to his childhood when he played with transistors and drew detailed blueprints for rockets instead of playing baseball and drawing pictures of superheroes. But he never lost the cocky attitude he had developed when, as a superintelligent teenager going after his doctorate, he felt he had to break down his professors’ amused, smirking self-righteousness about awarding an advanced degree to a kid.

After all the years Kaddiri and Jon had worked together, it was still impossible for her to determine what that punk genius was thinking or feeling. Helen Kaddiri, the American-born daughter of Indian scientist-professor parents, had followed much the same path as Jon, but at a more conventional age and taking a more conventional route getting there-she was eight years older than he was. She started an aerospace company, Sky Sciences Inc., in Tennessee, after being rejected several times for senior-level positions at other companies where she felt her talents were being overlooked because of her gender. Her company was not large or hugely profitable, but it was hers and it was her pride and joy.

But in a surprise move, her own handpicked board of directors voted a young, cocky engineer from NASA onto the board, feeling he would surely help take the little company into the big leagues. The smart little brat took generous stock options instead of a salary, pledging to get rich or go broke along with them, a move that made him even more popular with the board. Jon Masters did indeed take Kaddiri’s little company to a higher level-and in the process took over almost all of the company’s outstanding stock, then control of her board of directors, then Helen’s position, then her authority, and eventually even the company name. Kaddiri made one unsuccessful attempt to wrest back control; her failure made Masters even more popular, even cockier.

She still enjoyed significant wealth, prestige, and authority as chairman of the board and corporate vice president of Sky Masters, Inc. But Helen Kaddiri could not count the times she had resolved to gladly trade it all in and go back to the bad old days as president and chief bottle washer of a company, no matter how dinky, that didn’t include Jonathan Colin Masters, B.S., M.S., Ph.D., CEO, RPITA-Royal Pain In The Ass.

Kaddiri clicked open the commlink again and said sternly, “Jon, you know about the instability problems, those power surges that we couldn’t control. The power surges could set off those explosives. Now put the dummy, the other dummy, in the seat and get out of there.”

“We did a test with explosives before, Helen…”

“But not with three separate chambers spaced so closely together, and not with the amount you’ve got loaded in there,” Kaddiri argued. “It’s too dangerous. At least have the range safety officers take some of those explosives out. Get out of that thing, Jon, and let’s-”

Masters looked at his watch and said quickly, “Too late, Helen. It’s time. We’ve got the satellite constellation for only another hour, and the FAA wants to reopen this airspace for the afternoon rush into San Francisco and San Jose. Let’s bring ‘em on in and get this dog and pony show started.” Kaddiri had no choice. She could either tell Masters to go to hell and get out of there before she witnessed a disaster, or comply.

Helen Kaddiri stepped up to the briefer’s platform after her audience filed in and the room was secured. She stood before a large rear-projection video screen, which showed the company logo along with video clips of several military technologies in operation-satellite reconnaissance systems, communications satellites, space boosters, and military weapons, all designed by Sky Masters, Inc. “Good afternoon and welcome, gentlemen,” Kaddiri began. “I am Dr Helen Kaddiri, vice president and chairman of the board of Sky Masters, Inc. Thank you very much for the invitation to present this technology demonstration program to you. I must remind you all that today’s presentation and the information contained in it is copyrighted and patented material, and is also classified under Sky Masters, Inc.’s memorandum of understanding with the Department of Defense concerning weapons-technology information transfer, and is not to be released to anyone outside this room without…”

It soon became obvious that the assistant deputy secretary of the Department of Transportation, Edward Fenton, who was the highest ranking government executive at the briefing, was perturbed. Just a few minutes after Kaddiri began, Fenton raised a hand: “Excuse me, Dr Kaddiri, but I understood that Dr Masters was going to be available to answer questions. Is he available today? If not, it would be best if…”

“Yes, Secretary Fenton, he’s with us now on a live videoconference hookup from California.”

“A videoconference? From California?” Fenton shook his head in exasperation, then nodded to his assistant, who started to pack up his boss’s notebooks. “Dr Kaddiri, I rearranged my schedule for two entire days to accommodate Dr Masters because he was flying all the way to Washington personally for this presentation. If we were going to do this by videoconference, I wish you’d have told us. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to…”

The screen behind Kaddiri went blank, followed immediately by the videoconference shot of Jon Masters in the cabin of the 727. “Sheesh, Ed,” Masters said, taking a sip of Pepsi from his ever-present squeeze bottle, “but you sure know how to spoil a good show. I was all set to do a big entrance.” Fenton’s irritation was quadrupled by being addressed by his first name. Masters noticed this right away and smiled. “Oh, sorry. I mean, Mr Assistant Deputy Secretary, I wish you hadn’t screwed up my entrance. But I’m ready to make our presentation now.”

If Fenton was peeved at being addressed by his first name, it angered him even more that Masters was rubbing his nose in it by sarcastically using the proper title. “Dr Masters, you’ve wasted my time and that of all these good folks by not being here for this presentation. You will reschedule this briefing with my staff when you can be here in person, as I requested, and I think you owe us all an apology. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

“Folks, I’m not being lazy-believe me, this is a better way to do this demonstration. I’m ready to do it right now, and I guarantee I’ll blow your socks off.” Masters was addressing everyone in the FAA conference room with a confident smile, but when he saw that Fenton was still packing up, he quickly added, “American companies should have first dibs, but if I can’t get DOT and FAA to sign off on it, I’ll go to Europe. Check my prospectus, folks-I’ve already got Commerce Department clearance to sell overseas. Time is money, guys, and this technology is ready to go now. If I don’t do this for you now, I’ll do it for Airbus tomorrow.”

Fenton could feel all eyes move from the monitor to him at that moment. No one in the aerospace industry or the airlines really liked Jon Masters, the genius with the attitude of a smart-ass seven-year-old, but everyone knew that he represented the cutting edge in aerospace technology. A license for one of Masters’s new gadgets could be worth billions. No one liked the Federal Aviation Administration, either. It was an agency that could be tolerated only as long as its authority didn’t hamper business. Masters was being rude and crude as usual, but if Fenton walked out, he’d probably cost all or some of them billions. They all knew that Masters had Commerce Department authority to export this technology, whatever it was, and that fact alone made this presentation important.

Fenton felt their icy stares and silent sit-down commands, scowled at the video monitor, and said angrily, “We don’t like threats, Dr Masters.”

“Sorry, sir,” Masters said. “But I’m just excited. You know what it’s like. I guarantee, you’re really going to like this. Really.”

The aerospace execs breathed a sigh of relief. If Masters kept up his punk attitude, Fenton would walk. But the apology showed Fenton the proper, if minimum, amount of respect, and Fenton returned to his seat. His aide scrambled to rearrange his papers and notes before him.

“Thanks, Ed,” said Masters. The execs concealed their chuckles. Masters went on: “Folks, I’ve been building gadgets for twenty years to help the military find and blow things up, but now I’ve developed a technology that will help prevent something from being blown up. It’s called ballistic electro-reactive process, or BERP for short.” Helen Kaddiri swallowed her irritation-it was just like Jon to give his inventions ridiculous names like “BERP.” “Let me explain how I discovered this technology.”

Jon Masters held up a square wire frame, then dipped it into a pan of liquid on the seat next to him and held it up to the camera. “We’ve all played with soap bubbles as kids, right?” He poked the bubble on the wire frame, and it promptly burst. “The film is less than three-thousandths the thickness of a human hair. Held together by simple chemical bonds, negligible surface tension. Easy to break-obviously. But while I was experimenting, I touched a couple of hot wires to the frame that a bubble was on, then shined a laser light on it. Here’s what I saw.”

The lights in the cabin dimmed, and a beam of green laser light emanated from somewhere just off camera and shined on a new bubble Masters formed in the frame. The surface of the bubble continued to shimmer and undulate. “Watch.” Masters flipped a switch, then moved his finger against the bubble. The surface of the bubble changed-the undulations and shimmering stopped, replaced by a solid green color. “See that? All the light refractions and surface eddies on the bubble disappear. Now check this out.” Masters turned the frame horizontally, then carefully placed a paper clip on the bubble. It did not break-the paper clip appeared to float in midair. Masters even waved the wire frame, and the paper clip held fast.

“I know what you’re thinking-the paper clip is suspended by a magnetic field formed by the wire frame, or by surface tension. Not so fast, Sherlock!” Masters withdrew a regular wooden pencil from a pocket and dropped it on the bubble-and it too was supported in midair. “That bubble is three-thousandths the width of a human hair, yet it’s supporting millions of times its own weight. Surface tension? Chemical properties of the soap solution? Yes and yes-but properties that were changed by an application of a small electric charge.” The lights in the cabin came on again. Masters flipped the switch beside him, and the paper clip and pencil promptly dropped through the frame into his lap as the bubble burst.

“I call it electro-reactive collimation, a realignment of the molecular structure of the soap solution so that the surface tension of the solution is millions of times stronger than normal,” Masters said. “Collimation occurs in nature all the time, but it’s usually induced by temperature or chemical interactions. I can make it occur with the application of a small electric current. By varying the amperage and frequency of the electric charge, I can also vary the properties of the collimated material.”

“How long have you been working on this process, Doctor?” one of the execs asked.

“Oh, about thirty years,” Masters replied. “I first discovered it when I was around seven years old. I knew lots of kids who played with soap bubbles, but as far as I know I was the only one who shot an electric current through one. I just hooked up an old six-volt dry cell to the wire frame, and there it was.”

“This is all very fascinating, Doctor,” Fenton said, “but can we get to the point of this demonstration?”

“Sure, Ed.” He held up a piece of cloth mounted on a frame with wires attached to it. “It’s possible to collimate a whole variety of liquids and colloids-those are substances that have properties of liquids, solids, or gases combined. I can even use seawater to protect ships and submarines from collision or from damage due to water pressure-imagine a submarine that can dive to the deepest depths of the oceans without being crushed, using the seawater around it, the very thing trying to crush the ship, to protect it! Of course, it’s also possible to de-collimate something, or make it less dense, without using temperature or without mixing other chemicals in it. When I get that technology working, the applications will be truly Star Wars-like-can you say ‘phaser guns,’ boys and girls?

“But the really cool application of electro-reactive collimation is in materials science, and it’s there that I’ve had the most fun over the past couple years,” Masters went on, his excitement evident in his voice. “That’s because solids can be collimated just like liquids and gases. Now we start getting into some really neat applications!” He held up another, larger wire frame, this time with a thin, light gray material hung within it. “This is a piece of one of the BERP materials I’ve developed. It’s lightweight fabric, about as light and flexible as nylon.” He rustled the frame, and the fabric swayed as everyone expected. “Now check this out.”

Masters picked up a hammer, hefted it, and swung it at the fabric. The observers were stunned to hear a dull thud. They saw Masters drop the wire frame after he hit it with the hammer, but they were still too startled to take any notice. He picked up the frame and shook it again, and the fabric moved as before, like a linen handkerchief-but when he swung the hammer, the fabric again instantly solidified into a hard plate.

He also dropped it again after he hit it, jumping in surprise when the electric shock came, a bit stronger this time. And this time Helen Kaddiri noticed. “Jon, what’s wrong?” she radioed to him via his earset communications unit. “Why do you keep dropping it?” There was no reply, confirming Helen’s worst fear. “Jon, is that thing shocking you again?”

“It’s nothing, Helen,” Masters whispered, loud enough for his voice to be picked up on the private earset link but not loud enough to be heard by those watching the demonstration in Washington. “I’ll just hold it with the pliers, like we planned.”

“But if it’s malfunctioning, you’ve got to terminate the demonstration,” Helen said, horrified. “It’s one thing to shock your hand. But if it lets off a voltage spike next to a hundred pounds of TNT, it could malfunction and blow you to bits!”

“It’s not malfunctioning, Helen. Look at these guys-they’re mesmerized. It’s working perfectly!”

“Terminate this test, Jon. You can’t do the demonstration until we figure out why it’s doing that.”

In response, Masters picked up the wire frame, this time using an insulated pair of pliers so that the small electric current that built up on the frame each time he hit it wouldn’t shock him. He beat on the fabric repeatedly, and each impact was punctuated with that same hollow thud. Then he took the fabric off the frame, folded it, and stuck it in his shirt pocket.

“That’s… that’s unbelievable!” someone in the audience gasped. “Amazing!”

“The applications for BERP are unlimited,” Masters said. “I thought about all the possible military uses of the process-protecting vehicles, making punctureproof tires, making bulletproof tents, even creating portable roads resistant to land mines. But there is one use for it that has always stuck in my head: enhancing flight safety for the general public by strengthening the cargo compartments of airliners to protect against terrorist bombs or any other catastrophic explosion destroying an aircraft, such as the fuel tank explosion that brought down TWA Flight 800 a while back. Just a few hundred pounds of BERP and its control equipment per airplane-far less weight and cost than lining an airplane or cargo containers with Kevlar or other armor material-can save hundreds of lives.”

“Now how is this possible, Dr Masters?” Fenton asked incredulously. “That can’t possibly be strong enough to protect against a bomb blast or a fuel tank explosion!”

“Glad you said that, Ed,” Masters said. “That’s why I’m here talking to you on the satellite videoconference from the Aerojet rocket-testing site near Sacramento today-a satellite videoconference, by the way, provided by Sky Masters, Inc.’s NIRTSat small tactical communications and reconnaissance satellite technology specifically for this demonstration.” Jon was never above plugging his own products. “I’m in the first-class section of a surplus Boeing 727 airliner fuselage.” The shot of Masters changed to an overhead shot of the Boeing 727, minus its wings and engines. “Located within this fuselage are three suitcases loaded with fifty pounds of TNT apiece. One is inside the cockpit in a large Rollaboard suitcase, such as the flight crew might carry on board; another is located directly underneath the first-class compartment in the cargo hold; and the third is located underneath the coach-class compartment in the baggage space.

