movements.”
“Can I go pee first?” Macomber asked.
“After the lavatory has been inspected and the K-9 passes through the cabin,” the officer replied.
“How long will that be?”
“Just cooperate.” The guard began to walk the dog down the aisle, touching the seat pockets and motioning under and between the seats, indicating where he wanted the dog to sniff.
“Nice doggie,” Wayne said when the dog came to him.
“No talking to the K-9,” the officer said. Macomber smiled, then scowled in reply.
“Cockpit is clear,” the first security officer said. He began inspecting the galley and lavatory, finishing a few minutes later.
“C’mon, guy, I’m going to explode over here.”
“No talking,” the second officer said. It took another three minutes for the K-9 to finish. “You may get up and exit the plane,” the second officer announced. “You must proceed directly to the officer outside, who will match you up with your passports and identification papers. Leave all belongings on the plane.”
“Can I use the can first?”
The second security guard looked like he was going to say no, but the first guard waved a hand. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” he said. Macomber rushed to the lavatory while the others filed out. The second officer continued his inspection in the rear of the cabin among the cargo containers.
It was controlled bedlam outside the plane. The security officers were using forklifts to unload containers from the cargo holds underneath the plane, which K-9s sniffed around. The crew could see K-9s sitting before some of the containers; these were marked and brought to a separate area of an adjacent hangar. Another officer checked each passport with its owner, then had each person wait with the others nearby, under the watchful eye of an armed security officer.
Kris Thompson came over a short time later and looked at the group of passengers. “Where’s Macomber?”
“Still in the lavatory,” Charlie Turlock replied. “He’s not a strong flier.”
Thompson looked over to the air stairs. “Chuck? What’s going on up there?”
“A lot of grunting, groaning, and brown clouds,” the first security officer waiting for Macomber replied.
“Hurry him up.” Thompson turned back to Charlie. “Can you help me with the manifest, miss?” he asked. “There are a few discrepancies I’m hoping you can clear up for me.”
“Sure. I’m familiar with all the stuff on board.” She followed Thompson along to the various piles of containers.
Up in the cabin, the first security officer said, “Let’s go, buddy.”
“Almost done.” The officer heard sounds of flushing, then running water, and the lavatory door was unlocked. Even before the door was fully open, the unbearable odors within made the officer gasp for breath. “Jeez, buddy, what in hell were you eating on this—”
Macomber hit him once on the left temple with his right fist, knocking him unconscious without another sound. He quickly dragged the officer forward, put him on the cockpit floor, closed the door, then went back to the cabin and stripped off the security tape around the first life raft container.
Outside the plane, Thompson motioned to different piles of containers. “These are clear and match with the manifest,” he said to Charlie, “but these here don’t match.” He motioned to a large pile of containers across the taxiway in the hangar, now under armed guard. “The dogs alerted to either drugs or explosives in those, and they didn’t match the manifest either. The manifest doesn’t mention you bringing in explosives.”
“Well, they’re certainly not drugs,” Charlie said. “There’s a perfectly good explanation for all these undocumented containers.”
“Good.”
Charlie motioned to the squarish containers. “These are CID battery packs,” she explained. “There are four pairs of battery packs in each case. Each pair attaches to recesses behind the thighs. Those other containers have battery packs, too, but they’re for Tin Man units. They’re worn in pairs on the belt.”
“CID? Tin Man? What’s that?”
“CID stands for Cybernetic Infantry Device,” Charlie said matter-of-factly. “A CID is a piloted combat robot. Tin Man is a nickname for a commando who is enclosed in a suit of armor called BERP, or Ballistic Electronically Reactive Process. The suit has an exoskeleton that gives the commando increased strength, and the BERP material makes him invulnerable to…well, any infantry-and squad-level weapon and even some light artillery. The stuff over there is the mission packs for the CID units, some of which contain grenade and UAV launchers.” She smiled at the shocked expression on Thompson’s face. “Are you getting all this?”
“Are…are you joking, miss?” Thompson stammered. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“No joke,” Charlie said. “Watch. I’ll show you.” She turned to a large, irregularly shaped device about the size of a refrigerator and spoke, “CID One, activate.” Before Thompson’s disbelieving eyes, the device began to unfold piece by piece, until seconds later a ten-foot-tall robot stood before him. “That’s a CID.” She turned and motioned to the top of the air stairs. “And
“CID One, pilot up,” she said. The robot crouched down, extended a leg and both arms backward, and a hatch popped open on its back. “Have a nice day,” Charlie said, patting Thompson on the shoulder, then climbed up the extended leg and inside the robot. The hatch closed, and seconds later the robot came to life, moving just like a person with incredible smoothness and animation.
“Now, sir”—the robot spoke in a man’s voice through a hidden speaker with a low electronically synthesized voice—“order your men not to interfere with me or the Tin Man. We’re not going to hurt you. We’re going to—”
At that moment someone inside the plane yelled, “Freeze or I’ll send my dog!” The Tin Man turned inside the cargo compartment, and immediately shots could be heard. Thompson saw the Tin Man flinch, but he didn’t go down.
“Oh, my, that wasn’t a good idea,” the woman inside the CID robot said. “Whack really hates getting shot at.”
The Tin Man didn’t raise any weapon, but Thompson saw a bright flash of light briefly illuminate the cargo compartment of the plane. No more shots were heard. The Tin Man jumped from the plane to the tarmac as easily as stepping off a curb. He motioned to one of the men being guarded and jabbed a finger at the plane. “Terry, suit up. Jose, climb aboard.” He electronically searched his list of radio frequencies stored in onboard computer memory. “General? Whack here.”
“Hi, Whack,” Patrick replied. “Welcome to Iraq.”
“We dropped trou and the shit’s bound to hit the fan real soon. Do something to calm the grunts unless you want a fight on your hands.”
“I’m on my way to the ramp. I’ll get Masters, Noble, and the rest of the Scion guys to help you. I’m sure we’ll meet Colonel Wilhelm out there shortly.”
“No doubt. We’re sorting out the—”
“
“Excuse me one sec, General,” Macomber radioed. Again, the Tin Man did not move or even look at the officer, but Thompson saw a blue lightning bolt arc from the Tin Man’s right shoulder and hit the security officer square in the chest, immediately knocking him unconscious.
The Tin Man stepped over to Thompson. The other security officers around them were all frozen in surprise; a few backed up and ran off to warn others. None of them even dared to reach for a weapon. The Tin Man grabbed Thompson by his jacket and lifted him off the ground, jamming his armored head right in Thompson’s face. “Did Charlie here tell you to tell your men we’re not going to hurt anyone here as long as you leave us alone?” Thompson was too stunned to reply. “I suggest you get your head out of your ass, get on the radio, and tell your men and the Army guys to stay in their barracks and leave us alone, or else we might hurt someone. And they better not have broken any of our stuff, the way they’re driving those forklifts.” He dropped Thompson and let him scurry clear.
Macomber electronically scanned the radio frequencies detected by his sensors built into the CID unit and
