Jack Ryan 2 - Patriot Games (75 page)

“Men on the cliff,” the Prince repeated. He'd taken the shotgun and had it aimed, but didn't fire. He didn't know who it was up there, and the range was too great in any case. Then flashes appeared. Whoever it was, they were firing at the boat. Ryan turned when he heard bullets hitting the water, and two thudded into the boat itself. Sissy Jackson screamed and grabbed at herself, while the Prince fired three rounds back.

Robby had the boat thirty yards from the beach now, and savagely brought the wheel around as he shifted the selector back into drive. When he rammed the throttle forward, the engine coughed again for one long, terrible moment, but then it caught and the boat surged forward.

“All right!” the aviator booted. “Jack -- where to? How about Annapolis?”

“Do it!” Ryan agreed. He looked aft. There were men coming down the ladder. Some were still shooting at them but missing wildly. Next he saw that Sissy was holding her foot.

“Cathy, see if you can find a first-aid kit,” His highness said. He'd already inspected the wound, but was now in the stem, facing aft with the shotgun at the ready. Jack saw a white plastic box under the driver's seat and slid it toward his wife.

“Rob, Sissy took a round in the foot,” Jack said.

“I'm okay, Rob,” his wife said at once. She didn't sound okay.

“How is it, Sis?” Cathy asked, moving to take a look.

“It hurts, but it's no big deal,” she said through her teeth, trying to smile.

“You sure you're okay, honey?” Robby asked.

“Just go, Robby!” she gasped. Jack moved aft and looked. The bullet had gone straight through the top of her foot, and her light-colored shoe was bathed in dark blood. He looked around to see if anyone else was hurt, but aside from the mere terror that each felt, everyone else seemed all right.

“Commander, do you want me to take the wheel for you?” the Prince asked.

“Okay, Cap'n, come on forward.” Robby slid away from the controls as His Highness joined him. “Your course is zero-three-six magnetic. Watch it, it's going to get rough when we're out of the cliff's lee, and there's lots of merchant traffic out there.” They could already see four feet of chop building a hundred yards ahead, driven by the gusting winds.

“Right. How do I know when we've arrived at Annapolis?” The Prince settled behind the wheel and started checking out the controls.

“When you see the lights on the Bay Bridges, call me. I know the harbor, I'll take her in.”

The Prince nodded agreement. He throttled back to half power as they entered the heavy chop, and kept moving his eyes from the compass to the water. Jackson moved to check his wife.

Sissy waved him away. “You worry about them!”

In another moment they were roller-coastering over four- and five-foot waves. The boat was a nineteen-foot cathedral-hull lake boat of a type favored by local fishermen for her good calm-seas speed and shallow draft. Her blunt nose didn't handle the chop very well. They were taking water over the bow, but the forward snap-on cover was in place, and the windshield deflected most of the water over the side. That water which did get into the back emptied down a self-bailing hole next to the engine box. Ryan had never been in a boat like this, but knew what it was. Its hundred-fifty-horse engine drove an inboard-outdrive transmission whose movable propeller eliminated the need for a rudder. The bottom and sides of the boat were filled with foam for positive flotation. You could fill it with water and it wouldn't sink -- but more to the point, the fiberglass and the foam would probably stop the bullets from a submachine gun. Jack checked his fellow passengers again. His wife was ministering to Sissy. The Princess held his daughter. Except for himself, Robby, and the Prince at the wheel, everyone's head was down. He started to relax slightly. They were away, and their fate was back in their own hands. Jack promised himself that this would never change again.

“They're coming after us,” Robby said as he fed two rounds into the bottom of the shotgun. “ 'Bout three hundred yards back. I saw them in the lightning, but they'll lose us in this rain if we're lucky.”

“What would you call the visibility?”

“Except for the lightning” -- Robby shrugged -- “maybe a hot hundred yards, tops. We're not leaving a wake for them to follow, and they don't know where we're going.” He paused. “God, I wish we had a radio! We could get the Coast Guard in on this, or maybe somebody else, and set up a nice little trap for them.” Jack sat all the way down, facing aft on the opposite side of the engine box from his friend. He saw that his daughter was asleep in the arms of the Princess. It must be nice to be a kid, he reflected.

“Count your blessings, Commander.”

“Bet your ass, boy! I guess I picked a good time to take a leak.”

Ryan grunted agreement. “I didn't know you could handle a shotgun.”