“I’ve placed my BERP material in two places in the plane.” The camera shot changed again, revealing an interior view of the plane’s forward cargo compartment. The only baggage in the compartment was a lone crate marked DANGER HIGH EXPLOSIVES. In the background, illuminated by spotlights, the gray BERP fabric could be seen clearly. “First, I’ve lined the cargo compartment directly below the first-class section with exactly eighty-three pounds of BERP.”

The camera shot changed again, this time to the airliner’s cockpit. Except for removed avionics and upholstery stripped off the seat frames, it looked like an average cockpit. A wheeled suitcase marked DANGER HIGH EXPLOSIVES sat between the pilot’s and copilot’s seats. “Second, I took off the headliners in the cockpit and lined the fuselage there with forty-one pounds of BERP, then replaced the headliners. I also put some BERP in the cockpit door leading out to the galley. In addition, I sandwiched some of the BERP fibers into the Lexan cockpit windows on the copilot’s side of the cockpit, but not on the pilot’s side. This darkens the windows slightly, equivalent to number one ultraviolet tinting. Tinting is not currently allowable on cockpit windscreens in the US, but maybe when you see this, the rules can be modified a little.”

The camera changed back to a shot of Masters, amazingly still sitting in his seat. “I also made a curtain of BERP material between the coach- and first-class sections of the plane. There is no BERP anywhere else on the plane. I’m leaving the coach section unprotected just to show the kind of damage we’re talking about, and also just because I like to see things blow up.” Masters paused, grinning like a kid at the zoo, then put on a set of headphones. “I will now detonate all three crates of explosives, starting with the cockpit. Here we go…”

“What!” Fenton and several of the others shouted almost in unison. “Are you crazy, Masters? Do you actually plan on blowing up that plane with you inside it? Get the hell out of that plane, right now!…”

But the screen had changed to four separate shots: The upper half of the screen showed the overhead satellite view of the airliner; on the lower half, one shot showed Masters in the first-class section; one showed the cargo compartment underneath the first-class section of the plane; and a third showed a shot of the cockpit from outside, right from the nose of the airliner looking through the copilot’s windscreen. Masters waved once to the camera and held up a box with three large red switchguards on it.

“Is he serious, Dr Kaddiri?” Fenton asked. Kaddiri didn’t know how to respond. They could very well be watching Jonathan Colin Masters’s last day on earth, and she was powerless to stop him. “Is he going to…”

As if in response, Masters lifted the first red switchguard, gave a last jovial “Fire in the hole, folks!” and pressed the button underneath. The entire audience leaped to its feet in shock as the images unfolded before them.

The cockpit was the first to go. It erupted with a bright yellow fireball, but amazingly only the pilot’s windows blew out, sending a shaft of fire and smoke sideways out of the plane-the copilot’s windows crazed into white spiderwebs but did not break. In the first-class section, Masters jumped in surprise, but there was no other hint that fifty pounds of TNT, enough to bring down a small building, had just exploded less than thirty feet in front of him.

“I’m fine! I’m fine!” he shouted gleefully. “Perfectly all right! That was a fifty-pound TNT explosion just a few feet away from me, and I’m fine!” The airline executives looked relieved and angry at the same time-relieved that he was all right, and angry that they had been forced to watch such a suicidal display.

“Washington, Washington, this is Range Control,” an excited voice cut in on the closed secure link. “Helen, I’m picking up a power surge in the BERP circuits. I’ve set the explosives continuity circuits to safe. Jon, if you can hear me, you better get out of the plane now. That surge could cause the rest of the BERP to malfunction-it could even set off the other explosives.”

Jon touched his earset so he could hear better through the ringing aftermath of the explosion that had erupted right in front of him. “Negative!” he shouted. “Don’t safe those circuits! I’m all right! We can continue the…”

A second later, seen from the overhead satellite view, the entire aft section of the airliner heaved and flopped awkwardly into the air, the cargo section completely blasting apart before it was obscured by smoke and debris. Masters never touched the detonate button-and if he had, it would have had no effect because the range safety officer had terminated the test and disconnected all detonation power from both the arming switch and the explosives. But the surge of energy in the BERP material had discharged through the cabin, grounding on the nearest available object-the fifty-pound case of TNT. The electrical discharge was enough to bypass the safety interlocks, set off the electrically actuated blasting caps, and detonate the TNT.

Masters was thrown back into his seat as the entire interior of the aircraft rocked forward from the concussion, the deck jerked upward as it buckled, and a new gust of smoke forced its way into the first-class section-but again, Masters was unharmed. The entire aft two-thirds of the Boeing 727 was either in pieces or lying crumpled and twisted on the ground, but the forward third was intact. More smoke rushed into the first-class cabin. Helen noticed with horror that the large ventilators designed to keep the air clear had malfunctioned. The surge of power caused by the BERP system had shorted out the ventilators.

“Jon! Can you hear me!” Kaddiri shouted. The airline executives were watching in horror as smoke partially obscured their view of the interior of the first-class cabin inside the test article. “The ventilators have failed! Get out! Range Safety Control, get Masters out now!”

Inside the test plane, Masters jumped again as a third explosion ripped into the plane. The camera shot of the cargo compartment under the first-class section disappeared in a blinding flash of yellow. This time Masters really seemed scared. They could see his eyes bugging out with the first hint of concern and worry about whether this stunt was really a good idea. The floorboards under his feet buckled, a few of the first-class seats broke free and flew through the air, they heard him scream… and then the camera went dark. The overhead shot revealed nothing-the first-class cabin appeared to be intact, but huge billows of smoke and occasional tongues of flame began pouring up from underneath the fuselage near the already ripped-up coach-class section.

“Oh my God!” Kaddiri screamed. She picked up the direct-line telephone beside the lectern. “Jon, come in! Range Control, come in! Is someone there? Answer me, goddammit!…”

“What happened?” Fenton shouted. “What happened? Is Masters…”

“I’m okay, I’m okay!” they heard a moment later. The first-class section camera came on again, showing a disheveled but otherwise intact cabin, faintly obscured by a thin haze of smoke. Then Masters’s face appeared behind a firefighter’s positive-breathing face mask, almost touching the lens. There were some streaks of black under his nostrils from exhaling smoke, and his short-cropped hair appeared to be standing on end, but he looked unhurt. A range-safety fireman was trying to pull Masters to his feet. “The camera broke free of its mooring-hold on a sec.”

“Is he insane?” Fenton shouted. “That plane is on fire!”

“ ‘Hold on a sec,’ my ass!” Kaddiri shouted in the telephone. “Range Control, pull Masters out of that plane right now!”

Masters aligned the camera in its original place, straightened his seat, sat back down, took a deep breath from the oxygen mask, then handed it back to the fireman. He looked a bit shaky, his eyes darting around the cabin, his breathing a little rapid, but he was unhurt. “I’m all right, guys. The explosion ripped the seat rails off the deck, and all the seats went flying. Here.” Masters grabbed the camera and swung it around the cabin, focusing on the floor. “But see? The deck is still intact. It ballooned up about a half-foot but didn’t rupture.” He swung the camera aft toward the coach-class cabin. Smoke was beginning to pour through the curtain, but he lifted it so he could point the camera at the devastation beyond. The cabin was completely destroyed, mangled and blackened. Fire-fighting foam extinguishers had already discharged to cut off the fire. “All I had was a BERP curtain between me and all that. Awesome.”

“He’s crazy, Dr Kaddiri, crazy!” Fenton shouted. As if the explosions had been set off in the conference room in Washington rather than a rocket-test site in California, the airline and government execs were scrambling for the door in shock and disgust. “This is either some kind of trick, a publicity stunt, or the work of a seriously deranged mind. In any case, I’m not going to allow myself or the US government to be manipulated by such antics!”

“What are you saying, Secretary Fenton?” Kaddiri asked in amazement.

“The department will not consider Masters’s development request and will block any efforts to utilize that… that BERP technology until we can get someone in your organization to present a rational, scientific demonstration and validation program,” Fenton said angrily. “And if he tries to sell that technology overseas, you’ll be sanctioned here in the US, and any foreign aircraft using that technology will be barred from entering US airspace.”

“But-but we proved the technology works!” Kaddiri argued. “I’ll admit, Secretary Fenton, that Jon’s methods were a little extreme…”

“Extreme! We could have watched Masters blow himself to bits!” Fenton shouted. “He couldn’t place a robot or a dummy in that seat instead of himself?” Fenton massaged his temples, in visible discomfort. “I still can’t get that picture out of my head, Dr Kaddiri-it’s like watching images from Vietnam, of Viet Cong prisoners being executed in the streets or Buddhist monks immolating themselves on TV…”

“Listen, Ed… I mean, Secretary Fenton,” Masters said through the satellite videolink, deciding far too late that he had better be more diplomatic-and fast. By this time, more rescue workers in breathing apparatus had arrived and were hauling him to his feet, trying to hustle him out of the stricken fuselage. He looked like a hunted animal. “This technology is too important to ignore,” he shouted. “Forget this demo. No one got hurt. I’ll turn over all my test data to you. It’s for real, believe me…” But the fear and panic over the demonstration overrode his protests. It was too late. Fenton and the others were gone.

Helen Kaddiri plopped down on a nearby chair in the empty conference room, deflated. Years of research, months of preparation-wasted. It would be at least another year, maybe longer, before they’d be allowed to present any information on BERP again. Damn Jon, damn his screwy project names, damn his complete disregard for prudence! It could take a complete change in administrations at the Department of Transportation, even the White House, before they got to present any more projects to the government, to anyone!

The range-control phone rang, and Helen picked it up. “Kaddiri.”

“Helen, it was so cool!” Masters shouted gleefully into the range-control officer’s speakerphone. “I mean, it was scary-man, when I saw that deck buckle, I thought I was a goner-but it held! It works!”

“Jon, everyone here is gone…”

“Hey, don’t worry about the FAA or the airline guys,” Masters said. “They’ll calm down, and when they realize how important this technology is, we’ll have another dem-val program set up very soon. We’ll-”

“Not ‘we,’ Jon,” Helen Kaddiri said bitterly. “I’ve had enough of you and your complete disregard for anyone else’s feelings or thoughts or opinions. You seem to think this is all a big game, and you don’t seem to give a damn how it affects our business.”

Jon looked for the switch to turn off the speakerphone and flipped it but instead turned on the area-wide loudspeakers. Their conversation was broadcast all around the testing area, making it easy for the three dozen range personnel to hear Kaddiri go on: “I tried to have you removed as president, and I failed, so I’m not going to try it again. I’m resigning as chairman of the board of directors, and I’m leaving. I’m not going to work for a nutcase. If you want to kill yourself, go ahead, but I’m not going to stand by and watch you take the company down from underneath us.”

“Helen, wait a sec. Everything is cool! We’ll be fine…”

“You are not fine, Jon. You’re obsessed. You’re crazy. You’re unstable. I’m not going to work with someone who completely disregards his own safety and the reputation and quality of this company, the company that I founded, not you. I’m going to trade in and sell my stock options and start Sky Sciences Inc. again, and this time I won’t let you or anyone else tell me how to run it, no matter how much of a whiz kid they might be. Good-bye, Jon. I’ll see you in the funny papers-or in the obituaries. You’re sure to end up in either place.” And she slammed the receiver home.

The slam reverberated through the loudspeakers around the old rocket test site like a 155-millimeter howitzer shot. A sheepish Masters looked at the faces of the stunned and amused technicians around him.

“That crazy kid-she’s still in love with me,” he said, though his characteristic boyish grin was strained. He took a swallow of Pepsi from his squeeze bottle and tried to walk nonchalantly back to his mobile control bunker. “She’ll be back-she still loves me,” they could hear him muttering.

He was still in a daze when he entered the bunker, so he didn’t even notice the two strangers in black battle-dress uniforms. He went to his little cubicle, put his feet up on the desk, and punched up a digitized video replay of the test, complete with telemetry readouts. But he really wasn’t watching the replay-he was thinking about Helen. The two men approached the cubicle, and the first one raised two fingers out of his belt as if drawing a pistol from a holster, aimed it at Masters, and mimicked pulling the trigger. Still no reaction. “Shee-it, Doc,” said Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Harold Briggs, “killin’ you wouldn’t even be no fun.”

Masters whirled around. Standing behind him was a wiry, medium-tall black man wearing a wide grin on his face and a big pearl-handled.45 Colt on his hip. Beside him was a tall, powerfully built white man as dour as Briggs was cheerful, as muscular as Briggs was lean. “Hal Briggs! Gunnery Sergeant Wohl!” Masters exclaimed. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Our two Pave Hammer aircraft are getting overhauled up at McClellan Air Force Base north of Sacramento,” Briggs explained. The MV-22 Pave Hammer was a tilt-rotor aircraft that could take off, land, and hover like a helicopter, but had the speed and load-carrying capability of a cargo plane. The Pave Hammer variant of the V-22 Osprey was specially designed for high-risk, low-level flight into enemy territory. “McClellan is the only facility that has the equipment to service them. They do all the depot-level maintenance for the F-117 Night Hawk stealth fighter-bombers here too, so once the Air Force gets done overhauling and test-flying the stealth fighters, they work on our gear. It’s all classified, by the way. Not just ISA, but the F-117’s too.

“Anyway, we heard you were nearby doing some kind of demonstration, and of course when we found out what it was we hotfooted over here. Madcap Magician is very interested in BERP. Of course, everyone in ISA thinks BERP is a joke, so they sent me and Gunny.”

Masters realized why Hal Briggs was so chatty-there was no one else in the bunker to overhear them. The ISA-the Intelligence Support Agency-was a subdivision of the Central Intelligence Agency’s Directorate of Operations. When a CIA agent in the field gets in trouble, the directorate calls on the ISA to help extract a friend, rescue an agent, create diversions, find targets, neutralize enemy defenses, or engage many other covert actions.

