The Tin Man

“That bastard will come after me…”

“I’ll be right outside, and Gregory is nearby,” Faulkner said. “Don’t worry. Again, you can rely on us. Gregory’ll get you out of this in fine shape, but you’re going to have to do as he says and place your trust in him. Do you understand? Will you do that, Jon?”

What choice did he have? “I’ll try, Doc.”

“Good. Lock the door after I leave. You must open it when they demand entry, but you’ll have some privacy.”

Jon locked the door instantly, then sat down on the bed and wrapped himself in the blankets.

This is crazy, he said to himself. Reingruber is a madman. Even if what Faulkner said about Townsend was true, what kind of jerk was he, hanging around wackos like that? He’d saved his life, for which he was grateful, but it was baffling nonetheless. Still, he had the two of them to keep the psycho away from him, and they certainly seemed to mean it.

He unfolded the paper carefully. It was today’s pages 3 and 4 of the Sacramento Bee, tattered but still readable, with late-breaking details on the explosion in Wilton. As he read, he froze. He could not believe what he was seeing.

The coverage spelled out what it described as the Tin Man’s reign of terror. Patrick McLanahan had killed several Wilton residents, whom he suspected of being terrorists. He had misidentified the house as a hideout for meth cookers and terrorists when it was actually rented out by an itinerant farmer, his family of three kids, and his brother’s family with four kids. He had killed several of them, including three children, then set an explosive charge on a propane tank outside, causing the huge explosion.

Jon was stupefied. Their intelligence had been perfect, impeccable, accurate-yet, there it was in black and white: They had made a terrible mistake and eleven people had died because of it. There was a Reuters account, an Associated Press piece about the attack. And there was a big article from the Bee news service about Patrick’s death in the Sacramento County Jail, characterizing it as a kind of “suicide by inmate”-Patrick had apparently sought out a Satan’s Brotherhood prisoner and taunted him into the attack that led to the retaliatory killing. The story suggested he was so schizoid that he thought he still had the suit on-was invulnerable-when he attacked the inmate, proclaiming his i

Jon folded away the paper and sat on the bed, his face a mask of horror. Eleven i

“He’s falling for it,” said Faulkner. With Townsend and Reingruber, he was watching Masters on a closed-circuit TV monitor, broadcast via a pinhole camera in his room. “It was a great idea to have the computer print it out on newsprint. And can you believe how he took in all that crap about me being a doctor from Dartmouth? Now I’m his goddamn best friend. Still, I don’t see why you don’t just beat the information out of him, Colonel. He’s as sensitive as a pansy.”

“Because he will faint at the slightest injury and be quite useless to us,” Townsend replied. “The tank wiped him out. And drugs will only dull his mind, and we need that mind to be as sharp as possible. No, physical or chemical techniques will not work. This is the way to proceed. Scientific genius though he may be, he is obviously not trained in misinformation, propaganda, or interrogation-resistance techniques. He is reaching out for a friend, and he has found one in you, and soon in myself.

“His internal clock should be ru

“I discovered how to plug in the power and turn it on from the outside, and how to keep it recharged,” Faulkner said. “There are sensors inside the helmet that activate functions that are displayed inside. But I’ve got to figure out how to break the code. Well, we can probably get it from him. The way it’s going, you’ll have him babbling like a kid and squawking like a parakeet in no time.”

“There’s no certainty about that,” said Townsend sharply. “These misinformation and psychological techniques are not foolproof. I am relying on you to break the code and activate that suit. Masters can then fill in the pieces. You had better get back to work. We’ll discuss our next scene with Masters when that is done.”

He turned to Reingruber. “Gute Arbeit, Herr Major.”

The major clicked his heels and bowed.

“Status of the target?”

“Still under full security, Colonel,” Reingruber replied. “Departure has been delayed because of the explosion at the ranch. Security has been increased slightly, but not with any specially trained forces.”

“We may have to implement Phase Three of our plan after all,” Townsend said. “We must be sure the targets are not in ferry or decommission configuration. The weapons systems must be in maintenance preload status or else we may not be able to upload all the weapons we require.”

“I understand, Herr Oberst. Our informants are keeping close scrutiny on the targets at all times. The weapons systems remain in full maintenance preload status, and are not expected to go to ferry status until just prior to departure.”

“Very good,” Townsend said. “Keep me advised. Have you been able to get me confirmation on McLanahan’s death? Is it accurate that he was killed by a Satan’s Brotherhood member in the Sacramento County Jail?”

“It is accurate, Herr Oberst. It has been confirmed. The county coroner pronounced him dead this morning, and a state justice-department official also examined the body as well.”

“But not an independent report? I had hoped for word from an outside source, Major,” Townsend said. “Well, we ca

“I do not understand why we are wasting any time with Masters and his suit, sir,” Reingruber said. “It is not essential to our purposes.”

“Because it represents another profit opportunity for us,” Townsend said. “You need not worry, Major. It will not interfere with our timetable. Masters and his contraption are distractions; at best, the suit will prove to be useful. Your task is to keep careful watch on the targets and advise me as soon as they are ready.”

County Morgue,

Sacramento County Coroner’s Office,

Stockton Boulevard and Broadway,

Sacramento, California

the same time

“Welcome to hell, General.”

Patrick McLanahan opened his eyes, blinking through the pain. He saw Hal Briggs’s face beaming at him. “Where am I?”

“Dead,” Briggs replied. “How do you feel?”

“Dead.” Patrick touched his face gingerly and winced at his broken nose. Briggs helped him sit up on the table. “What happened?”

“What happened was either the most elaborate ruse ever created, or the strangest set of circumstances I’ve ever witnessed, General,” said another voice. Patrick was startled to see Sacramento Police Chief Arthur Barona standing next to him. “I’m still trying to make up my mind which is which.”

“You’re at the county morgue, Patrick,” Briggs said. “We set the whole thing up after we listened to your wiretap tapes and heard Captain Chandler talking to Gregory Townsend-that British guy who confronted you…”

“Townsend got to Chandler?” Patrick said.