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  "We will be back in operation within a month, Mr.

  Reynolds," he replied crisply. "And you will address

  me as Colonel or Oberst from now on. I run my

  organization like a military unit, and even my civilian

  subordinates must comply. Now, the fewer

  questions you ask from now on, the better. Follow

  Major Reingruber aboard that helicopter, find a seat,

  strap yourself in, and keep your damn mouth shut."

  CHAPTER ONE.

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  FRIDAY, 19 DECEMBER 1997, 2146 PT

  Patrick Shane McLanahan stood at the head of

  the long table and raised his glass of Cuv6e

  Dom P6rignon. "A toast."

  He waited patiently as the sexy young waitress,

  Donna, finished filling all the glasses-she was

  spending a lot of time at the other end of the table

  with his brother, Paul, he observed with a smile.

  When everybody was ready, he continued, "Ladies

  and gentlemen, please raise your glasses to our honored

  graduate, my little brother, Paul." There was a

  rustle of laughter around the long linen-covered table

  at Biba's Trattoria in downtown Sacramento.

  Patrick's "little" brother, Paul, had seven inches

  and thirty pounds on him.

  The brothers were as different as could be, on the

  inside as well as the outside. Patrick was of just

  below average height, thick and muscular, fairhaired

  , a masculine and worldly version of their

  soft-spoken, sensitive mother. Patrick had graduated

  from California State University at Sacramento

  with a degree -in engineering and a commission in

  the United States Air Force, then was lucky enough

  to stay in Sacramento for the next eight years, becoming

  a navigator student, B-52 Stratofortress navigator

  , radar navigator-bombardier, and instructor

  radar navigator.

  After winning his second consecutive Fairchild

  Trophy in annual "Giant Voice" Air Force bombing

  competitions, confirming his reputation as the best

  bombardier in the U.S. Air Force, Patrick was selected

  for a special assignment as a flight-test engineer

  at a secret Air Force base in central Nevadaand

  then virtually disappeared. Everyone assumed

  he had been assigned to test top-secret warplanes at

  the Air Force's supersecret air base in the deserts of

  central Nevada, called the High Technology Aerospace

  Weapons Center, or HAWC, better known by

  its unclassified nickname, Dreamland. No one

  really knew exactly what he was up to, where he

  was assigned, or what he did to get promoted from

  captain to lieutenant colonel in such a short period

  of time.

  Then, just as suddenly, he was retired and back

  in Sac- ramento tending bar at the family pub with

  his new wife, Wendy, a civilian electronics engineer

  who had been seriously injured in an aircraft accident-again

  , there was very little explanation. No

  one knew exactly what had happened to Patrick or

  Wendy, or why two such successful and rewarding

  careers suddenly ended. Patrick said little about it

  to anyone.

  But then, Patrick preferred not to talk about himself

  or call attention to himself in any way. He was

  a loner, a bookworm, and the "go-to" guy everyone

  wanted on their team, but who never would have

  been chosen as team captain. He even preferred solo

  sports and pastimes, like weight lifting, cycling, and

  reading. Although he was a fit and hearty forty-yearold

  , he could not bowl a strike or hit a softball to

  save his life.

  Paul McLanahan, on the other hand, could hit a

  softball a hundred miles. Although he was fifteen

  years younger than Patrick, in some ways he ap-

  peared to be the older brother: tall, dark, and handsome

  , a more ebullient, electric version of their

  tough,. hard-as-nails father. Paul was the outgoin

  gregarious one, the one who enjoyed the company

  of others, the more the merrier. He had graduated

  with a degree in management from the University

  of California-Davis, and with honors from the UCDavis

  Law School-then startled everyone by applying

  to the police academy while waiting for the results

  of his California bar exams. He surprised

  everyone even more by deciding to stay in the academy

  after learning he passed the bar exam on the

  first try-only twenty percent of all test-takers

  did-and after taking the oath as a new California

  attorney.

  But anyone who knew Paul would agree that being

  confined to a cubicle or law library writing

  briefs, or tongue-lashing some witness on the stand

  in a courtroom, was not his style. He was a team

  player all the way, a natural-born leader, a people

  pe I rson. He'd even refused to sit at the head of the

  table during his own celebration dinner, in the place

  of honor. Instead he grabbed his chair and moved it

  from place to place to be with as many of his friends

  and well-wishers as he could.

  Patrick had not been surprised. The toast could

  wait. But when Paul had finally turned his attention

  from Donna, the two brothers made eye contact

  across the table, and both smiled and exchanged

  wordless salutes.

  I could never do what you are about to do, Patrick

  said to his brother over the telepathic connection

  that bound them. I wish I could care more about

  people the way you do.