The ISA is broken down into action groups, or cells, comprised of members from military, civilian, and government specialties; the cells are so secret that one ISA cell would not recognize another. Colonel Hal Briggs was the commander of one such cell, code-named Madcap Magician. Composed mostly of former or active-duty Force Recon Marines, Madcap Magician was usually called upon for high-risk operations deep within enemy territory. Jon Masters had worked with the group on many projects. They liked using Sky Masters, Inc.’s gadgets as much as Jon liked making them.

Masters rolled his eyes in exasperation. “C’mon, Hal,” Masters said. “I didn’t present this project to the military or to any national-security agencies because I know it will go ‘black,’ get buried in a top-secret classification for twenty years. No one else will be able to take advantage of this technology. BERP can save thousands of lives, Hal.”

“Looks to me like you barely got away with keeping your own,” Briggs pointed out wryly. He studied the digital replay on the big computer monitor on Masters’s desk. “It works, Doc. Congratulations. You might have a few kinks to iron out, but it works. Very cool.”

“Thanks, Hal,” Masters said. “But I still don’t want-”

“Dr Masters, you’ve already presented BERP to the industry leaders,” Briggs interrupted. “The cat’s out of the bag. You’ll eventually put BERP on every major airliner in the world, and that’s cool. But you know your technology can save the lives of ISA agents who put their own lives on the line for our country. All I’m asking is give us a chance to take advantage of your breakthrough.”

“I don’t know, Hal,” Masters said. “I really wanted to make BERP the first thing I built that can preserve lives, not help destroy them.”

“Believe me, I can think of a bunch of ways BERP can help save my narrow black ass,” Briggs chuckled. Wohl shook his head in exasperation. He was quite accustomed to his commander’s tone and attitude but irked by it too. “But we’re not trying to stop you from deploying your system-we just want you to give us first dibs on it.” When Masters still hesitated, Briggs added slyly, “Remember, Doc, it’s a new fiscal year. ISA has got plenty of bucks to spend. I know the money’s not as important to you as public safety, but I’ll bet you all the memory chips in Silicon Valley that you could use a little seed money. And you’ll be doing my and Gunny’s boys a world of good. What d’ya say, Doc?”

Masters had truly not thought about making a profit by deploying BERP; he had actually been thinking of ways to require the world’s airlines to support placing BERP systems in poorer countries’ aircraft, in exchange for his granting free licenses to the technology. But he had no such compunctions when it came to the military or to government agencies like the CIA. They had bucks to spend on whatever sneaky black covert ops they were involved in, and Jon saw it as his duty to his company’s shareholders to get as much of that money as possible.

“Well, since I’ve scared off all the major airplane manufacturers and the FAA,” he said with a shrug, “I might as well help you out. Exactly how much money are we talking about here, Hal?”

Briggs and Wohl were still watching the replay on the screen. When they saw the aftermath of the explosions and then looked at the man who had sat atop 150 pounds of TNT and survived, they were astounded. “Name it, Doc,” Briggs said, his voice hoarse with excitement. “Show us a way BERP can help my guys in the field, and you can name your price.”

Jon Masters was smiling broadly now. “Patrick and Wendy have been working on a few interesting items,” he said. “Patrick calls it his Ultimate Soldier program. All based around this.” He withdrew the piece of BERP material from his pocket and held it out for Briggs and Wohl.

“This is it?” Chris Wohl asked. “This is BERP?”

“That’s it,” Masters acknowledged. He felt Wohl’s black battle-dress uniform and Wohl scowled in irritation. Masters withdrew his hand quickly, as if he had touched a hot stove. “About the same thickness as your fatigues there, Gunnery Sergeant.”

“It’s too shiny, too slick,” Wohl said. “It’ll make noise when you move. Doesn’t breathe like cotton either. It’ll be hot as hell in a desert environment and cold as hell in cold weather.”

Masters hit the keyboard on his computer, freezing the digital video playback. He pointed to the intact first-class section of the airliner. “Gunny, we can dull it, and we can build in an environmental unit to keep the wearer comfortable. But can your cotton BDU’s save your ass like this?”

Briggs and Wohl looked at each other, their minds racing. Then Briggs turned to Masters and said, “Doc, show us what else you got, and we’ll go Christmas shopping. When can we see everything?”

“Patrick runs the program, and he’s here in Sacramento,” Masters explained. “In fact, Wendy’s having her baby today.”

“No shit!” Briggs exclaimed. “I thought she wasn’t due to pop for another couple of weeks.”

“It’s happening right now, Hal-in fact, it should’ve already happened,” Masters said. “We’ve set up an office here in Sacramento, out at the secure development center at Sacramento-Mather Jetport, and Patrick can demo his stuff for you there. He’s got some cosmic stuff that I’m sure he had you guys specifically in mind for.”

Mercy San Juan Hospital,

Citrus Heights, California

several hours later

Paul McLanahan breezed into the hospital room carrying bouquets of flowers and balloons and almost ran smack into the departing doctor. He found Patrick sitting beside the bed, holding Wendy’s hand and brushing back her hair from her sweaty forehead. The room was furnished to look more like a regular bedroom than a sterile hospital room-the hospital bed like a bed at home, a comfortable couch and chairs, nice wall decorations, a pleasing dresser.

But the image was spoiled by a cart stacked high with monitoring equipment, plus an IV stand with two large bags of clear fluid on the other side of the bed, the lines leading to Wendy’s right arm. The sight made Paul’s heart sink. “Patrick?”

“Paul!” Patrick exclaimed. “What are you doing here? I thought this was your first night of duty?”

“I’m on my way to the South Station to report in, but I wasn’t going to show until I stopped in to see the new baby-except I see he hasn’t arrived yet.” Paul was wearing a civilian blue-and-brown Gore-Tex foul-weather jacket, but when he removed it, Patrick saw that he had his uniform on underneath. “I had a class this afternoon that I had to be at in uniform,” he added, “but I’m not officially on duty, so I had to cover up.” He wore matching police department patches on both sleeves, a simple brass nametag, and a dark blue turtle-neck shirt under his uniform blouse with the letters SPD embroidered on the neck. His shoes were polished to a high gloss. He wasn’t wearing a utility belt, but he did have a small semiautomatic pistol in a clip-on holster on his belt. All standard gear, except for a small American-flag pin over his nametag.

Man oh man, Patrick thought, the kid looks good in a uniform! Sacramento Police Department uniforms, especially for rookies, are as plain as can be, but on his little brother it looked as sharp as a tuxedo. Or was that just because his little brother was wearing it?

Of course, Patrick’s eyes were drawn to the badge, a large silver seven-pointed star with “Sacramento Police” and a badge number, 109, in black, probably not much different from the original Gold Rush-era badges of the Sacramento Police Department. Patrick knew the history of badge number 109-it had been their dad’s patrolman badge, and their grandfather’s badge, and their greatgrandfather’s badge, made from silver instead of chrome, as they were now. The first McLanahan cop, Shane, had not worn a badge number, but he was known to be the ninth patrolman recruited in the newly incorporated city. So when they issued badge numbers years later, future McLanahans first inherited number 9, then 109 when the department grew and badge numbers had three digits. It was a source of intense pride for Paul to wear it. Legacy was very important for police officers. In a profession where death can be a moment away, it was reassuring and right for cops to feel a sense of history and continuity, as if the badge made its wearer invincible.

“C’mon in, bro,” Wendy said. Her voice was strained from fatigue and pain, but she wore a welcoming smile and held out her hand. Paul found a place for the flowers and balloons, gave her a kiss, and pulled a chair over to her bedside. “You look great, Paul,” she said. “Ready for duty? Your first night on patrol-how exciting!”

“I thought you guys got dressed in the locker room,” said Patrick.

“We do, but I sat in on an MDT class-that’s Mobile Data Terminal, the communications terminal in the cars-downtown, and I had to be in uniform for that,” Paul explained. “The academy doesn’t teach the MDT because the various departments use different systems, but I wanted to be up to speed before I hit the streets.

“But forget about me, you guys, what about you? When I got the message this morning that you guys were headed to Mercy, I thought the baby was going to be born in the back of the car. Sheesh, Patrick, maybe you’d better wait outside-he’s obviously afraid to come out and face you.” His smile dimmed as he noticed that his brother and sister-in-law weren’t sharing his joke. “Any complications?”

“Wendy’s in labor and she’s one hundred percent effaced, but not dilated over three centimeters,” Patrick said, reciting the obstetrical lingo he had been hearing for hours now. “She’s been in labor since three A.M. and her water broke at five, but it had blood in it so we came right in. The doc found blood and meconium-baby shit-in the amniotic fluid, so he was worried about infection. They hooked the baby up to a monitor with a probe attached to his scalp, and of course they got Wendy wired for sound and put an IV in at the same time. So no walking around, no relaxing showers-our delivery plan pretty much went out the window fifteen minutes after we arrived here.”

Patrick offered Wendy some crushed ice to keep her hydrated-she initially refused, but relented after a mock stern demand from her husband. He pointed to one of the monitors. “Here’s the baby’s vitals, and here’s Wendy’s uterine monitor…”-he watched as the graphing needle started a rapid climb-“… and here’s another contraction. Deep cleansing breath, sweetie.” Wendy took a deep breath and expelled it all the way out, her eyebrows knotting in concentration as she tried to separate her mind from her pain, as they had taught in Lamaze class. “Good. About thirty seconds to the peak. Don’t hold your breath, hon. Let it out through your teeth if you need to, but don’t hold it… good. Five seconds… that’s the peak, hon, you’re doing good… on the way down, about thirty seconds and it’ll be over… real good, babe, you did good. Give me another deep cleansing breath. Relax your hands, sweetie, and relax those toes too, you’re staying tense when you should be relaxing. You need another calf massage?” He reached over to knead her left calf.

Paul looked at the strip of paper unreeling beneath the monitor-Wendy had obviously been undergoing this same ordeal for a real long time now. His sister-in-law looked as if she had been beaten up and left in a sauna. The sheets were wet with sweat, and her face was ashen from the exertion. “How much longer, Patrick?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I hope things start happening soon. It’s kicking Wendy’s butt pretty good. They don’t want to give her any pain stuff until she’s dilated to five centimeters.”

“I’m sure that will be a big relief-I know it will be for me,” Paul said, wondering if he could ever be as strong and as together as they were. “I think I’m having sympathetic abdominal pains.” He hesitated, then asked, “Do you think they’ll do a cesarean if she doesn’t dilate any more?”

“We can’t do a C-section,” Patrick said. “Wendy has… er… has some abdominal injuries. A C-section would be risky. It’ll be a normal vaginal delivery. We’ll give her something to speed up labor if we need to.”

“Injuries? How did she get injured? What happened?” Then he saw Patrick hesitate, and he held up a hand to stop him. “I got it, I got it-you can’t talk about it. God, I hope everything turns out okay.” He wrote a number down on a slip of paper. “Here’s my pager number. Call when the big event happens and they’ll page me.” He kissed Wendy on the forehead, just as another contraction began. “Deep cleansing breath, sweetheart,” Paul said with a reassuring smile. “I’ll see you soon.” Wendy’s smile was contorted by a grimace, but she squeezed his hand in thanks.

Joseph E. Rooney Police Facility,

Franklin Boulevard, Sacramento, California

a short time later

Paul met up with LaFortier in the roll call room of the South Sector Substation a few minutes before eight. “Hold it right there, rook,” the big police corporal said. Paul stopped. “Stand ready. Let’s take a look.” Paul stood at parade rest while LaFortier scanned the uniform. “Where’s your damned badge, rook?”

“On my raingear, sir.” Badges were always worn on the outside of outer garments such as jackets or raincoats.

“Let’s see it.” McLanahan handed over his raingear and hat. He was wearing it properly, all right-and he was wearing the badge, the old silver badge. Almost seventy-five years old, it belonged in a museum. Instead, a new cop would be wearing it on the streets of Sacramento, which was as it should be. LaFortier reverently ran his fingers over the heavy silver star for a moment, careful not to get fingerprints on it, then handed the raingear back. “Lots of history behind that star, rook. You better be up for it.”

“I’m ready, sir.”

“Good. And let’s stop with the ‘sir’ stuff unless the LT’s around. I’m Craig or Cargo or partner to you. You ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ every other superior officer you see, which will be everyone, until he or she tells you not to or buys you a meal, which will never happen, so keep on doing it.” McLanahan nodded. “Weapon.”

McLanahan unholstered his SIG Sauer P226 semiautomatic service pistol, careful to keep it pointed at the floor with his finger outside the trigger guard. He walked over to a clearing barrel in a corner of the roll call room-a steel fifty-five-gallon drum half-filled with sand and canted at an angle that provided a safe place to load and unload a weapon. Aiming the gun at the sand inside the barrel, he ejected the magazine, opened and locked the slide, retrieved the bullet ejected from the chamber, checked the chamber, and handed the unloaded weapon over to LaFortier. As expected, LaFortier found it spotless-they hammered weapon-care lessons hard at the academy. He checked all of McLanahan’s magazines to make sure each had the maximum fifteen rounds of 9-millimeter subsonic hollow-point parabellum police-load ammo in them. “Lock and load,” he told his new rookie partner as he handed the weapon back. McLanahan reloaded his weapon in the barrel, chambered a round, decocked the action, ejected the magazine, put the sixteenth round back in the magazine to fill it completely again, then holstered and secured the weapon.

Jesus, LaFortier thought, it’s going to be tough to nail this guy on anything. McLanahan didn’t seem to be cocky, but it was always best to nail the rookies on one or two uniform items just to keep them from thinking that their shit didn’t stink. “Handcuffs.”

McLanahan handed over his handcuffs. “One pair? You only expect to arrest one guy at a time?”

“We’re only issued one pair at a time.”

