She nodded. “There’s one behind the building,” she said, her voice quavering.
“Tell the police that the terrorists who stole the stealth fighters from the Air Force base in Sacramento are here, and they’re going to refuel and take off again. Then hide yourself until help comes.” When she left he grabbed the terrorist’s gun, peered out the door, and crept outside.
“Hurry up, damn you!” Townsend shouted.
“The pump on this truck is very slow, sir,” the soldier answered. The base obviously wasn’t used often, and the Jet-A truck even less.
Townsend cursed again. The guard he’d stationed inside the FBO had missed a second five-minute check-in-an ominous sign. A burst of fire, then an explosion, tore into the Huey. Gunfire erupted from the rear of the FBO building but was silenced moments later. “Disconnect!” Townsend shouted. “Prepare to repel attackers!” Silence. Where were his men? He looked toward the fuel truck and saw all four of them lying on the ground. My God-when had that happened? Dammit, he hadn’t heard a thing and he was right here!
He had just put on his helmet and finished strapping himself into his seat when a voice came over the UHF guard emergency channeclass="underline" “Townsend. Gregory Townsend. Can you hear me?”
Quickly Townsend checked his switches and skimmed through the checklist, but realized it would be suicidal to try to take off. He lowered the cockpit canopy. “The Tin Man, I presume? Very good of you to see me off, General McLanahan. My men reported that you had been killed by Major Reingruber.”
“Indeed. As you can see, I’m here. But I am not seeing you off. You are going nowhere, Townsend. It’s time you paid for all the death and destruction you’ve caused.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll pay for, General,” Townsend said. “I’ll make you the same deal I made before, only better: you and I as partners. With one phone call, General, I can wire ten million dollars into an offshore bank account in your name. Moreover, I’ll give you half of whatever we can negotiate for the sale of this aircraft. We should be able to split two hundred, perhaps three hundred million dollars. I make one phone call and it’s yours.”
The response was a burst of automatic gunfire. The left main landing-gear tires blew out. Then the nose-gear tires exploded and the aircraft’s nose wheel settled into the asphalt up to its hubs. “You may as well shut ‘em down and come on out, Townsend,” said the Tin Man. “You’re going to prison.”
With an angry yank, Townsend pulled the throttles to cutoff, threw open the canopy, unfastened his seat belts, and climbed out of the Night Hawk. He stood directly in front of the dark-clad figure, shaking with rage. “You miserable cretin!” he snapped. “You’ve just thrown away millions of dollars for us both.”
“You’re not going to need money where you’re going, Townsend.”
“Is that so?” Townsend retorted. “Tough talk for someone hiding behind an electronic suit of armor. Coward! Why don’t you take that thing off and let’s have at it, you and me, man to man. Or are you too cowardly for that?”
Stunned, he watched as the figure dropped the backpack power unit off his shoulders. “Well, well. You do have some sporting blood in you after all, General…”
But the surprises were not over. As the Tin Man unfastened and removed his helmet, Townsend saw before him not General Patrick McLanahan but his brother. He could not believe his eyes. “Good Lord! It’s Officer McLanahan! Following in your dead brother’s footsteps, I see.”
“Patrick is very much alive, Townsend,” Paul said coldly. “He survived the fight on the dam. Major Reingruber did not.”
Townsend managed to maintain his composure. “Be that as it may, Officer, you are here and he is not. And there is still a business accommodation we can make, you and I. It would be worth ten million dollars to me for my freedom right now. You have the stealth fighter and all my surviving men, including the ones who killed your fellow officers in downtown Sacramento. As I understand it, you also have no job now, nothing but an inconsequential disability pension. There are no witnesses out here. One single phone call, and a secret Cayman Islands bank account will be established in your name, ten million dollars in it, all for you. You can go back to being a lawyer, or you can live out your lifelong fantasies in a country where the law can’t touch you.”
“I’ve got an even better idea for you, Townsend,” Paul said. He walked over to one of the soldiers lying unconscious next to the fuel truck and withdrew the combat knife from his leg sheath. “You kill me, and you keep your ten million dollars and walk away free.”
Townsend smiled a satisfied grin and pulled out his knife with theatrical flourish. “You are a sporting man, Officer McLanahan,” he said-and attacked with the speed of a cobra.
The fight appeared to be over before it had begun. Townsend feigned a slash to Paul’s head, then reversed the knife and brought it down full force on his left shoulder. Paul made no effort to counterattack; he simply raised his left arm in a feeble attempt to block the assault. But he was far too late. Townsend’s knife buried itself to the hilt. Townsend laughed right in his face, then tried to remove the knife-and found it stuck fast…
… and before he knew it, Paul’s own knife lashed up and deep into his belly.
Townsend dropped to his knees, clutching his midriff. He watched dumbfounded as Paul McLanahan jiggled the big knife in his shoulder and freed it. There was no blood. Not a drop.
“Ironic, isn’t it, Townsend?” Paul McLanahan asked. He removed his gauntlets, opened the suit front, and shrugged off the left sleeve. Underneath was a dull aluminum prosthesis. It moved like a real arm, but it was definitely not human. It was one of the prototype Sky Masters, Inc. prosthetic arms, attached and activated without any cosmetic enhancements. “I owe you thanks for this,” he said. “Your bloodthirsty attacks gave it to me. I felt sorry for myself and I told them I didn’t want it, but I’m glad they helped me change my mind. What do you think of this, Colonel?”
But Gregory Townsend was a long, long way from being able to answer.
Epilogue
Sacramento, California
Monday, 1 June 1998, 1015 FT
The city does look like it’s getting back to normal, “Wendy McLanahan said to her brother-in-law. Bradley was in the car seat between Patrick and her, and Paul was accompanying them to Sacramento-Mather Jetport to see them off to San Diego. They were all glad to have the last few months behind them.
“Yes and no,” Paul answered, his electronically synthesized voice sounding more natural all the time. “It looks that way on the surface. But the old problems haven’t gone away. I think the wars are just starting up. The biker gangs are still at it, only now they’re vying to fill the void left by the Satan’s Brotherhood. The meth production hasn’t even started to gear up again, and I know the Mexicans are going to come in hard. This whole county’s been hit pretty hard. It’ll take a long time to recover.”
Wendy shook her head. “I still find it almost impossible to believe anyone could cause so much death and devastation simply to create a diversion to cover a robbery-even a huge one.”
“It’s useless to look for rational explanations for his actions-though I admit I keep trying to also,” Patrick said. “Townsend was far crazier than Henri Cazaux was ever rumored to be-he outdid his ex-boss. And he would’ve gotten away with it if it weren’t for you, bro.”
“Well, the county owes you big-time for what you and Hal did on the dam, Patrick,” said Paul. “If any more of those gates had blown, the loss of life would’ve been much worse. Sacramento was lucky.”
“It’s a good thing they’ll never know exactly what happened up there,” Patrick said. “My name’s been in the Sacramento papers too much as it is. It’s a relief to have it cleared and the charges dropped. I’m ready to go home and leave the town to you.”