Jack Ryan 2 - Patriot Games (20 page)

“Another beer for a brother Marine.” A glass was handed to Ryan by another of the warders. “Surely you've had enough of this para prima donna by now.”

“Bert's one of the Marines I told you about,” Evans explained.

“I never say bad things about somebody who buys the drinks,” Ryan told Bert.

“That is an awfully sensible attitude. Are you sure you were only a lieutenant?”

“Only for three months.” Jack explained about the helicopter crash.

“That was bad luck. Bloody training accidents,” Evans said. “More dangerous than combat.”

“So you guys work as tour guides here?”

“That's part of it,” the other warder said. “It's a good way to keep one's hand in, and also to educate the odd lieutenant. Just last week I spoke to one of the Welsh Guards chaps -- he was having trouble getting things right, and I gave him a suggestion.”

“The one thing you really miss,” Evans agreed. “Teaching those young officers to be proper soldiers. Who says the best diplomats work at Whitehall?”

“I never got the feeling that I was completely useless as a second lieutenant,” Jack observed with a smile.

“All depends on one's point of view,” the other yeoman said. “Still and all, you might have worked out all right, judging by what you did on The Mall.”

“I don't know, Bert. A lieutenant with a hero complex is not the sort of chap you want to be around. They keep doing the damnedest things. But I suppose the ones who survive, and learn, do work out as you say. Tell me. Lieutenant Ryan, what have you learned?”

“Not to get shot. The next time I'll just shoot from cover.”

“Excellent.” Bob Hallston rejoined them. “And don't leave one alive behind you,” he added. The SAS wasn't noted for leaving people alive by accident.

Cathy didn't like this sort of talk. “Gentlemen, you can't just kill people like that.”

“The Lieutenant took rather a large chance, ma'am, not the sort of chance that one will walk away from very often. If there is ever a next time -- and there won't be, of course. But if there is, you can act like a policeman or a soldier, but not both. You're very lucky to be alive, young man. You have that arm to remind you just how lucky you are. It is good to be brave, Lieutenant. It is better to be smart, and much less painful for those around you,” Evans said. He looked down at his beer. “Dear God, how many times have I said that!”

“How many times have we all said it?” Bert said quietly. “And the pity is, so many of them didn't listen. Enough of that. This lovely lady doesn't want to hear the ramblings of tired old men. Bob tells me that you are expecting another child. In two months, I shall be a grandfather for the first time.”

“Yes, he can hardly wait to show us the pictures.” Evans laughed. “A boy or a girl this time?”

“Just so all the pieces are attached, and they all work.” There was general agreement on the point. Ryan finished off his third beer of the evening. It was pretty strong stuff, and he was getting a buzz from it. “Gentlemen, if any of you come to America, and happen to visit the Washington area, I trust you will let us know.”

“And the next time you are in London, the bar is open,” Tom Hughes said. The Chief Warder was back in civilian clothes, but carrying his uniform bonnet, a hat whose design went back three or four centuries. “And perhaps you'll find room in your home for this. Sir John, with the thanks of us all.”

“I'll take good care of this.” Ryan took the hat, but couldn't bring himself to put it on. He hadn't earned that right.

“Now, I regret to say that if you don't leave now, you'll be stuck here all night. At midnight all the doors are shut, and that is that.”

Jack and Cathy shook hands all around, then followed Hughes and Murray out the door.

The walk between the inner and outer walls was still quiet, the air still cold, and Jack found himself wondering if ghosts walked the Tower Grounds at night. It was almost --

“What's that?” He pointed to the outer wall. A spectral shape was walking up there.

“A sentry,” Hughes said. “After the Ceremony of the Keys, the guards don their pattern-disruptive clothing.” They passed the sentry at the Bloody Tower, now dressed in camouflage fatigues, with web gear and ammo pouches.

“Those rifles are loaded now, aren't they?” Jack asked.

“Not very much use otherwise, are they? This is a very safe place,” Hughes replied.

Nice to know that some places are, Ryan thought. Now why did I think that?

The Speedway Lounge at Heathrow Airport's Terminal 4 was relaxing enough, or would have been had Jack not been nervous about flying. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows he could see the Concorde he'd be taking home in a few minutes. The designers had given their creation the aspect of a living creature, like some huge, merciless bird of prey, a thing of fearful beauty. It sat there at the end of the Jetway atop its unusually high landing gear, staring at Ryan impassively over its daggerlike nose.