“I know, but I don’t care. Get yourself a double carrier and carry two from now on. Go to Property tomorrow and tell them I told you to get a second one.” He touched the inner claw of each side of the cuffs and spun them; they spun easily. They’d obviously been recently graphited. LaFortier handed them back. “Got a spare handcuff key?” McLanahan reached around behind his back and retrieved a tiny key-in case he was ever handcuffed with his own handcuffs, a hidden spare key could get him out. The Sarge obviously taught his son well, LaFortier thought. “Good. When you get a few pay-checks in the bank, invest in a good Streamlight. The city’s flashlights aren’t worth shit. Keys?”

McLanahan undid his Velcro key holder and retrieved his set of keys-cops were issued a whole wad of them for various rooms, lockers, call boxes, and dozens of other things. He had secured his keys with a thick rubber band to keep them from rattling, leaving only the squad-car key outside the band so it could be retrieved easily. Yep, this kid knew his shit and kept his eyes and ears open. The Sarge had probably rubber-banded his toy keys when he was a youngster, LaFortier thought.

“Very good. Now all you have to do is do the same for the next twenty or thirty years, and you’ll be in good shape.” He turned serious for a moment. “Now, what’s this I hear about you sitting in on an MDT class this afternoon?”

“Yes, sir, I did,” McLanahan said. “They didn’t give us much MDT training in the academy-”

“I know that,” LaFortier interrupted. “You’ll be scheduled for it soon enough. But you need permission from your sergeant before you can request overtime.”

“I didn’t want any overtime-I did it on my own time.”

“For you, there is no ‘own time,’ rook,” LaFortier said. “You work for eight hours and eight hours only, from nine P.M. to five A.M. I had to get permission just to get you in here one hour early. Neither the city nor I want dead-tired rookies on the street. Graveyard is tough, McLanahan. You need every hour of sleep you can get. But more importantly, you did something that I didn’t know about, something I had to hear about from my boss.”

LaFortier leaned forward, getting right in McLanahan’s face so his new partner could look nowhere but in his eyes. “If I don’t teach you anything else in the next six months, rook, you will learn this: We must, we will communicate with each other. We need to act like one out there. I’m not one of those FTO’s who’ll tell you to just shut up and listen and stay out of the way. We need to be each other’s eyes and ears. When one of us is occupied, the other is watching, listening, always on guard. We never work alone. You want something, even if it’s trivial or personal or anything, you tell me. You talk, you tell me what’s on your mind, and you verbalize. You don’t think of yourself, you think of us. Understand?”

“I understand, Craig,” Paul responded. “I was just trying to get pumped up, sir, you know, get a little ahead…”

“I know you’re gung ho, McLanahan,” LaFortier said. “All you McLanahans have a reputation of being bulldogs. But reputations don’t count for shit until you earn yours. Don’t go off freelancing. You got an idea you want to do something, talk to me about it first. I’m your FTO, but I’m also your partner. We work as a unit. Remember that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Clipboard,” LaFortier said, holding out his hand and taking McLanahan’s metal clipboard.

Good job, LaFortier thought as he studied its contents. McLanahan had indeed put himself ahead of his peers by sneaking into that Mobile Data Terminal class. The department usually took weeks to schedule that class, so the rookies had to absorb as much as they could about the complicated system as they went along. It felt good to be riding along with a rookie who wasn’t afraid to take some initiative, who knew what he didn’t know and went out and got it on his own.

Even the clipboard was put together pretty well. But he could never let McLanahan slide that much, not on the first day. “You’re missing several forms in here, rook,” he said. “I’ll show you what you need to bring. Forms are written in point-five millimeter B lead pencil, not in pen, not in HB lead. And you better have more than one pencil-you’ll probably lose at least three a night. Follow me.”

Mercy San Juan Hospital,

Citrus Heights, California

several hours later

The obstetrician completed his examination. “Still only three centimeters-maybe four,” he said.

Wendy McLanahan was too exhausted to register any reaction except to close her eyes as another contraction began. Patrick’s jaw dropped open. “Doc, you said she was three centimeters eight hours ago. Wendy has had a contraction every three or four minutes since three P.M.! What’s going on?”

“It’s a difficult delivery, that’s all, Mr McLanahan,” the doctor said. “We’ll go ahead and give her some oxytocin to speed things up. That might help.”

“I’m not on a timetable here, Doc, but she’s already exhausted-she’s shaking, she’s sweating like crazy but she’s shaking and white as a ghost and complains of being cold. It looks like she’s going into shock. What are we going to do?”

The obstetrician studied the monitor readouts. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Mr McLanahan,” the doctor said. “Wendy seems strong, and so does the baby. It’s important that she not push…”

“She’s too exhausted to push, Doc,” Patrick protested. “What about an epidural? Something to reduce the pain?…”

“Normally we don’t do an epidural until she’s dilated at least five centimeters,” the doctor said. “We can give her something to take the edge off, but an epidural at this stage would be asking for trouble. She may not be able to push when the time comes. We’ll start the oxytocin-that’ll get things moving a little more quickly-and I’ll give her a mild painkiller in her IV. As soon as she’s at five centimeters, in one or two hours at most, we’ll…”

“One or two hours?” Patrick exclaimed. “It’s almost twenty hours now!”

“I don’t think she was in active labor when you brought her in, Mr McLanahan,” the obstetrician said. “In any case, we have to let things take their course. We want to avoid too much intervention. Accelerating labor is a big enough step. We want to avoid having to do a cesarean if at all possible.”

“We can’t do a cesarean at all, Doc,” Patrick said. “Wendy had wanted this to be as natural a childbirth as possible, with minimum drugs and maximum mobility…”

“I know that, Mr McLanahan,” the doctor said, “but things are obviously not going as planned. We may have no choice…”

“Read the records, Doc,” Patrick said. “She can’t have a cesarean.”

“I read the records Dr Linus faxed to me, Mr McLanahan, and I read his annotation about abdominal injuries and damage to her circulatory system. I also read that Dr Linus recommended terminating the pregnancy because of the severe risks to Wendy’s health if there were complications during delivery.” The doctor saw the guilt that spread across Patrick’s face and felt sorry for him. They obviously wanted a child badly enough to risk the life of the mother. He looked at the chart and frowned, then studied Patrick warily. “I’m a little confused about a few things, Mr McLanahan,” he said. “I see evidence of scarring, perhaps burns, and damage to her lungs, abdomen, and heart, but no cause listed. How did your wife get injured? A car accident?”

Patrick swallowed hard, obviously conflicted and apprehensive. “I… I can’t tell you,” he responded.

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t give you any details, Doc,” Patrick said. “I thought Dr Linus was going to include a note with the medical records explaining…”

“There’s a note saying something about sensitive and classified government information,” the obstetrician said, “but I need to know what has happened to your wife before I can treat her and the baby. You’re asking me to work in the dark, Mr McLanahan, and that’s dangerous. Do you want that for your wife and new baby? Which is more important-national security or the lives of your wife and child?”

“My family, of course,” Patrick said resolutely. “I’ll tell you anything you need to know. What about this oxytocin stuff, about speeding up labor?”

“The drug will supplement, then eventually take over, the frequency and intensity of her contractions-we’ll have better control,” the obstetrician said. “Things will happen fast after that. If they don’t, we’ll start considering our options…”

“Not a cesarean,” Patrick said emphatically.

“If you won’t consider a cesarean, then you risk the health, even the life, of the baby…”

“I said no C-section,” Patrick said, his voice hard, his eyes piercing the doctor’s. “I’m not going to risk Wendy’s life. Period.”

The doctor nodded. He saw the pain on Patrick’s face. “All right, I hear you. We’ll make that decision later-that probably won’t be for a few hours. But first, we need to talk. Sit down…”

Seventh and K Streets, Sacramento

the same time

The complex was called Sacramento Live! and it was the biggest thing to hit the downtown area in years: ten night-clubs and ten movie theaters, all in one location on K Street. Everything was in one place, from quiet, elegant, relaxing steak houses that served fine wine and cigars, to pizza places with games and cartoons for the kids, sports bars, jazz, rock and roll, funk, country-western, and Generation X. Patrons could do one-time parking or take Light Rail right to the mall, see a movie, then spend an evening in one place, or circulate among all of them, and never go outdoors. The place was packed all year long, but during the holidays it was shoulder-to-shoulder, with mall-weary shoppers taking refuge in the movie theaters and then enjoying dinner and a drink before heading home.

The doors closed at midnight. It normally took the small army of cleanup crews less than an hour to straighten up, but during the holiday season they needed extra crews, and it took the seasonal workers longer to do the job of cleaning up the huge complex. The night managers of the clubs were usually finished counting the receipts, checking the time cards, doing a closing inventory, and preparing the books by one A.M., so several cleanup crews were still inside when the day’s receipts were boxed up in large locked steel containers by each club’s manager and an armed private security officer and wheeled over to the bookkeepers and general manager in the cash room on the second floor of the complex.

Security was tight inside Sacramento Live!, especially when the cash was on the move. Off-duty Sacramento Police Department officers patrolled the complex when it was open, but all but one of them went home at midnight, leaving only private security forces on duty. A private elevator, guarded on the first floor by an armed security officer and controlled by the chief of security from the second floor, took the steel cash bins upstairs to the cash room. Other security officers monitored cameras mounted throughout the complex, keeping watch over the area around the private elevator while the cash bins were in motion. Watchmen armed only with radios and flashlights patrolled inside and outside until all the regular employees had left the building and the cash was secure. The lone off-duty police officer was stationed with the chief of the private security company on the second floor during the receipts transfer; the radio he carried was a standard-issue police radio, linked to Central Dispatch. The private security officers and watchmen were connected to each other via radio, as well as to the chief of security on the second floor.

The elevator could only take three cash bins and their escorts at a time, so five boxes were left waiting on the first floor as the first group of three went upstairs; and three boxes had yet to come out of their respective clubs. The first three boxes had already made it to the second floor when the main lights dimmed, then flickered out. The battery-powered emergency lights immediately snapped on.

“Power failure procedures, power failure procedures,” the chief security officer announced over the emergency public address system. One guard blew a whistle, and the cleanup crews on the first floor instantly stopped what they were doing and headed to the front door, escorted by an armed security guard. He had the easy job. The other guards groaned, because the alarm meant that the elevator was shut down-and that meant they would have to lug the heavy cash bins up the stairs to be secured in the cash room until the main power was restored.

“First floor, all secure?” the chief of security radioed.

“Secure,” came the reply from one of the guards, signaling that the cleanup crews had been escorted outside and the doors were closed, locked, and checked. The chief of security opened the stairwell door on the second floor, which locked behind him, and walked downstairs. The door to the first floor was locked on the other side, so that occupants of the second floor could use the stairwell as a fire escape, but no one on the first floor could walk upstairs unless it was opened by security. The chief security officer knocked on the door three times, received two knocks in response, then gave one more knock before pushing it open. Carlson, one of the newer security officers, was on the other side of the door. “Okay, boys, the sooner we get these boxes upstairs, the sooner we…”

A man in a dark outfit, a military-style helmet, and a dark face mask appeared out of nowhere. The chief of security had just enough time to register his shock before the intruder raised a gun with a thick suppressor fitted to the muzzle to his forehead. There was a bright flash of light, then nothing.

“Security One-Seven.”

The off-duty Sacramento Police Department officer at the desk on the second floor of the complex retrieved his radio from the desk and keyed the mike: “Security One-Seven, go.”

“Are you 908 yet?”

“Negative,” the officer replied. It was common for off-duty officers to forget to report in to Dispatch when they completed an off-duty assignment, and since it was thirty minutes past his scheduled off time, Dispatch was checking up on him. “They have a power failure here. It’ll be another thirty minutes.”

“Check. You got a call from your sitter. No problems, just a status check. Let us know when you’re 908.”

“Roger.”

“KMA 907 clear.”

The exasperated officer tossed the radio on the desk with a thud. His life was heading down the shitter pretty fast these days. As if the holidays weren’t bad enough, his old lady had decided she didn’t want to be married to a cop anymore-or be a mom, or be a housewife-so she took off for L.A. with her new poke, leaving him with their five-year-old daughter and a mountain of bills. He had already burned out one baby-sitter with all the overtime and off-duty jobs he had signed up for, and he guessed he was going to burn out another one before his folks could come from Montana to help him out. Before she left, his old lady had cleaned out the checking account too, so it looked like the only presents his little girl got this year would be charity stuffed toys normally reserved for the city’s homeless kids, or presents from his folks. Merry fucking Christmas.

There were three knocks at the locked stairwell door. The cop circled the security desk and knocked twice in response. There were two knocks in response, the correct reply. He pushed open the door… and was dead before he hit the ground.

Sacramento County Main Jail,

651 I Street, Sacramento, California

the same time

In all the years Paul McLanahan had lived in Sacramento, he never even knew exactly where the new county jail was downtown. Now, on his first night on the job, he had been inside it twice. It was said that the new jail looked like a luxury hotel and the Hyatt Regency downtown looked like a jail, but to Paul the place just looked bleak, sterile, and miserable.

He and LaFortier drove into the underground parking garage of the jail under a large steel roll-up door. After securing their weapons in the trunk of their car, they escorted their prisoner to the thick steel-and-glass door of the jail, which was guarded by a sheriff’s deputy sitting behind bulletproof glass. Because this prisoner was suspected of carrying drugs, they donned latex gloves, escorted him to a secure bathroom, and conducted a strip search-including the unappealing process of ordering the prisoner to drop his pants, bend over, spread his cheeks, and cough several times so they could look up his anus for any sign of hidden drugs. One look at this guy’s ass made Paul want to take a steaming hot shower, and he considered double-gloving if the guy decided to fight. But the ten-block chase they did to catch him-he had started running as soon as he saw LaFortier and McLanahan slow down as they passed him on the street-had obviously taken the fight out of him.

