The Tin Man by Dale Brown Page B

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 Jet-port, 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
    P aul 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 sweatyforehead. 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 turtleneck 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 “SacramentoPolice” 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 great-grandfather’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