  I could never do what you do, Patrick, Paul silently

  responded. You know all there is to know

  about machines and systems that I could never un-

  derstand in a million years. I wish I could know

  more about science and technology the way you do.

  Patrick tipped his champagne flute to his brother

  in a silent response: I'll teach you, bro. Paul tipped

  his glass as well: I'll teach you, bro.

  "Paul, you're carrying on a tradition of McLanaban

  cops in the city or county of Sacramento that

  dates back almost a hundred and fifty years," Patrick

  began proudly. "Back in 1850, our great-greatgreat-great-grandfather

  Shane traded in his gold pan,

  pickax, and pack mule for a lawman's star because

  he saw his town sliding into lawlessness. He knew

  he had to do something about it--or maybe he

  found out that the gold nuggets weren't just lying

  around in the streets the way everyone back in the

  old country said. We don't really know.

  "Anyway, Grandpa Shane could have kept on

  panning and maybe would have made enough to

  buy himself a big ranch in the valley that he could

  have handed down to us so we'd all be stinking rich

  today, but he didn't . . ." Patrick paused, then

  added, "So why in the heck am I even mentioning

  him?" When the laughter died down, Patrick went

  on, "But since Grandpa Shane pinned on that star

  and became the ninth sworn lawman in the city's

  history, there have been six consecuti
ve generations

  of McLanahan lawmen or women in Sacramento.

  Paul, you represent the first of the seventh generation

  to join them.

  "We all realize, grudgingly, that with your brains

  or skills or good looks or dumb luck or whatever it

  is you've got, you could have gone into business, or

  law, or anything else you desired," Patrick went on.

  "Instead, you decided to go into law enforcement.

  Someone not as charitable as I am could accuse you

  of pulling another Grandpa Shane, that if you went

  into business or law you'd make enough of the

  really big bucks to support your mother and your

  dear loving siblings." His face and tone turned Serious

  : "We also know the dangers of your decision.

  The names of two McLanahans, UncleMick and

  Grandpa Kelly, are on the Sacramento Peace Officers

  Memorial, and we all know the McLanahan

  families that have had troubles, or have even been

  destroyed, because of the stresses of the job.

  "But we all know that you're following a dream

  that's been twenty-two years in the making, ever

  since Dad first let you hit the siren on his old squad

  car," Patrick went on proudly. "We are here to celebrate

  your decision and wish you the very best.

  Congratulations for graduating, and congratulations

  for being awarded the City's Finest Recruit Award

  for being first in your graduating class in all areas,

  and for being chosen Most Inspirational Recruit by

  your fellow grads. Good luck, good hunting, and

  thanks for making this commitment to your city

  and your neighbors. Cheers." The rest of the invited

  guests and many of the patrons at surrounding tables

  shouted, "Cheers!" and they took a deep sip of

  the champagne.

  "And now, with all due respect to our gracious

  and beautiful hostess, Miss Biba, we will adjourn

  this social gathering and reconvene at a proper establishment

  , the Shamrock Pub on the waterfront,

  for the real celebration," Patrick said with a grin.

  The owner, Biba Caggiano, tried with her generous

  smile to persuade the partisan crowd to stay, but it

  was no use. Biba's and the Shamrock were both

  longtime Sacramento landmarks, but for entirely

  different reasons-Biba's meant fine food, fine atmosphere

  , and elegance, and the Shamrock-informally

  known as McLanahan's-didn't.

  "The rule at McLanahan's tonight is, as I'm sure

  every cop in town is well aware," Patrick reminded

  them, "that if you carry a badge, your money's no

  good-except maybe for the chief, that is." That remark

  earned Patrick a raucous round of applause.

  "The primary purpose of reconvening this gathering

  at the Shamrock is to get young Probationary Officer

  McLanahan accustomed to working the graveyard

  shift, since that's where he will most likely be

  for the next several months on the force. So we

  must all do our part and stay up until dawn with

  Officer McLanahan and his buddies so they can get

  a good idea of what it's like to see the sun rise at the

  end of the day. Lastly, we meet there to prove the

  old Irish maxim: God invented liquor so the Irish

  wouldn't rule the world. It's time to prove how correct

  that saying can be. Last civilian at the bar buys

  it!" With a flurry of kisses for Biba, the crowd

  headed for the waiting taxis that would take them

  to the second half of the evening's festivities.