“That law practice is looking better and better all the time, isn’t it, rook?” LaFortier asked Paul with a grin. Paul went on shaking out clothes and sneaker inserts.

For Craig LaFortier, booking a prisoner was a chance to meet up with buddies and swap stories, which was what he did while he helped Paul fill out the reports. There were at least three other city police officers in the booking room, along with eight Sacramento County Sheriff’s deputies, four California Highway Patrol officers, and a smattering of officers from other agencies that Paul couldn’t identify right off. The holding cells were full, so prisoners were handcuffed to benches around the perimeter of the booking room while the arresting officers asked them questions, filled out paperwork, and shot the shit. Since this was Paul’s second trip to the jail that night, he fell under the rookie officer’s basic on-the-job training schedule: first time, observe; second time, do it; third time, be prepared to teach it to somebody else. The learning curve out here, he decided, was as steep as Mount Everest.

Paul had managed to do much of the paperwork at the scene of the arrest and in the car on the way over to the jail, so he finished it a few minutes later, with the prisoner handcuffed to a nearby bench. LaFortier checked it over. “Looks pretty good,” he said. “But only four bindles of low-grade meth, less than a hundred dollars’ worth-with the overcrowding they’ve got here, he’ll be released in an hour.”

“But he’s got priors, Cargo,” McLanahan said, waving the suspect’s computer printout rap sheet. “He’s been convicted before for possession with intent to sell…”

“But he wasn’t caught with enough to get him on a new intent charge this time,” LaFortier said. “Four bindles, no payo sheets, no wad of cash, not found in a high-crime area-although he was pursued into an area where his probation says he’s not allowed to go. Of course, that’ll be our fault, not his. He’ll get five thousand bail on a felony possession charge, his girlfriend or wife will put up the five hundred bond, and he’ll be free. I’ll testify as an expert witness that his intent was to sell, but if he’s got a good lawyer, they’ll plead it down to a misdemeanor possession long before his court date and he’ll skate with a slap on the wrist, maybe a month or two in jail for the probation violation…”

“Almost doesn’t seem worth it,” Paul said.

“Getting a little war-weary already, rook?” LaFortier asked, amused. “A few hours on the street and you’re already feeling frustrated? Welcome to the world. Don’t worry about the prosecution-worry about the arrest and the evidence. Cops blow more cases from sloppy field work than DA’s blow in court-or at least that’s what they like to tell us. Let’s get this guy booked and get back on the street.” Paperwork in hand, LaFortier and McLanahan escorted their prisoner through the booking process. The place was packed, so it was a slow business.

First, a nurse did a quick medical examination. Old hypodermic needle track marks were found on the guy’s arms, so he had to submit to a blood test for HIV antibodies. After another twenty-minute wait, they escorted him to the booking window, where they presented the arrest and evidence reports to the booking sergeant. The prisoner was booked, strip-searched once again by sheriff’s deputies, and placed in a special isolation holding cell to await pictures, prints, and the results of his AIDS test to determine whether he’d be placed in a cell with other prisoners or segregated in a medical isolation cell. With that, LaFortier and McLanahan headed back out to the garage.

“We need to cut that booking time down to less than an hour, rook, and that includes driving time,” LaFortier said. His radio squawked. LaFortier listened, heard a familiar voice say something about a power failure at the Sacramento Live! entertainment complex, and turned his radio volume knob down so he could talk to his partner. “I’m taking time with you because you need to learn this stuff and do it right and develop good habits and all that shit. But we belong on the street, not in the jail. So we’ll be hustling from here on out to get our booking times down.” He noticed a faraway expression on McLanahan. “You okay, rook?”

“The jail gets me down a little, I guess,” McLanahan said. “Hauling them in like bags of garbage, strip searches, paperwork, putting them in the system like rats in a cage… it seems so dehumanizing.”

“Never seen the jail before, have you?” Paul shook his head. “That should be required for every applicant. It gets everybody down, rook. The only alternative to processing them and putting them in the system is putting a bullet in their head when we catch them, and we don’t want that, do we, rook?”

“No.”

The big FTO saw that Paul’s somber expression didn’t change. “Why’d you join the force, McLanahan?” LaFortier asked. “You’re a damned attorney, for chrissakes. Passed the California bar and everything. We got lots of guys on the force going to Lincoln Law School nights, and lots of guys who have even graduated, but you’re the only cop I know who’s actually passed the bar exam-and on the first try too. You could be an assistant DA, make more money, wear a decent suit, work in a nice office or do that telecommuting thing, and never have to look up a perp’s diseased bunghole. Is it because of your old man? Is it a family thing? Because if it is, you won’t make it one more friggin’ night on the streets…”

“No, it’s not,” McLanahan said resolutely.

“Then why? The prestige? The uniform? The famous badge you get to wear? The gun? Certainly not the money. It has to be because of the old man, some sort of responsibility you feel to put another generation of McLanahans on the force because your older brother’s not a cop…”

“I did it because I want to help, Craig…”

“That sounds like academy brainwash propaganda, rook.”

“It’s not propaganda, sir,” McLanahan said firmly. “This is my city, my home…”

“It’s that guy’s home too, rook,” LaFortier interjected. “It’s all those guys’ homes in that jail, even the illegals and the transients. They all have rights, you know. They have a right to do whatever they want…”

“They don’t have the right to break the law in my home,” McLanahan said angrily. “We follow the law in my home. My family follows the law. My neighbors follow the law. We all depend on the law to help us live in peace. It offends me, it pisses me off, when someone breaks the law in my city!…”

“All right, all right, be cool, rook.” LaFortier held up his hands in mock surrender. “You’re preaching to the choir here. In my book, there’s only one reason for being a cop-it gives you the authority, the responsibility, to protect your city and your neighbors from criminals. You knew that. So I know there’s hope for you. All you need to do is remember what you just told me. Forget about the diseased A-holes and the rats in a cage and collecting the garbage. You’re here, now, tonight, to protect your city. Don’t lose sight of that. Got it, rook?”

“Roger that,” Paul said, his energy resurging. The jail was a necessary part of the job, Paul decided, but it wasn’t the job. Being out on the street, helping those who needed help and nailing the predators was his job. He went around to the passenger side of the car, got in, and strapped in.

“You ready to go, rook?” LaFortier asked.

“Yes, sir,” Paul said, his enthusiasm genuine.

“Ready to hit the streets? Ready to nail some more bad guys? Ready to enforce the laws of this fair metropolis?”

Paul registered the rising sarcasm in LaFortier’s voice and realized the big FTO was still standing outside the squad car. Then it hit him. Sheepishly, he unstrapped, got out, and walked around to the trunk. LaFortier tossed him the keys, and McLanahan retrieved their weapons.

“Next time, rook, it’ll cost you dinner,” LaFortier said, strapping on his sidearm. “The first time you forget your gun when you’re on your own, sure as shit you’ll be involved in a bad situation. Don’t forget again. Now we’re ready.”

They drove out of the parking garage, then waited on the ramp for the steel roll-up door to close behind them. “We’ll grab a coffee-at Starbucks, not the shit they serve at the jail or at headquarters-then take a swing past Sacramento Live! before heading back to the south area,” LaFortier said to his partner as they pulled out onto the street.

“Sacramento Live!? Why?”

“A buddy of mine is doing an off-duty gig there, and he told Dispatch something about a power failure. We’ll just pop in on him for a minute or two.”

“Did he ask for any assistance?” McLanahan asked. “I didn’t hear the call.”

“No, he didn’t ask for assistance, rook,” LaFortier said. “But I’ll tell you right now, and you can take this to the bank: There is nothing that feels better, except maybe for some big-titted brunette sitting naked on your lap, than seeing a squad car pull up to your scene. Even if you’re Code Four and didn’t ask for backup and are completely in control of your situation, it feels damn good to see another cop out there with you. Same goes for sheriff’s deputies, security guards, ambulance drivers, street sweepers, waitresses, and convenience store clerks, anyone who has to work the graveyard shift…”

“But how can you do that? You can’t be everywhere…”

“You listen and you observe and you pay attention to everything,” LaFortier said. “First of all, when you hear it on the radio, you should pay attention-since we do most of our communicating on the MDT nowadays, a guy using the radio is away from his car, on foot, and usually confronting a suspect, so if you’re available and nearby, swing on over to his location. Listen to the cop’s voice, his tone-that speaks louder than his words. Listen to background noises-if you hear lots of voices in the background, shouting or crying or screaming, the cop might be outnumbered or up to his eyeballs, and he sure as shit wants a little backup even though he might forget to ask for it, or he might be too afraid of the crowd’s reaction if he calls for help. When you see a cop on the street confronting someone, even if it’s one-on-one, check it out. Let him Code Four you on your way if he doesn’t need help.

“You’ll understand all this soon, especially after your probationary period, when you’re on the street by yourself,” LaFortier went on. “This little city can seem awful big and lonely at night, even for the toughest veteran cops. Rusty’ll probably ream us out for wasting our time snooping on him, but take my word for it, everyone appreciates the swing-by.”

The obstetrician strode quickly into the room and went directly to Wendy’s bedside, checking the readouts on the vital-sign monitors, then beginning a digital exam. Wendy didn’t seem to notice him; her head lolled to the side and her dry lips were parted slightly. An extra blanket covered her up to the chin, but she still shivered occasionally.

Although he didn’t show it, Patrick was a frazzled mess inside. An alarm on the fetal monitor kept going off, and a nurse would come in, hit the quiet button, and leave. He didn’t know whether she was taking any real notice, because it had been going off regularly for at least half an hour and he was afraid she’d gotten desensitized to it by now. He could do little for Wendy. An hour ago an anesthesiologist had finally installed an epidural line into Wendy’s spine-it was the only procedure that Patrick was told to leave the room for-so she was no longer in body-numbing pain. Unfortunately, she was also not very responsive. The oxytocin had taken over her contractions now, and she was being racked with one every two or three minutes. There were so many tubes and wires hooked up to her and the baby that she looked like some weird science experiment. This was definitely not the way they wanted to deliver this child.

“What’s going on, Doctor?” Patrick asked when the obstetrician had finished his exam.

“It’s time to act. The baby’s pulse rate is high now and his blood oxygen level is low, and it looks like his head is banging right up against the cervix-but she’s still dilated only five centimeters. I’m afraid we don’t have any choice-we need to do a cesarean.”

“We talked about that already,” Patrick said angrily. “Wendy can’t do a cesarean, because of her injuries…”

“We don’t have any choice in the matter, Mr McLanahan,” the doctor said. “You’re going to lose the baby if this keeps up. We can’t increase the oxytocin any further. We’re coming up on twenty-four hours since her water broke, so the chance of infection is climbing. Any more delay, and we could lose both of them.”

“Then…”-Patrick couldn’t believe he was going to say this, but he had to-“… if the surgery is too risky, we should… we have to abort the delivery.”

“I’ve been speaking to Dr Linus since you gave me permission to get details on Wendy’s injuries,” the obstetrician said. “I think she’s strong enough to handle a cesarean. Dr Linus and I disagree…”

“Then we should go with Dr Linus’s recommendation.”

“I’m the attending physician now, and I’m here and he’s not,” the obstetrician said firmly. “And I’m the one responsible. I don’t know the extent of her injuries, but I don’t think Dr Linus does either-apparently you’ve been playing this secrecy game with him too.” Patrick averted his eyes. It was obvious that he felt the awful pain of having to choose between maintaining some government secret and the health and well-being of his family, and was now discovering that he might have made the wrong choice. Sometimes, the obstetrician thought, these guys play the loyal little tin soldier routine too seriously, forgetting that there are real lives at stake.

“Frankly speaking,” the doctor went on, “you two took an awful risk by continuing this pregnancy, with the horrendous medical history Wendy has. The chances of mother and baby coming out of this pregnancy in good health were never better than fifty-fifty. You should have been advised of that…”

“We were,” Patrick admitted. “But it was a miracle Wendy got pregnant at all, so we decided to go ahead with it.”

The doctor gave Patrick a faint smile. “Well, sir, now we all have to live with the consequences of that decision. It’s a tribute to her that she stayed in such good health through this pregnancy, and that is a definite plus in her favor-but we’re in trouble now. The worst has come true. You need to make a decision, Patrick.”

“All right,” Patrick said, reaching over and taking Wendy’s hand. She stirred but did not return his gentle squeeze. “What are my options?”

“The only way for us to ensure that we’ll deliver a healthy baby at this point is to do a cesarean right now,” the obstetrician said. “The only way to ensure Wendy’s health is to terminate the pregnancy. We can wait and hope that Wendy dilates to ten, but we risk injury or death to your baby because his head is pounding against her cervix and he’s showing obvious signs of distress, and we also risk the chance of infection for both mother and baby. We can go ahead with a C-section and risk Wendy’s health, although I’m fairly confident that she can come out of it all right. Or we terminate the pregnancy to save Wendy. That’s about it.”

Patrick looked at his wife, but she was out of it. You have got to help me on this one, sweetie, he told her silently. I can’t make this decision on my own.

As if in reply, she opened her eyes and managed a weak smile. She swallowed, took a ragged breath, and said in a low voice, “You are going to make a great father, lover.”

“Wendy, listen to me. I have to ask you-the baby’s in trouble, you’re in trouble. I think we need to… to abort it, sweetheart.”

Wendy’s expression never changed but she raised her chin confidently. “You won’t do that, Patrick,” she said.

“I can’t risk your life, Wendy…”

“I’ve had my life already, Patrick,” Wendy said. “You’d be denying a new life. You won’t do that.”

“But we have other options, Wendy,” Patrick said, pleading with her. “We can adopt. I can’t risk losing you…”

“Patrick, sweetheart, we have a life right here, right now, that we must decide about,” Wendy said. “There are no other options. It’s us three right now. You know what you have to do.”

