“What do they want with me?”
“We’re not sure,” Wohl said, “but he’s on some sort of campaign against the McLanahans. He had agents break into your father’s crypt and steal his urn and other items inside.”
“What? When did this happen?”
“Last Saturday morning.”
“Last Saturday! Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Wohl did not answer. “What about my aunts? Were they told?”
“No. We have them under surveillance as well. We think they’re safe.”
“Safe? Safe like me? Those guys had guns and they got into the house. They said they’d kill me.”
“They tried to make it look like an accident, a drug overdose,” Wohl said. “They were sloppy. We detected them a couple days ago. We haven’t detected anyone around your sisters. They might not know about them, or they might not be targets.”
“Who’s ‘we’? Are you the police? FBI? CIA?”
“No.”
Brad waited several moments for some elaboration but never received any. “Whom do you work for, Sergeant Major?”
Wohl took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Your father belonged to several . . . private organizations before he took over at Sky Masters,” he said. “Those organizations did contract work for the government and other entities, using some new technologies and weapon systems designed for the military.”
“The Tin Man armor and Cybernetic Infantry Device manned robots,” Brad said matter-of-factly. Wohl’s head snapped over in surprise, and Brad could feel rather than see the big man’s breathing slow to a stop. “I know about them. I was even trained in the CID. I piloted one back in Battle Mountain. Some Russians tried to assassinate my father. I squished them up inside a car.”
“Shit,” Wohl murmured under his breath. “You’ve piloted a CID?”
“Sure did,” Brad said with a big smile.
Wohl shook his head. “Liked it, didn’t you?”
“They shot up my house looking for my father,” Brad said, a little defensively. “I’d do it again if I had to.” He paused for a few moments, then added, “But yes, I did. The CID is one heck of a piece of hardware. We should be building thousands of them.”
“The power gets to you,” Wohl said. “Your father’s friend—and mine—General Hal Briggs got drunk on it, and it killed him. Your father ordered me to do . . . missions with the CID and Tin Man outfits, and we were successful, but I could see how the power was affecting me, so I quit.”
“My father didn’t die in a CID robot.”
“I know exactly what happened out on Guam,” Wohl said. “He disregarded the safety of his unit and even his own son to strike back at the Chinese. Why? Because he had a bomber and weapons, and he decided on his own to use them. It was nothing but a pinprick . . .”
“The Chinese gave up right after the strike, didn’t they?”
“Some Chinese military and civilian leaders staged a countercoup days after the attack,” Wohl said. “It had nothing to do with your attack. It was a coincidence.”
“I guess you’re the expert,” Brad said. Wohl shook his head but said nothing. “Who do you work for, Sergeant Major?” Brad repeated.
“I’m not here to answer a bunch of questions, McLanahan,” Wohl snapped. “My orders were to intercept the hit team and keep you safe. That’s it.”
“I’m not leaving campus, Sergeant Major,” Brad said. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“I don’t give a shit,” Wohl said. “My orders are to keep you safe.”
“Orders? Whose orders?” No reply. “If you’re not going to answer, then I’ll speak to your boss. But I can’t leave school. I just started.” Wohl remained silent. After a few minutes, Brad repeated, “How long did you work for my father?”
“For a while,” Wohl said after a few moments. “And I didn’t work for him: I was under his command, his noncommissioned officer in charge.”
“You don’t sound happy about it.”
Wohl glanced in Brad’s direction, then turned back and looked out the window, and was silent for several long moments; then, finally: “After . . . after your mother was killed, your father . . . changed,” Wohl said in a quiet voice. “In all the years I’ve known him, he was always a guy on a mission, hard-charging and kick-ass, but . . .” He took another deep breath before continuing: “But after your mother was killed, he took on a meaner, deadlier edge. It was no longer about protecting the nation or winning a conflict, but about . . . killing, even killing or threatening Americans, anyone who stood in the way of victory. The power he was given seemed to be going to his head, even after he quit Scion Aviation International and got the corporate job at Sky Masters. I put up with it for a while until I thought it was getting out of control, and then I quit.”
“Quit? Why didn’t you try to help him instead?”