“I wish the Bureau would let me commute back and forth on that baby,” Murray observed.

“It's pretty!” Sally Ryan agreed.

It's just another goddamned airplane. Jack told himself. You can't see what holds it up. Jack didn't remember whether it was Bernoulli's Principle or the Venturi Effect, but he knew that it was something inferred, not actually seen, that enabled aircraft to fly. He remembered that something had interrupted the Principle or Effect over Crete and nearly killed him, and that nineteen months later that same something had reached up and killed his parents five thousand feet short of the runway at Chicago's O'Hare International Airport. Intellectually he knew that his Marine helicopter had died of a mechanical failure, and that commercial airliners were simpler and easier to maintain than CH-46s. He also knew that bad weather had been the main contributing factor in his parents' case -- and the weather here was clear -- but to Ryan there was something outrageous about flying, something unnatural.

Fine, Jack. Why not go back to living in caves and hunting bear with a pointed stick? What's natural about teaching history, or watching TV, or driving a car? Idiot.

But I hate to fly, Ryan reminded himself.

“There has never been an accident in the Concorde,” Murray pointed out. “And Jimmy Owens's troops gave the bird a complete checkout.” The possibility of a bomb on that pretty white bird was a real one. The explosives experts from C-13 had spent over an hour that morning making sure that nobody had done that, and now police dressed as British Airways ground crewmen stood around the airliner. Jack wasn't worried about a bomb. Dogs could find bombs.

“I know,” Jack replied with a wan smile. “Just a basic lack of guts on my part.”

“It's only lack of guts if you don't go, ace,” Murray pointed out. He was surprised that Ryan was so nervous, though he concealed it well, the FBI agent thought. Murray enjoyed flying. An Air Force recruiter had almost convinced him to become a pilot, back in his college days.

No, it's tack of brains if I do, Jack told himself. You really are a wimp, another part of his brain informed him. Some Marine you turned out to be!

“When do we blast off. Daddy?” Sally asked.

“One o'clock,” Cathy told her daughter. “Don't bother Daddy.”

Blast off. Jack thought with a smile. Dammit, there is nothing to be afraid of and you know it! Ryan shook his head and sipped at his drink from the complimentary bar. He counted four security people in the lounge, all trying to look inconspicuous. Owens was taking no chances on Ryan's last day in England. The rest was up to British Airways. He wasn't even being billed for the extra cost. Ryan wondered if that was good luck or bad.

A disembodied female voice announced the flight. Jack finished off the drink and rose to his feet.

“Thanks for everything, Dan.”

“Can we go now, Daddy?” Sally asked brightly. Cathy took her daughter's hand.

“Wait a minute!” Murray stooped down to Sally. “Don't I get a hug and a kiss?”

“Okay.” Sally obliged with enthusiasm. “G'bye, Mr. M'ray.”

“Take good care of our hero,” the FBI man told Cathy.

“He'll be all right,” she assured him.

“Enjoy the football, ace!” Murray nearly crushed Jack's hand. That's the one thing I really miss."

“I can send you tapes.”

“It's not the same. Back to teaching history, eh?”

“That's what I do,” Ryan said.

“We'll see,” Murray observed cryptically. “How the hell do you walk with that thing on?”

“Badly,” Ryan chuckled. “I think the doc installed some lead weights, or maybe he left some tools in there by mistake. Well, here we are.” They reached the entrance to the Jetway.

“Break a leg.” Murray smiled and moved off.

“Welcome aboard. Sir John,” a flight attendant said. “We have you in 1-D. Have you flown Concorde before?”

“No.” It was all Jack could muster. Ahead of him, Cathy turned and grinned. The tunnel-like Jetway looked like the entrance to the grave.

“Well, you are in for the thrill of your life!” the stewardess assured him.

Thanks a lot! Ryan nearly choked at the outrage, and remembered that he couldn't strangle her with one hand. Then he laughed. There wasn't anything else to do.