Wendy’s smile never dimmed as Patrick’s eyes filled with tears. He reached down, kissed her on the forehead, pressed her hand, and nodded. She nodded in reply and closed her eyes as another wave of contractions, more painful than the last even through the epidural, washed over her.

Patrick turned to the obstetrician and said, “Cesarean.”

“All right, let’s go,” the doctor said. Nurses came in to get Wendy ready to move to the pre-op area.

“I want to be there,” Patrick said emphatically. “I want to be with Wendy. I’m not leaving her side.”

“You’ll be there,” the doctor said. Patrick was handed a package with a thin plastic surgical gown, cap, and shoe covers. “Put those on. We’ll have you wait outside the pre-op area until she’s been taken into surgery, and then we’ll bring you in. Don’t worry.”

The speed at which the nurses and doctor were working told Patrick that the greatest battle of their lives was just beginning.

LaFortier drove past the main entrance to Sacramento Live!, then parked the car across the street half a block down. LaFortier put the car in park but did not shut off the engine. He sat thinking. “Why don’t we just give the guy a call on the radio and have him let us in?” Paul McLanahan asked.

“It’s dark inside,” LaFortier said.

“They had a power failure, Cargo.”

“But the battery-powered emergency lights are off too,” LaFortier pointed out. “One or two lights out, I can understand-but all of the emergency lights malfunctioning at the same time?…”

“What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking that Rusty’s probably pretty pissed off right now,” LaFortier said. He picked up the radio. “Security One-Seven, One John Twenty-One.” No reply. LaFortier tried again; still no reply. “I’ll get Dispatch to beep him. He might be in the can or something.” LaFortier swung the Mobile Data Terminal toward him and typed, 1JN21 TO POP3 REQ PLZ BEEP SECURITY 17, a request to activate the beeper on the off-duty officer’s radio, a loud tone signaling the officer to check in right away.

“Should we get some backup?” McLanahan asked.

“Not just yet-let’s see if Rusty checks in,” LaFortier replied. He put the car in drive and rolled farther down the block, out of sight of the front of the building.

“Er bewegt sich in nцrdlicher Richtung auf der Seventh Street,” the lookout reported. A gunman, fully outfitted with body armor, helmet, and several heavy automatic weapons, was stationed at each entrance, monitoring the outside with night-vision goggles.

“Verstanden,” said the one in the staircase. Three others were taking cover in the staircase, hidden behind the half-open door. Still another was just dragging the body of the off-duty police officer away from the security desk, out of sight of the cash room located just opposite the security desk. The gunport in the door of the cash room was still closed-apparently the men inside hadn’t heard the commotion outside yet.

“What is the procedure when they open the door, Mullins?” one of the gunmen asked in heavily accented English.

“They’ll call out first on the phone, Major,” said a man in a security guard’s outfit. “Then they’ll look out the gunport. The security chief is supposed to stand in plain sight before the door is opened. Then they’ll…” Just then, a loud beeping sound came from the security desk.

“Is that the call?” asked the gunman identified as the Major, obviously the leader of the group. He was clad in thick Class Three bulletproof Kevlar armor protecting every part of his body except his head; his ballistic Kevlar infantry helmet, which had an integral communications headset, red-lens protective goggles, and a gas mask, was in his hand. His combat harness was arrayed with ammo pouches, grenades, and a large-caliber automatic pistol in a combat thigh rig. He scared the hell out of the security guard.

“No-that’s the cop’s radio,” the guard replied. “Dispatch is asking him to check in.”

“Do you know their procedures?” the Major asked. “Can you respond for the policeman?”

Mullins, the Judas security guard, hesitated. It had been two years since he was kicked off the Oakland police force, caught stealing drugs and guns out of police property rooms. He couldn’t get a decent job anywhere in the Bay Area, although he had never been charged with any crime because the department wanted the incident kept quiet. He finally found a job with a private security company in Sacramento. But he was unable to get a gun permit and make the big bucks of an armed security guard, so he made minimum wage as a seasonal-hire watchman at Sacramento Live! and other locations around town. He lived in a filthy fifty-dollar-a-week hotel room near the Greyhound bus terminal in the downtown area.

But Mullins now had additional sources of income. He had always loved motorcycles, and when he got kicked off the Oakland force, this passion turned in a dark direction: He became a Satan’s Brotherhood recruit. The Brotherhood paid him well to simply look the other way when the gang wanted to steal some fuel from a refinery, chemicals from a warehouse, or pharmaceuticals from a medical supply store.

His conspiracy activities were no longer for the benefit of Satan’s Brotherhood, however. Two weeks ago, a couple of paramilitary guys with German accents had approached him and offered almost a half-year’s worth of wages for one night’s work. He readily agreed. All he had to do was brief the head of the group on the security procedures when the cash boxes were being moved, and open a door when instructed. He’d make five thousand dollars on the spot.

But he never expected these guys to be so bloodthirsty. Every private security officer had been executed on the spot, even the unarmed watchmen. And now, instead of being given his money and let go, he had been dragged upstairs by one of the Germans to explain the cash room routine. He hesitated.

“Go, Mullins. Answer them. Now!”

“But I don’t know this department’s codes or procedures…”

“Go! It must be answered. Tell them everything is okay.”

Mullins walked up to the security desk and picked up the beeping police radio. Hesitantly, he keyed the mike button. “Security One-Seven, go ahead.”

“Security One-Seven, roger, One John Two-One is requesting a 940 at your 925.”

Oh shit, he thought-Sacramento uses nine-codes instead of ten-codes. It had been ages since he’d used any radio codes at all. He figured that 925 meant “location,” but he had no idea what a 940 was. Probably some sort of meeting. “Ah… roger, tell One John Twenty-One that I’ll be done here in thirty minutes and I’ll meet him at…”-he remembered that the county jail was only about three blocks away-“…at the jail. Out.”

“Roger, Security One-Seven. KMA clear.”

“That was not Rusty Caruthers,” LaFortier said grimly. Paul could see his partner’s mind racing, turning scenarios and possibilities and explanations over and over in his head. But after several long moments, all he said was, “Shit.”

“Maybe it was one of the private security guys, answering Caruthers’s radio,” Paul McLanahan offered.

“Then why didn’t he say so? Why didn’t he say, ‘The cop’s in the bathroom, I’ll tell him you want him to call in ASAP,’ or something,” LaFortier said. “No. This guy tried to answer the radio as if he was Rusty. Something’s going on.” He put the car in gear and pulled back onto the street. “Let’s cruise around the complex and take a look.”

“Ein Polizeiwagen kommt durch die Seventh Street,” one of the lookouts reported on the radio. “Der gleiche Wagen wie vorher.”

“He bought it,” Mullins said nervously.

“Nein,” the Major said. Just then, they heard a faint metallic slam-the tiny shuttered steel window on the cash room door had opened, then closed and locked. The Major deployed his men on either side of the door, and he and Mullins took cover behind the security desk.

“Attention in the cash room,” the Major shouted. “You are surrounded. My men and I have taken your guards and police officers prisoner, and we have already taken the other eight cash bins. You will come out of that room immediately and surrender yourselves. If you come out now, you will not be harmed.”

“We called the police!” a voice called from inside the cash room. “They’re on their way!”

“We have disabled the phone lines, alarms, and power to the entire complex,” the Major said. “The police were already here, but we convinced them all is well. No help will be arriving. It is advisable you surrender and come out at once. If we become too impatient, we may have no choice but to execute our hostages. The decision is yours.” He turned to Mullins and asked in a low voice, “Where would the money be kept right now?”

“They’re probably locking the uncounted money away in the bins, getting ready to put it all in the safe,” Mullins replied.

“Does the manager have access to the safe once it is locked? Is it on a time lock?”

“I don’t know,” said Mullins. The leader looked angry, so he decided he’d better answer with something more than this real fast. “But I think… yes, it is.”

“Then we need to blow that door open at once, before they put the money in the safe,” the Major said. “The dynamite, right away!” His men moved quickly to set explosive charges on the cash room door.

Patrick McLanahan was still waiting in the hallway outside the surgical suite, dressed in his plastic surgical outfit. It had been more than twenty minutes since the obstetrician, the anesthesiologist, several nurses, and another doctor Patrick did not recognize finished scrubbing and entered the OR.

A nurse came trotting down the hallway with a cart. He held out a hand to get her attention. “I’m the father,” he said. “What’s happening? I’m supposed to be in there with my wife…”

“The doctor will let you know as soon as possible,” she said.

Patrick held the door open after the nurse rushed inside. The scrub area was to the right, separated from the operating room by a curtain. It was pulled aside, and he saw a cart with what he recognized as a defibrillator-a device used to shock an irregularly beating heart back into a normal rhythm-being pushed over to the operating table. Gowned and masked medical personnel surrounded the table. “What’s going on?” Patrick shouted.

Several heads turned in his direction. He heard the obstetrician’s voice shout, “Close those doors!”

“Dammit, tell me what the hell’s going on!” Patrick shouted.

“Mr McLanahan, let us do our work now,” the obstetrician said. “Nurse…” The doors to the surgical suite were dosed, and a moment later a nurse came out, took Patrick by the arm, and instructed him to remain in the hallway.

“What’s happening?” Patrick repeated. “Is Wendy all right?”

“It’s a critical moment, that’s all,” the nurse said.

“What in hell does that mean?” Patrick exploded. “Is she all right?”

“The doctor will let you know as soon as he can,” the nurse said. “Please wait here.” And she hurried back in without saying anything else.

It was a nightmare, Patrick thought, an absolute nightmare…

As expected, they found Caruthers’s squad car parked on the K Street Mall itself, on the south side of the Sacramento Live! complex. Off-duty officers were allowed to use city squad cars to transport prisoners if necessary; and although the K Street Mall was a pedestrian mall, off-limits to all vehicles, the K Street Mall shop owners and the public welcomed cops parking there.

Sacramento Live! occupied almost an entire city block, between Sixth and Seventh streets and K and J streets. Along L-shaped alley that snaked around the complex from Seventh Street all the way to J Street cut off the northeast corner of the block. From Seventh, LaFortier shined his searchlight down the alley and saw only Dumpsters. “Looks okay to me,” McLanahan said.

“The alley curves around back there-we can’t see all the way around,” said LaFortier. He pulled the car into the alley. LaFortier aimed the searchlight on the doors along the complex. They all appeared secure. When they made the turn around the curve, they saw a large Step Van delivery truck parked near the loading dock on the east side of the complex.

McLanahan unbuckled his seat belt. “I’ll check it out…”

“Stay in your damn seat,” LaFortier ordered. He drove past the truck without stopping or slowing, then exited from the alley on J Street and turned right on the oneway street.

“Aren’t we going to check out that truck?” But LaFortier was already typing on the MDT computer terminal-he had memorized the plate number on the drive-by. By the time he turned right back onto Seventh Street, the 913 check reply came in: “Commercial plates,” McLanahan said, reading off the terminal display. “Two-ton truck, registered to a rental company in Rancho Cordova…”

But LaFortier was also scanning the screen. “Wrong kind of truck,” he said. “Wrong make, wrong size. Probably stolen plates.” He stopped the car just north of the entrance to the alleyway on Seventh Street and swung the MDT terminal toward himself. He typed: 1JN21 TO POP3 927 CIRCUMSTANCES SAC LIVE POSS 211, and sent the message through with the urgent-call button, which would send out a loud beep on all other officers’ terminals. Seconds later, the terminal came alive with the radio designations, names, and badge numbers of the downtown-sector patrol units. Moments later several units responded to the call with ENRTE, including the downtown-sector sergeant.

Paul could feel his pulse racing and his heart pounding as LaFortier worked the terminal. He knew something was happening, but it was all going on via the computer. “Talk to me, Cargo,” Paul said.

“Here’s what I’ve got,” LaFortier told him. “I sent in a 927, ‘suspicious circumstances,’ with a possible 211, ‘robbery in progress,’ and I sent it with an urgent-call message prefix because we’ve got an off-duty cop inside who could be in trouble. The urgent-call message causes the MDT to respond with a readout of all of the sector units, and anyone who might be available checks in. Here it says the sector sergeant is en route too-he knows that there’s a fellow cop inside, and he knows that Sacramento Live! is a hot location, and he knows from my call sign that I’m not a downtown-sector corporal, so he’ll take charge of the scene himself when he arrives. A 211 call always gets a lot of cops’ attention too.

“But because I called it in and I’m the senior guy on the scene, it’s my job to feed info to the en-route units so they have an idea of what’s going on and what to do. I’m going to tell the sergeant that I think Rusty has been kidnapped; I’m going to tell them about the Step Van; I’m going to run down the report of the power failure; and I’m going to recommend we stay off the radios or go to a tactical channel because whoever’s got Rusty’s radio can monitor us.” LaFortier typed: SUPP 1JN21 POSS 207 SECURITY 17 971 VEHICLE CALREG 1734BD21 POSS 503 IN ALLEY N OF K STREET LAST RPT POWER FAILURE SAC LIVE RECOMND MDT OR TAC CHANNEL 6 211 SUSPCTS MAY BE MONITORING FREQ.

“Now what do we do next?” LaFortier asked. It took Paul’s whirling mind a moment to catch up. “C’mon, rook, what’s next?”

“We gotta go in and check on Caruthers,” McLanahan finally replied. “Officer safety first.”

“Very good. Now…” At that moment, another squad car, this one with an S designation beside the car number, signifying the patrol-sector sergeant’s car, pulled up alongside theirs. The windows between the two cars rolled down. LaFortier recognized the downtown graveyard-shift sergeant, Matt Lamont. “Hey, Matt. This is my trainee, McLanahan. Paul, Sergeant Matt Lamont, downtown patrol.”

“What’s going on, Cargo?” Lamont asked. His eyes registered McLanahan but he didn’t bother to greet him. “What are you doing downtown?”

