At least now I’ve got a good excuse why I’m late getting home, he thought to himself.

Research and Development Facility,

Sacramento-Mather Jetport,

Rancho Cordova, California

Friday, 27 March 1998, 0052 FT

Sacramento-Mather Jetport has two runways, one eleven thousand feet in length, the other six thousand, both one hundred and fifty feet wide. The old Strategic Air Command alert-aircraft “Christmas tree” parking area-so named because from the air it somewhat resembled a tree-was only two thousand feet long from the end of the ramp to where the throat of the taxiway joined Runway 22 Left. It wasn’t even a proper runway, because there was a steep drop from the alert ramp down to the runway. But it was more than adequate for this particular aircraft.

Its nickname was Skywalker. Carried in three sections on board one of Sky Masters, Inc.’s transport aircraft from the company’s production facility in Arkansas, together with its self-contained control module, it was delivered to Mather Jetport and reassembled by two men inside one of the hangars at the research and development facility Sky Masters had leased. Skywalker resembled a manta ray, with long, thin, tapered forward-swept wings and a large oblong fuselage. Its skin was fibersteel, a composite material stronger than steel but non-radar-reflective, so it was invisible to radar. It had two small, efficient propjet engines and enough fuel to fly for several hours.

Skywalker’s other nickname was HEARSE, which stood for High Endurance Aerial Reconnaissance and Surveillance Equipment. It carried almost half a ton of sophisticated all-weather sensors and communications equipment. It could photograph an object the size of a rabbit from thousands of feet in the air in any weather, and beam the pictures in real time to a ground station or command aircraft.

Under cover of darkness and a light springtime drizzle, Skywalker’s engines were started up and it was taxied to the end of the alert parking ramp. A push of a button activated its preprogrammed flight plan and it zoomed down the parking ramp, airborne before it reached the end of the throat. It made a steep left turn away from the buildings over the airport and continued its climb southwestbound. The aircraft had a small transmitter, similar to a light plane’s transponder, that would send out a “ 1200” code to allow air traffic controllers to “see” it and help any aircraft flying in the area avoid it. To anyone on the ground, however, the plane was invisible.

This was Skywalker’s third flight since arriving at Mather Jetport earlier in the week. In its first six-hour flight alone, it had photographed the majority of south Sacramento County, about six hundred square miles. The second flight was used to pinpoint specific locations and to provide comparison photographs that would show activity at any of the targeted locations.

This third flight was not designed for reconnaissance-it was designed for surveillance. The target had been pinpointed. Skywalker would now be used to watch over the target area as tonight’s mission got under way.

Special Investigations Division Headquarters,

Bercut Drive, Sacramento, California

the same time

The side door rattled, clunked awkwardly, then closed. It sounded as though yet another surveillance team was coming in to do its debrief before heading home. Tom Chandler thought he’d sit in on the debrief, show the troops that the old man was still on the job, then go home and get some rack time before beginning the shit all over again in about six hours. Just as he was getting up there was a knock on his door. “Come.”

The door swung open. Chandler nearly jumped out of his skin. There, standing before him, was the guy. The vigilante. The… whoever it was. It was him. He fit the description provided by Chandler’s Narcotics officers exactly: dark gray outfit resembling a wetsuit, full-face high-tech helmet, backpack, the works.

He entered the office and closed the door behind him. Chandler drew his SIG Sauer P226 automatic from his shoulder holster and aimed it at the apparition. Neither spoke for a moment. Then Chandler said, “Well, well, if it isn’t the Tin Man. You know, that’s what the guys in my division are calling you now. We’ve been looking for you. Who the hell are you?”

“A friend,” the intruder replied in an electronically altered voice.

“What do you want?”

“To give you information.”

Chandler blinked in surprise, but kept the gun level. “Why the outfit? Why the disguise?”

“A German-speaking commando was at the Rosalee drug house last week,” the guy said, ignoring Chandler’s question. “He was the one who murdered the biker, not me. And a biker at the Bobby John Club told me that Mullins was hired by a German-speaking gang to help in the Sacramento Live! robbery. Those two guys with the broken legs that you let go-they were Germans. That’s the tie-in you were looking for…”

But Chandler wasn’t interested in the Tin Man’s theories. “You’re under arrest, bub,” he said. “You’re wanted for the murder of that biker, plus attempted murder of my police officers and a couple of civilians, for breaking and entering, assault, battery, malicious mayhem, and trespassing.”

“I won’t allow you to arrest me,” the guy said matter-of-factly. “Your officers tried. You can shoot me if you like. It won’t hurt me. But as I told your officers: I didn’t kill that sonofabitch biker. Although after I saw what kind of conditions he kept that kid in, I wish I had.”

“Is that so?” Chandler asked. “Listen, mister, you can tell all that to the judge. You’re under arrest. Turn and face the wall, hands behind your back.”

“Chandler, you will not be able to arrest me,” the Tin Man said. “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t want to fight you-I’m trying to assist you. I’ll do anything I need to do to prove I’m on your side. But you can’t arrest me.”

“Bullshit,” Chandler said, holstering his weapon. “My guys told me you can be had.” He reached out and grabbed the guy’s right wrist with a come-along hold. He had been practicing various holds just in case he ever encountered him.

But the guy simply reached over with his left hand and, as though he were swatting a mosquito, smacked Chandler’s hand. It was only a tap, but it felt as though the hand had been sandwiched between the bumpers of two crashing cars. He jerked it away in pain. “Motherfucker!” He drew the gun and aimed it again, stepping back so the guy couldn’t reach it. “No more shitting around, asshole! Turn around, hands behind your back!”

“Don’t waste your bullets, Chandler,” the Tin Man said. He picked up a letter opener from the desk, held it in both hands, and plunged it into his chest. The blade bent, then snapped. He picked up a silver pen and jabbed it into his arm, and it broke in two. “You tell me when you’re convinced you won’t be able to hurt me, Chandler,” the guy said.

“All right, all right!” Chandler said. “Don’t wreck everything on my desk.” He started running through the suspect identification and memorization checklist in his head: height, weight, build, age, voice, other distinguishing characteristics. The guy sounded white, male, maybe late thirties, but it was almost impossible to tell much with the electronically altered voice. The suit might have increased his height and weight, so maybe five seven to five eight and medium build. Keep him here until help arrives…

“Now what, big shot? Are you going to break my head and my shoulder bones like you did those bikers’?”

“No,” the Tin Man said. “I came here to deliver my information, and to tell you I’m going after the ones responsible for the violence in this city. I can do it without your help, but I prefer to work with you.”