  Its real name was the Shamrock, but everyone

  knew it either as McLanahan's or the Sarge's Place,

  after Patrick's father's rank when he retired as a

  Sacramento police officer and ran the bar. Whatever

  its name, it was one of a handful of bar-and-grills in

  the downtown area that catered to cops, kept cop

  schedules, and was attuned to what was going on in

  the law-enforcement community. It was known to

  sometimes be open at Six A.m., right around

  graveyard-shift change after a particularly busy or

  bloody night, or on a Sunday evening after a cop's

  wake. Although it was no longer fully owned by the

  McLanahan family, Patrick, as de facto head of the

  clan-their mother, Maureen, was now retired and

  lived in Scottsdale, Arizona-was tasked to pour the

  first round of Irish whiskey, and they raised their

  glasses to the new crop of California peace officers

  who had graduated earlier that day.

  He poured a lot of whiskey that night. Most of

  the academy grads, and all of them with assignments

  in the Sacramento area, were there, along

  with dozens of active, reserve, and retired cops from

  all sorts of agencies, from the Sacramento Unified

  School District Police to the FBI; and McLanahan's

  extended its invitation to party to anyone who carried

  a badge into harm's way'or in support of law

  enforcement-which included a few firemen, parole

  and probation enforcement officers, dispatchers,

  and even district attorneys and DA investigators.

  Everyone was welcome to join in the party-but

  cops give off a definite air of distrust bordering on

  hostility to anyone they don't recognize as one of

  their own, so no outsiders dared venture toward the

  free drinks. Not that any cop actually prevented a

  civilian from going near the bar; it was simply made

  clear by the eye signals and body language that the

  free drinks were for cops only.

  As they had been for the past twenty-two weeks,

  the grads were together at one very large table, passing

  frosty pitchers of beer around and accepting

  congratulations and words of encouragement and

  advice from well-wishers. Although the academy

  was run by the city of Sacramento, only seven of the

  fifty-two graduates were going to the Sacramento

  Police Department: eleven were going to the Sacramento

  County Sheriff's Department; fifteen others

  to other California police, sheriff's, and different

  law-enforcement agencies. The remaining nineteen

  graduates had no positions waiting for them: They

  had paid their own way to attend the five-month

  program, half junior college, half boot-camp academy

  , hoping to be hired by one of the agencies

  sometime in the future. Needless to say, they took

  full advantage of the free drinks and aggressively

  buttonholed the highest-ranking officers they could

  find, hoping to meet an influential sergeant or administrator

  and make a favorable impression.

  The target of most of the jokes and abuse that

  night was the honor grad, Paul Leo McLanahan. Every

  veteran cop wanted a piece of him, wanted the

  opportunity to see what the number one grad of

  the latest crop of "squeaks" (so named because of

  the sound of the leather of their brand-new Sam

  Browne utility belts) was made of. Paul did the one

  thing that raised the blood pressure of most of his

  tormentors: He was polite. He called them "sir" or />
  Iima'am" or by their rank if he knew it. He gracefully

  extricated himself if he was in danger of being

  drawn into an argument---'So what do you think of

  the fucking chief?"-a drinking contest-"Stop sipping

  that beer, rookie, and have a bourbon with us

  like a real man!"-or an arm-wrestling match-

  "Hey, I'll show you a good short guy can take a big

  guy any day!" When Paul entered an argument, it

  was to pull a friend away from the confrontation or

  to keep it from getting out of hand; when he walked

  away, he made it look to everyone as if he was on

  their side.

  Paul had come around behind the bar to help Patrick

  and Wendy wash some mugs and shot glasses,

  and he saw his big brother grinning at him. "What?"

  "You," Patrick said. "Sometimes I can't believe

  you're the same kid who used to drop out of trees

  and ambush me or your sisters. You're so laid back,

  so damned . . . what? Diplomatic."

  "That's the main thing they taught us, Patricksometimes

  what you do in the first few seconds of a

  conflict, or even before you arrive on the scene, will

  determine the outcome," Paul said, finishing the

  glasses and giving his sister-in-law an appreciated

  shoulder massage. "Go in pissed off, hard charging,

  and kick-ass, and everyone rises to the challenge

  and wants to kick ass too, and before you know it

  the fight's on. Being polite takes the wind out of

  most guys' sails-you call a guy 'sir' enough times

  and sound like you mean it, and he'll go away from

  sheer boredom."

  "Nah. I'd just pull out my gun and shoot 'im,"

  Patrick joked.

  "That's the absolute last option, bro," Paul said

  seriously. "Dad told me that in thirty-two years on

  the force, he'd only been involved in a half-dozen

  shooting incidents, and he regretted firing every

  bullet even though he used it to protect his life or

  that of another cop. There are guys on the force who

  have never fired their weapons except at the range. I

  want to be one of those guys."

  "In this city? I doubt it," Wendy said dryly.

  Wendy McLanahan was very close to term, but she

  didn't show it at all-her belly pooched out only a

  little, which made it hard for most folks to believe

  she was due in less than three weeks. She wore