“Was coming from the jail and heard that Rusty was doing an off-duty gig here at Sacramento Live!,” LaFortier replied. “I was going to stop by and visit, but I couldn’t raise him on the radio. I drove around and found a truck in the alley. The plates don’t match the vehicle registration. Someone answered Rusty’s radio, but it didn’t sound like him.”

“Yeah, I heard that too,” Lamont said. He was in charge of all the off-duty officers in his sector as well as the downtown graveyard-shift units. He picked up his radio and keyed the mike: “Security One-Seven, Edward Ten.” He tried several times; no response. Lamont turned back to LaFortier: “Where’s Rusty’s car? On the mall?” LaFortier nodded. “All right, Cargo. Let’s put your rookie in the mall in a cover position next to Rusty’s car. Cargo, I want you on the J Street alley exit. I’ll stay here and monitor the alley on this end. This’ll be a loose perimeter only. Once we’re set up and the other units arrive, we’ll have a look inside. Let’s go.”

LaFortier drove forward to the K Street Mall. “Okay, Paul, listen up,” he said. “Your job will be to watch the K Street Mall exits, report anything you see, and, most importantly, protect yourself. You take cover behind Caruthers’s car-behind the engine block, remember, because it gives you more protection. You’ve got three exits onto the mall, so watch all three as best you can. Stay out of sight. Don’t let anyone out of the building unless their hands are up in the air. Call for backup before you do anything. Just stay calm and think before you move. Got it?”

“Got it, Craig.”

“Good. Out you go.”

McLanahan retrieved his nightstick and left the squad car, then trotted across Seventh Street and down the K Street Mall to the empty squad car. He knelt beside the right front fender, oblivious to the rain.

He found his heart racing, his breathing shallow and rapid, and his forehead and neck sweating as if he had just sprinted a hundred yards instead of jogging a hundred feet. He had stationed himself between the right front tire and the right door, with the engine block between himself and the doors across K Street. Visibility was poor in the rain, but he could make out all three Sacramento Live! doorways that emptied out on the K Street Mall.

Paul turned up his radio, but it was silent. Was it working? Were the batteries charged? Did he leave the South Station with dead batteries in his radio? He double-checked that he was on the correct channel, then turned the squelch knob and got a loud rasping rumble of static. Shit! Enough to alert bad guys for three blocks around. He turned the volume down a couple of notches, then turned the squelch knob until the static disappeared. Leave the friggin’ radio alone, he told himself.

Now what? Draw his weapon? Why? There was no threat in front of him. What if a wino or a transient wandered onto the mall? Should he break cover and move him, or stay hidden and hope he’d pass? And if he did either, what if the bad guys decided to make a break from the building right then? Or what if the wino was one of the bad guys?…

Snap out of it, Paul! he told himself. Stop confusing yourself with endless scenarios. Just pay attention and stay alert.

Paul tried the squad car’s door-it was locked, as it should be. He saw that the 12-gauge Remington police-model shotgun was still in the electric quick-release clamp on the front seat, and filed that info away in his head in case he’d need it-he had a set of car keys on his key ring, and all of the department’s car doors and trunk locks were common-keyed so he had access to the car if necessary. He scanned the street, looking for escape routes, hazards, and other places for cover and concealment. Not much out here-a couple of concrete traffic barricades, some concrete trash cans, a few directory/advertisement kiosks. There were few places to hide along the mall.

More help would be arriving any minute. Good. Something was bound to happen soon.

“All right, out there!” the general manager of Sacramento Live! shouted from inside the cash room on the second floor. “We’re coming out! We’ll open the door, then the guards will toss their guns out, and then we’ll be unarmed. Do you hear me? We surrender! We’re coming…”

The claymore mine blast slammed into the steel door, ripping it from its hinges and hurling it inside the cash room like a two-hundred-pound leaf being tossed around by a tornado. One security guard inside died instantly, crushed by the flying door; the body of a second one shattered as the force of the blast hit him square-on. The third guard was just picking himself up off the floor, leveling his weapon at his attackers, when he was killed by a burst of automatic gunfire from their assault rifles.

The Major now had his helmet on. A grenade launcher was slung over his shoulder and he was carrying an AK-74 combat assault rifle with a laser aiming sight; a small backpack held additional ammunition. He went into the devastated cash room with his heavily armed personal guard and Mullins, the renegade watchman.

The general manager and his three club managers were cowering on the floor, blood seeping from wounds on their faces and hands and from their ruptured eardrums. The Major scanned the room. None of the money bins were visible-apparently they had all been locked away in the safe at the back. He raised his rifle and aimed it at the man in the middle. “Who is the general manager?” he shouted.

Mullins pointed to the man on the left, who was crouched over the mangled body of one of the guards. “He is,” he said, praying it would help save these poor bastards’ lives.

“Sie!” the Major said in a loud voice so they could hear him through his gas mask and through their shattered, blood-filled ears. “Open the safe now or you will die.”

“I can’t,” the general manager said. “It’s on a time lock. It won’t open until nine tomorrow morning. Any attempt to open it will trigger an alarm, and it can’t be-”

“Liar! Idiot!” The terrorist pulled the trigger of his assault rifle, and the head of one of the club managers burst open like an overripe melon. The general manager, showered with blood and brains, screamed, then stared in horror at the destroyed head.

“Open that safe or you will watch the rest of your employees die.”

The general manager was on his feet in an instant, fumbling for keys. He inserted a key into the combination dial with shaking fingers, turned it, entered a combination, turned the key again, completed the combination, and pulled the safe door open.

“Schweinehund! You needlessly caused the death of one of your workers to save your profits!” the Major shouted, and shot the general manager point-blank in the groin with a three-round burst from his assault rifle. The burn from the muzzle blast was a full foot in diameter, and the noise in the small cash room was deafening-but not as loud as the agonized screams of the emasculated manager until he finally bled out and died.

“Schnell!” the Major shouted, and three more of his men rushed in, as heavily armed as their leader. “Get the bins to the truck!” They pulled the steel cash bins out of the vault and wheeled them outside. The Major ignored the two surviving club managers, issued more instructions through his radio, then turned to Mullins. “How will the police deploy outside? Will they use heavy weapons?”

“I don’t think… no, they won’t,” Mullins replied, more afraid than ever of saying he didn’t know to a guy who had just killed five men in cold blood right in front of him. “I haven’t heard any reports of a SWAT call-out, and anyway this city’s SWAT teams are only on fifteen-minute alert during graveyard shifts-it’ll take them at least a half hour to get here. The shift sergeant might have a semiautomatic M-16, but they don’t train with it much…”

“Bin einziges Gewehr? One rifle? What kind of police force does this city have?” The Major laughed. “A child with a Kalashnikov can do battle with the police in this city and have a good chance of winning! Kinderpolizei!”

“Hell, only SWAT had M-16’s until just a couple months ago-and half the politicians in this city want the cops completely disarmed,” Mullins said. He was so glad to actually know something that he was babbling. “All the other cops only got sidearms or shotguns with double-ought buck. Your only real problem is that the county jail is only three blocks away, and police headquarters is only six. Once the call goes out, lots of help will arrive real fuckin’ fast.”

“We will be out of here long before that,” the Major said confidently. “Kill all the police!” he shouted to his men as they made their way down the stairs to the rear exit, heading toward the alley and the waiting truck: “I will tolerate no gunfights with them. We hit hard, and we hit first.”

The explosion from the claymore mine rattled the windows and rippled the glass front doors of Sacramento Live! Paul McLanahan jumped. He dropped the radio, fumbled for it in the darkness, picked it up from the wet pavement, and mashed the mike button: “I heard explosions! Explosions coming from inside the building!”

“Clear this channel!” came another voice, probably Lamont. “KMA, Edward Ten, show a 211 and 994 on this location, all downtown units respond Code Three, set up a perimeter on Capitol, Eighth, Fifth, and I streets, bomb explosion inside the Sacramento Live! complex, repeat, bomb explosion inside Sacramento Live!… stand by… KMA, add a 246 on this location, shots fired… Jesus, more shots fired… requesting SWAT and Star unit call-outs for a 994 and 246 inside Sacramento Live! and request a 940-Sam on my location on Seventh Street.”

“Edward Ten, One Lincoln Ten responding,” came another radio message. That was from the downtown-sector lieutenant, obviously monitoring the radio. He was the one who would take charge of the scene when he arrived.

To a supercharged Paul McLanahan, the automatic-rifle fire from inside the complex sounded even louder than the explosion. His SIG Sauer P226 was out and leveled at the front entrance to the Sacramento Live! building before he realized it. The gunshots seemed so close, so goddamn loud, that he ducked as if the bullets were pinging off the walls around him. His gun hand was shaking, and every little sound, every gust of wind, made the gun muzzle jump. He felt vulnerable as hell, exposed to the entire world.

He started running through scenarios again. What do I do if I see a guy come out of the building? Should I challenge him? But won’t that give away my location and make me a target? If he’s got a gun, should I shoot first? What if he’s got more bombs, or even grenades?

The bulletproof vest he was wearing underneath his uniform shirt didn’t seem nearly as thick and protective as it did half an hour ago.

Craig LaFortier had the squad car’s spotlight aimed right at the delivery door that swung open behind the Step Van truck parked in the alley. It lit up the three black-clothed armed men who came rushing out of the building pushing the big wheeled bins that LaFortier knew the clubs used to hold their cash. He saw the hydraulic lift mounted on the rear of the truck rise to the level of the loading dock. Two more armed men in black were standing in the back of the truck, ready to pull the bins inside it.

“Five 211 suspects in the alley on the loading dock!” LaFortier shouted into his portable radio. “All suspects 417. Request immediate backup!” He reholstered the radio, then took a firm Weaver grip on his service pistol, crouched as low as he could behind the right front fender of his squad car, and shouted, “Police! Freeze! Drop your weapons! Now!”

He never expected them to surrender-and they didn’t. As soon as he saw one of them unsling a rifle from his shoulder and level it, he opened fire, aiming three rounds each at the five gunmen he could see across the street.

He saw them jerk and jump as the rounds hit, but they didn’t go down. Two of them leveled big assault rifles with huge banana magazines at him. Staying low, LaFortier ran up J Street to a nearby parked car and crouched behind the left rear fender, again shielded by the engine block, seconds before the suspects opened fire. They peppered his squad car with heavy-caliber automatic-rifle fire, shattering the windshield and blowing out the two left tires, and stopped shooting only when they finally shot out the searchlight.

“Shots fired, shots fired!” LaFortier shouted into his radio. “Heavy automatic-rifle fire coming from the alley, two suspects with rifles, possibly all five have automatic rifles. Suspects are wearing body armor too. Go for head shots, repeat, go for head shots!”

“Get out of there, Cargo!” he heard Lamont yell in the radio. “Clear out east to Seventh or meet up with the unit on Sixth. John Twelve and John Fourteen, John Twenty-One is coming your way. Cover him.”

LaFortier knew that Seventh Street had more units, so he decided to head toward Sixth. “This is John Twenty-One, I’m headed west down J.” He dropped the magazine from his SIG and immediately slammed home another one. Time to get the hell out…

Just then, a cop’s worst nightmare appeared before his eyes. A lone gunman, looking as if he was covered in a suit of black armor, marched out of the alley onto J Street with his AK-74 leveled. When he was thirty feet from the abandoned squad car, he shouted, “Tod allen Polizisten!” and opened fire, spraying it in a side-to-side sweeping motion on full auto. Then he continued to march forward, raising the rifle up so he could aim it at anything that moved on the other side of the car. His walk was deliberate, no hurry in his steps, no effort to hide himself-just as if he were a pedestrian crossing the street.

LaFortier dropped the radio, aimed, and fired five rounds at the guy’s head. He knew he was shooting back toward Seventh, toward Lamont and the other units, but it was a chance he had to take-this guy had to go. One of his shots must have hit flesh because the guy went down and LaFortier heard him shout, “Achtung! Ich bin angeschossen! Ich bin angeschossen!” as he clutched his neck and began to crawl back toward the alley.

But LaFortier didn’t see the second guy until it was too late. The gunman peered out from around the corner of the Sacramento Live! building, took aim at LaFortier with a shoulder-fired antitank missile launcher, and fired. The car Craig LaFortier was hiding behind blew twenty feet in the air and crashed back to earth, a ball of fire and molten metal.

Matt Lamont, who had low-crawled west on J Street up to the alley with his sergeant’s-issue M-16 rifle cradled in his arms, was too late to help LaFortier, but he was going to get a piece of this cop-killer if it was the last thing he ever did. He raised the M-16 and fired three rounds at the gunman’s head, but all of them missed. He leaped to his feet, crouched low, and approached the corner of the building next to the alley, determined to shoot at any head that appeared under his sights. At the corner of the building adjacent to the alleyway, he risked a fast peek around the corner. A tremendous volley of automatic-rifle fire rippled the corner of the building. His semiautomatic rifle was no match for at least three automatic assault rifles in the alley. He hotfooted it back to Seventh Street and took cover behind a tree.

“Officer down, officer down!” Lamont shouted into his portable radio. “Code 900, Code 900, Sacramento Live! complex, heavily armed suspects in alleyway between J and K Streets!”

As he issued the Code 900-the dire-emergency code, the code guaranteed to get every cop in town headed this way on the double-Lamont was watching the alley for any sign of the suspects. But all he could actually see were the remnants of the burning car across J Street, the one that had protected his friend and fellow cop Craig LaFortier. At least Cargo got one of the bastards before he died, Lamont thought grimly.

“What in hell happened?” Mullins asked nervously. The explosion and the volleys of automatic gunfire outside could be heard throughout the complex-it sounded as if the whole damned area was filled with cops, all out for blood.

The Major was listening for reports through his helmet-mounted headset. “One of my men in the alley is dead,” he said.

The radio in Mullins’s hand began bleeping, the all-points alert. “They’ve called a Code 900,” he said. “Every cop in the county will be here in a matter of minutes.”