He had to duck to avoid crunching his head at the door. It was tiny inside; the cabin was only eight or nine feet across. He looked forward quickly and saw the flight crew in impossibly tight quarters -- getting into the pilot's left seat must have been like putting on a boot, it seemed so cramped. Another attendant was hanging up coats. He had to wait until she saw him, and walked sideways, his plaster-encased arm leading the way into the passenger cabin.

“Right here,” his personal guide said.

Jack got into the right-side window seat in the front row. Cathy and Sally were already in their seats on the other side. Jack's cast stuck well over seat 1-C. No one could have sat there. It was just as well that British Airways wasn't charging the difference between this and their L-1011 tickets; there would have been an extra seat charge. He immediately tried to snap on his seat belt and found that it wasn't easy with only one hand. The stewardess was ready for this, and handled it for him.

“You are quite comfortable?”

“Yes,” Jack lied. I am quite terrified.

“Excellent. Here is your Concorde information kit.” She pointed toward a gray vinyl folder. “Would you like a magazine?”

“No thank you I have a book in my pocket”

“Fine. I'll be back after we take off, but if you need anything, please ring.”

Jack pulled the seat belt tighter as he looked forward and left at the airplane's door. It was still open. He could still escape. But he knew he wouldn't do that. He leaned back. The seat was gray, too, a little on the narrow side but comfortable. His placement in the front row gave him all the legroom he needed. The airplane's inside wall -- or whatever they called it -- was off-white, and he had a window to look out of. Not a very large one, about the size of two paperback books, but better than no window at all. He looked around. The flight was about three-quarters full. These were seasoned travelers, and wealthy ones. Business types mostly. Jack figured, many were reading their copies of the Financial Times. And none of them were afraid of flying. You could tell from their impassive faces. It never occurred to Jack that his face was set exactly the same.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Nigel Higgins welcoming you aboard British Airways Flight 189, Concorde Service to Washington, D.C., and Miami, Florida. We'll begin taxiing in approximately five minutes. Weather at our first stop, Washington's Dulles International Airport, is excellent, clear, with a temperature of fifty-six degrees. We will be in the air a total of three hours and twenty-five minutes. Please observe that the no-smoking sign is lighted, and we ask that while you are seated you keep your seat belts fastened. Thank you,” the clipped voice concluded.

The door had been closed during the speech, Ryan noted sourly. A clever distraction, as their only escape route was eliminated. He leaned back and closed his eyes, resigning himself to fate. One nice thing about being up front was that no one could see him except Cathy -- Sally had the window seat -- and his wife understood, or at least pretended to. Soon the cabin crew was demonstrating how to put on and inflate life jackets stowed under the seats. Jack watched without interest. Concorde's perfect safety record meant that no one had the first idea on how to ditch one safely, and his position near the nose, so far from the delta-shaped wing, ensured that if they hit the water he'd be in the part of the fuselage that broke off and sank like a cement block. Not that this would matter. The impact itself would surely be fatal.

Asshole, if this bird was dangerous, they would have lost one by now.

The whine of the jet turbines came next, triggering the acid glands in Jack's stomach. He closed his eyes again. You can't run away. He commanded himself to control his breathing and relax. That was strangely easy. Jack had never been a white-knuckled flier. He was more likely to be limp.

Some unseen tractor-cart started pushing the aircraft backward. Ryan looked out of the window and watched the scenery move slowly forward. Heathrow was quite a complex. Aircraft from a dozen airlines were visible, mainly sitting at the terminal buildings like ships at a dock. Wish we could take a ship home, he thought, forgetting that he'd been one seasick Marine on Guam, years ago. The Concorde stopped for a few seconds, then began moving under its own power. Ryan didn't know why the landing gear was so high, but this factor imparted an odd sort of movement as they taxied. The captain came on the intercom again and said something about, taking off on afterburners, but Ryan didn't catch it, instead watching a Pan Am 747 lift off. The Concorde was certainly prettier, Ryan thought. It reminded him of the models of fighter planes he'd assembled as a kid. We're going first class.

The plane made a sweeping turn at the end of the runway and stopped, bobbing a little on the nose gear. Here we go.

“Departure positions,” the intercom announced. Somewhere aft the cabin crew strapped into their jump seats. In 1-D, Jack fitted himself into his seat much like a man awaiting electrocution. His eyes were open now, watching out the window.