Santo Porte, California
that same time
“It appears you were correct, Colonel,” Reingruber said as Gregory Townsend rushed into the command center at the hideout in the Sierra Nevada foothills near Santo Porte after being awakened by his excited deputy. “We are receiving news reports from Sacramento about some invasion-style assaults on drug houses and Satan’s Brotherhood locations in the city.”
“Is it any of our men?” Townsend asked. “Are your men accounted for, Major?”
“Ja, Herr Oberst,” Reingruber replied. “All of my strike teams reported in and are returning. It is not any of my men.”
“Any indication on who’s behind these attacks?” Towns-end asked as he sat down in front of the bank of television sets. “Is it the Mexican drug gangs? Rival biker gangs?”
“There are no specific reports, sir,” Reingruber replied. “Reports of a few bikers injured, one casualty. Indications are that police had brief gunfights with the intruders, but there were no reports of arrests. However, one team reported contact with a lone, strangely outfitted unidentified police officer or military security officer. One of my men was seriously injured in a scuffle with him.”
“Was he a National Guard soldier?” Townsend asked. “A police SWAT officer?”
“He could not verify exactly who it was, sir,” Reingruber said. “He did manage to wound him, but he reports that the unidentified man’s uniform had some unusual characteristics. In addition, reports we have heard on police frequencies indicate that this was the same figure involved in the invasion-style attacks, and that the outfit the unidentified officer was wearing is like full-body bullet-resistant armor.”
Townsend was intrigued. “A new military technology, in use by National Guard troops but deployed on the street in a civil mission?” he mused. “I must get as many details as possible on this armor. Where are your men who encountered this man?”
“It will be several hours before the teams return, Herr Oberst. They are executing full evasion procedures in enemy territory.”
“I want to talk with that team as soon as it arrives,” Townsend said. He thought for a moment. “This is a good sign. I see frustrated and maybe even fearful police, perhaps rival gangs trying to move in on the drug trade in the city or vigilantes or militia taking to the streets, and angry citizens demanding that something be done. It is beginning to look as though the city is starting to rip itself apart, Major. Any reports from the target area?”
“Still normal activity, sir,” Reingruber replied. “Departure appears to be within the week.”
“They will soon have no choice but to accelerate their departure,” Townsend said. “It will happen in the next few days. Get your men ready to move.”
Patrick McLanahan was hiding between two Dumpsters behind a minimall just off Stockton Boulevard when Jon Masters pulled up in the Hummer. He had driven there when he noticed on the satellite tracking system that Patrick had not moved in several minutes. Patrick unfastened his helmet, then slid into the backseat. “How did it go?” Jon asked. Patrick did not reply. “The tracking device in the suit worked perfectly. I had a map of your every move. The undegraded GPS signals pinpointed you within six feet.” Still no response. “Lots of police around,” Jon added. “I thought we’d head the opposite way, east, toward Florin-Perkins Road.”
“Just get us out of here,” Patrick said.
“Patrick, there are police everywhere…”
“I’ve been monitoring the police frequency,” Patrick said. “The police are setting up a perimeter in the Rosalee subdivision between Stockton Boulevard and Sixty-fifth Street. Head west on Thirty-seventh Avenue and we should miss the outer-perimeter roadblocks on Stockton Boulevard and Lemon Hill Avenue.” Patrick was filled with a burning rage. “Man, I knew Sacramento had problems, but I never dreamed it was this bad,” he went on. “The drugs, the abuse, the violence-they’re beyond belief. It’s like a battle zone.”
“I’m just glad you’re in one piece, bro,” Masters said. “I was worried.” He went south on Stockton Boulevard. They could see a knot of headlights and blue flashing lights up ahead and guessed it was the first police roadblock. Jon made a right onto Thirty-seventh Avenue and Patrick steered him through neighborhood streets, hoping the turn hadn’t attracted attention. Before long they were safely headed northbound toward downtown Sacramento. “How did it go, Patrick?” Jon repeated. “Why didn’t you rendezvous with me?”
Patrick started the generator in the back of the Hummer, then retrieved the power cord from the generator and plugged it in. But the backpack power unit was not charging, and the environmental system was completely shut down. “The suit’s damaged,” he replied. “A knife cut it. I lost the environmental control system and power drained out at three to four times the normal rate. I was lucky to get out of there.” Patrick took a deep breath and leaned back against the headrest. “I think I hurt a little girl too,” he said.
“What? Oh no, Patrick! Christ-how did it happen?”
“The bomb,” Patrick explained. “The bomb I used to bust open the front door destroyed part of the bathroom where the little girl was.”
“They had a child in there, where they sell and make drugs? How badly was she hurt? Did you call an ambulance?”
“Yes,” Patrick responded. “She was bleeding, a little shocky-but she screamed pure holy terror when she saw me.” Jon was relieved; a child’s death would have been unendurable. “Jon, you should have seen that house. It was filthy. The child, she was sleeping in a bedroom that they used to make drugs. I could smell the chemicals. She was sleeping on garbage, eating leftovers off the floor, breathing fumes that would’ve knocked out an adult. It was horrible…”
“Patrick, it’s all right,” Masters said. “For all you know, you might have saved her life by doing that raid. You didn’t put a child in harm’s way. They did.” He paused, unsure whether to ask Patrick what he wanted to know; then: “What happened with the suit? How was it damaged?”
“It was a knife attack,” Patrick replied. “I was struggling with this guy who looked like a commando, complete with face mask, combat harness, the works. He pulled a knife. I grabbed his arm, but I couldn’t stop him, he was too strong. The blade touched the suit and just went right on through. Power levels dropped off sharply after that, but the system remained intact. But I also discovered that the cops could wrestle with me and win. Any slow action and the suit couldn’t activate. I barely got out of there without being handcuffed.”
“It must be the nature of the BERP process,” Jon surmised. “We never tested the system with a soft or slowly penetrating force, only a sharp impact. The same characteristic of the suit that allows you to move freely means that a slowly penetrating force won’t activate the electro-reactive collimation.”
“So a bomb blast won’t kill me,” Patrick said, “but a knitting needle pushed in slowly will go through my heart with ease?”
“We should be able to fix that,” Jon said, cringing at the image. “We might be able to have you selectively harden sections of the suit. What about the power levels?”
“Dropped way down after the cut in the suit,” Patrick said again, “especially after being hit repeatedly.”
“Hit?”
“Hit… as in shot,” Patrick said.
Jon’s gulp was audible. “How many times were you shot, Patrick?”
Patrick took a moment to count. “About a dozen times in the space of six minutes. Plus I got hit by a baseball bat a couple of times and bitten by a pit bull-I nearly killed it too.” He said all this so matter-of-factly, Jon noticed, that he could have been a piece of stone relating what had happened.