“Then it is time we are off,” the Major said calmly, and began issuing instructions to his men via his headset commlink.

“What about me?” Mullins bleated. “I don’t have any armor! They’ll cut me down in three seconds!”

“Shall I put you out of your misery now?” asked the Major, leveling his rifle at the turncoat.

“No!”

“Then go, get out of my sight. You are on your own. I let you keep your life, since you served us well. But I warn you: If you are caught, and if you even think about revealing anything about myself or my organization, then you had better pray the police kill you first. Because I will see to it that your agony is prolonged over several long days. Now verschwinde! Go! My troops and I have work to do.”

Paul McLanahan had been taught about the Code 900 in the academy, listened to the instructors, heard the recordings of actual radio calls. But the main thing he learned was never, ever call for one on the radio-it was reserved for someone in a much higher pay grade than himself. He could call for “backup” or “cover” or “officer needs assistance” or “officer in distress” or even “HELP!” but could never call a Code 900. The only reason to ever call one, the instructors had said seriously, was if the earth was splitting open and all the citizens of hell were flying forth.

But he knew that was exactly what was happening. He saw and heard the rocket explosion on the other side of the complex on J Street, saw the fires, heard the gunshots, heard the heavy machine-gun fire in return. Jesus, Cargo, please get on the radio. Say something, man. Say something…

And when Paul heard the “officer down” call, he knew it was his partner. And with the sector sergeant calling a Code 900 over the air, he also knew this battle had probably just begun.

There were men shouting over on Seventh Street, the wail of sirens just a few blocks away. The sounds were reassuring to the young rookie, alone and pointing his gun at a darkened building. All he wanted to do right now was be with his partner, cover him, defend him, carry him to safety. But he would never leave his post until given an order to do so, so he was glad that other officers were responding and rushing to help Cargo. He would just have to…

An ear-splitting explosion blasted him out of his reverie. The main doors of Sacramento Live! on the K Street Mall blew open, scattering a wall of glass and fire thirty feet away. He felt a hard slap to his head, followed by a gust of super-heated air. His ears were ringing so loud, he thought he might be completely deaf. He found his finger had tightened on the trigger of his SIG, and was afraid he might have accidentally squeezed off a round. Then another explosion rocked the night, and Lamont’s squad car burst into flames over on Seventh Street-another rocket had been fired from the alley, destroying the car and sending officers scurrying for cover.

And then they appeared: two columns of four wearing helmets and gas masks, led by a figure dressed completely in thick black body armor who was firing an AK-74 out onto the street as the columns brazenly strode out the shattered front doors of the Sacramento Live! complex. The men behind him fired smaller but still murderous-looking H amp;K MP-5 submachine guns, sweeping both sides of the street with a hail of gunfire. As the column marched down Seventh Street, the Step Van wheeled out of the alley onto Seventh, moving into position to pick them up.

But they were marching away from Paul, and they didn’t see him. He took aim on the closest gunman and fired three rounds at his head. The last man in the right column stumbled, stopped, turned directly at Paul, lifted his visor, saw the squad car parked there, and swept it with a two-second burst of automatic gunfire. Highlighted in the glare of a nearby streetlight, he made an ideal target, and Paul took the shot and hit him square in the face. The man screamed and went down, clutching his face and writhing on the ground.

Paul was lining up another shot when two of the gunmen in the right column wheeled around and opened fire with their MP-5’s. He returned fire, pulling the trigger as fast as he could, rather than aiming, in the hope that his attackers might dive for cover or run. But they did neither. They fired again, concentrating their fire now.

They were coming after him, two deadly assailants with submachine guns. Time to get the hell out.

Paul had started to move along the right side of the squad car, getting ready to retreat to his chosen fall-back position, a sturdy-looking information booth a few yards away, when he felt a pain in his right leg. He looked down to see half of his right calf ripped open, just above the top of his boots.

He was a kid from the TV age and had seen plenty of guys get shot on TV. They all had it wrong, he realized. His leg did not fly backward-he never even felt the bullet hit. His leg was not shot off. There was no spurting blood. He felt very little pain-that was the weirdest part. What he could see of the wound-it wasn’t much-was big and ugly-obviously a ricochet, the bullet spinning after it hit a wall or the ground, and not a direct hit.

Paul tried to run but then the wound got him-now he felt the goddamn pain! He sank down to his right knee. The gunmen were reloading, flipping the big banana magazines upside down to reload from fresh clips taped against the first ones. He aimed and fired again, missing. This time they did not return fire, evidently satisfied that they had gotten him enough so that he was no longer a threat. He saw them head back north on Seventh to catch up with the others, who were still sweeping the streets with volleys of gunfire, covering the Step Van until it could pull up beside them.

No fucking way! Paul McLanahan shouted to himself. You’re not getting away, not after killing my partner! But all he had was his 9-millimeter pistol-no match for submachine guns. But something else was.

Paul grabbed for his keys, thankful that he had rubber-banded all but the car key together so he could find it easily. He unlocked Caruthers’s squad car from the passenger side, leaned inside, started the engine, and put it in gear. Then he laid himself across the front seat, left hand on the steering wheel, right hand down on the gas pedal, pushed on the accelerator, and shot forward.

The two gunmen who thought they had disposed of him turned, aimed, and fired, but they were too late. Paul mowed both of them down under the squad car, hurling them up, then under the fender like corn stalks under a harvester. More automatic gunfire hit the car. The windshield shattered. Without letting up on the accelerator, Paul shifted the car into reverse. Tires screeched. He was shoved forward under the dash by the momentum, losing his grip on the steering wheel. With the right front tire shot out, the car looped to the right and crashed into the corner of a building on K Street. The engine died. He was trapped.

Paul looked up. There was another attacker less than ten feet away, his submachine gun raised, aiming right at him, moving closer for a cleaner shot.

Paul hit the tiny switch on the radio console and the electro-clamps released on the big Remington 12-gauge shotgun mounted on the dashboard. Now lying on his back in the front seat facing the approaching terrorist, Paul racked the action, leveled the shotgun, aimed for the face and neck, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing but a dull click! Christ, the shotgun wasn’t loaded. Caruthers, doing an off-duty job, obviously hadn’t thought he needed to bother loading it. In desperation, Paul tossed the shotgun at his assailant. The muzzle caught the assailant right in the middle of his gas-mask lens, shattering it.

“Ich bin verletz! Helft mir!” The terrorist screamed something in a foreign language-was it German? Paul didn’t know.

The gunman ripped off the broken mask, lifting his helmet off with it. Paul got a good look at a very young, chiseled face, square jaw, close-cropped black curly hair, dark bushy eyebrows, and a nose twisted awkwardly to the right, obviously broken. The guy seemed frozen, paralyzed with fear, as if realizing that Paul could identify him. Paul reached for his SIG Sauer P226 sidearm…

… but it never cleared leather. Another masked and helmeted figure pushed the unmasked guy aside, shouted, “Zeit zu schlafen, Schweinehund!” and opened fire with his MP-5 submachine gun from fifteen feet away, raking the rookie cop with a three-second full-auto burst at point-blank range.

“Mr McLanahan!” the nurse shouted from the door of the operating room. “Come with me! Hurry!”

Patrick felt his heart lurch. “Is Wendy all right?”

“Put on your mask and follow me,” the nurse ordered. My God, Patrick thought, what in hell have we done? He didn’t hear a baby’s cry-what in God’s name had happened?

Gowned and masked figures surrounded the operating table. All he could see was Wendy’s head. Her eyes were closed, and a large white drape hid her body from his view from the shoulders down. A plastic bonnet covered her hair, and he could see her arms fastened down to the sides of the table with Velcro straps. The anesthesiologist was at the head of the table, his eyes fixed on an array of monitors and several automatic fluid-metering devices. There were two IV stands with empty whole-blood and plasma bags hanging from them. He motioned Patrick to an empty stool next to Wendy’s head.

“Mr McLanahan,” the obstetrician began, not looking up from his work, “this is Dr Jemal, our chief of surgery. I asked him to be here for this delivery.”

“Chief of surgery?” Patrick asked. “Is Wendy all right, Doc?”

“She suffered a uterine rupture and serious internal bleeding at the beginning of this procedure,” Jemal began. “The scarring on her abdomen was extensive. She must have been in some degree of pain throughout the entire pregnancy, to have those scars on her belly stretching like they were.”

“But will she be all right?”

The anesthesiologist spoke up: “Ask her yourself.” Patrick turned and saw Wendy looking up at him, with an expression that said nothing but love.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said. Her eyes were clear and alert, and her slight smile lit up the room more brightly than all the operating spotlights together.

“Wendy… oh God, Wendy, how are you?” Patrick asked, his eyes welling with tears as he bent over to kiss her. He looked over at the obstetrician. “Dammit, Doc, can you tell me what’s going on here?”

“Can’t… right… now… Dad,” the doctor said. A startled Patrick saw Jemal standing on a low stool, pressing down on Wendy with all his might. Then the room filled with the glorious sounds of a squalling baby.

“You’ve got a son, Mr McLanahan, a nice healthy boy.” The obstetrician held the tiny form out for the nurses. “He’s just fine. The bad news is, I think you’ve lost your uterus, Wendy. We’ll have to do a hysterectomy, I’m afraid. But you’ve made it through okay. Congratulations!”

Patrick watched in fascination as the nurses clamped and cut the cord, briskly rubbed the baby down, suctioned his nose and mouth, and placed him in a small heated booth on a table. He was weighed, footprinted, and had silver nitrate drops placed in his eyes to prevent infection, then swaddled in two blankets and topped off with a white-and-blue knitted cap that covered his head. Then the nurse picked up the little bundle and handed it to Patrick.

Patrick Shane McLanahan had handled four-hundred-thousand-pound warplanes, nuclear devices, and multimillion-dollar weapons. Now, holding the seven-pound bundle that was his son in his arms, he felt helpless, stunned.

He held the baby up so Wendy could see him, and they wept tears of joy together as the baby opened his bright blue eyes, looked first at his mother, then at his father, and started to cry. Patrick nestled him back into his arms and the crying stopped. He bent down and kissed his wife. “You did it, sweetheart, you did it!” he said proudly. “Good job.”

“We did it, Patrick.” She reached for his hand. “As soon as we get back in the room, page your brother. I can’t wait until he hears the good news.”

From Seventh Street, the Step Van with the gunmen on board sped south to Capitol Avenue, then west to the Tower Bridge. It stopped when it was a third of the way across, and two men got out, set four satchels on the roadway, then ran back to the truck. Seconds after the Step Van had cleared the bridge, the satchel charges blew, sending the entire eastern third of the span down into the Sacramento River and eliminating the major pursuit route out of the city of Sacramento.

The Step Van continued down SR-275, then got onto Interstate 80 and drove westbound on the freeway. The pursuing California Highway Patrol and the Sacramento police thought it was the terrorists’ first real mistake. Units from Davis to the west as well as from Sacramento started to converge on the Step Van. Roadblocks near Davis blocked the east- and westbound lanes of I-80, and dozens of units rolled westbound on the freeway, ready to chase the van down.

But the chase did not last long. Reports filtered in that the Step Van had stopped in the middle of the westbound lane on the Yolo Causeway, the two-mile-long section of divided interstate stretching over the farmlands that formed the flood plain west of the Sacramento River before it reached the San Joaquin Delta. The truck was trapped. There was no way off the elevated causeway, and no connectors between the eastbound and westbound lanes. Police units would arrive in a matter of minutes. If the terrorists tried to make a run for it by climbing down off the causeway, they’d be easy to chase down in the flat, marshy rice and barley fields below.

Led by the Highway Patrol, the units converged on the Step Van. Apparently the terrorists had figured out where they were, because they had driven almost to the far western end of the causeway, stopped, then thrown the lumbering truck into reverse and headed back eastbound. Too late. There was no escape now…

Several tremendous explosions shook the causeway. Once again, satchel charges had been set, this time at the ends of both lanes of the interstate, effectively sealing off the lanes in both directions. The cops couldn’t get to the Step Van but neither could it go anywhere. Before long…

Minutes later, the real escape plan became obvious. A military-surplus UH-1 Huey helicopter swooped out of the night sky and touched down in the middle of the causeway. The police watched, helpless, from a mile away, as the paper money was taken out of the cash bins, transferred to duffel bags, and loaded aboard the helicopter. A Sacramento County Sheriff’s Department helicopter with two SWAT deputies riding the landing skids and two more inside tried to approach, but the terrorists were prepared. A streak of yellow fire from a Stinger anti-aircraft missile hit the helicopter’s engine, sending the aircraft out of control and crashing into the rice fields south of the causeway. One deputy riding the skids was killed by the engine explosion when the missile hit; the other was pulled inside the helicopter as it was falling. The three deputies who survived suffered moderate to severe injuries during the crash landing.

Ten minutes later, the Huey was airborne. It headed east, flying a few hundred feet above the ground to avoid being tracked by air-traffic-control radar until it reached the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Then it vanished.

At Placerville Airport, forty miles east of Sacramento, several trucks were waiting for the chopper when it lit down. Major Bruno Reingruber was the first to step off the helicopter, and he exchanged straight-armed salutes with Colonel Gregory Townsend. “Willkommen zuhause, Major,” Townsend said as the terrorists began transferring the duffel bags to the trucks. He counted the men as they emerged, then frowned as four wounded were carried off. “It did not go well, I take it.”

“They all fought like lions, Herr Oberst,” Reingruber said grimly. “The police fought with desperation, and they were lucky. I promise I will slaughter ten policemen for every one of our soldiers killed.”

“You will get your chance, Major,” Townsend said. “The city of Sacramento has not yet even begun to bleed. This is a small haul compared to the penalty we will take from this city before we are finished. The city of Sacramento will learn to fear us. They will surrender to us-or the death toll will rise. But remember our ultimate objective. Tearing this city apart is only a means to an end.”