“Back when I was a kid, the Klan had this little hobby. They'd get boozed up every Tuesday night and burn down a nigger church -- just to keep us in line, y'know? Well, one night, the sheetheads decided to burn my pappy's church. We got word -- a liquor-store owner called; not all rednecks are assholes. Anyway, Pappy and me were waiting for them. Didn't kill any, but we must have scared them as white as their sheets. I blew the radiator right out of one car.” Robby chuckled at the memory. “They never did come back for it. The cops didn't arrest anybody, but that's the last time anybody tried to burn a church in our town, so I guess they learned their lesson.” He paused again. When he went on, his voice was more sober. “That's the first time I ever killed a man. Jack. Funny, it doesn't feel like anything, not anything at all.”

“It will tomorrow.”

Robby looked over at his friend. “Yeah.”

Ryan looked aft, his hands tight on the Uzi. There was nothing to be seen. The sky and water merged into an amorphous gray mass, and the wind-driven rain stung at his face. The boat surged up and down on the breaking swells, and for a moment Jack wondered why he wasn't seasick. Lightning flashed again, and still he saw nothing, as though they were under a gray dome on a sparkling, uneven floor.

They were gone. After the sniper team reported that all the terrorists had disappeared over the cliff, Werner's men searched the house and found nothing but dead men. The second HRT group was now on the scene, plus over twenty police, and another crowd of firemen and paramedics. Three of the Secret Service agents were still alive, plus a terrorist who'd been left behind. All were being transported to hospitals. That made for seventeen security people dead, and a total of four terrorists, two of them apparently killed by their own side.

“They all crowded into the boat and took off that way,” Paulson said. “I could have taken a few out, but there just wasn't any way to figure who was who.” He'd done the right thing. The sniper knew it, and so did Werner. You don't shoot without knowing what your target is.

“So now what the hell do we do?” This question came from a captain of the State Police. It was a rhetorical question insofar as there was no immediate answer.

“Do you suppose the good guys got away?” Paulson asked. “I didn't see anything that looked like a friendly, and the way the bad guys were acting . . . something went wrong,” he said. “Something went wrong for everybody.”

Something went wrong, all right, Werner thought. A goddamned battle was fought here. Twenty-some people dead and nobody in sight.

“Let's assume that the friendlies escaped somehow -- no, let's just assume that the bad guys got away in a boat. Okay. Where would they go?” Werner asked.

“Do you know how many boatyards there are around here?” the State Police Captain asked. “Jesus, how many houses with private slip's? Hundreds -- we can't check them all out!”

“Well, we have to do something!” Werner snapped back, his anger amplified by his sprained back. A black dog came up to them. He looked as confused as everyone else.

“I think they lost us.”

“Could be,” Jackson replied. The last lightning flash had revealed nothing. “The bay's right big, and visibility isn't worth a damn -- but the way the rain's blowing, they can see better than we can. Twenty yards, maybe, just enough to matter.”

“How about we go farther east?” Jack asked.

“Into the main ship channel? It's a Friday night. There'll be a bunch of ships coming out of Baltimore, knocking down ten-twelve knots, and as blind as we are.” Robby shook his head. “Uh-uh, we didn't make it this far to get run down by some Greek rustbucket. This is hairy enough.”

“Lights ahead,” the Prince reported.

“We're home, Jack!” Robby went forward. The lights of the twin Chesapeake Bay Bridges winked at them unmistakably in the distance. Jackson took the wheel, and the Prince took up his spot in the stem. All were long since soaked through by the rain, and they shivered in the wind. Jackson brought the boat around to the west. The wind was on the bow now, coming straight down the Severn River valley, as it usually did here. The waves moderated somewhat as he steered past the Annapolis town harbor. The rain was still falling in sheets, and Robby navigated the boat mostly by memory.

The lights along the Naval Academy's Sims Drive were a muted, linear glow through the rain and Robby steered for them, barely missing a large can buoy as he fought the boat through the wind. In another minute they could see the line of gray YPs -- Yard Patrol boats -- still moored to the concrete seawall while their customary slips were being renovated across the river. Robby stood to see better, and brought the boat in between a pair of the wood-hulled training craft. He actually wanted to enter the Academy yacht basin, but it was too full at the moment. Finally he nosed the boat to the seawall, holding her to the concrete with engine power.

“Y'all stop that!” A Marine came into view. His white cap had a plastic cover over it, and he wore a raincoat. “Y'all can't tie up here.”

“This is Lieutenant Commander Jackson, son,” Robby replied. “I work here. Stand by Jack, you get the bowline.”

Ryan ducked under the windshield and unsnapped the bow cover. A white nylon line was neatly coiled in the right place, and Ryan stood as Robby used engine power to bring the boat's port side fully against the seawall. Jack jumped up and tied the line off. The Prince did the same at the stern. Robby killed the engine and went up to face the Marine.

“You recognize me, son?”

The Marine saluted. “Beg pardon. Commander, but --” He flashed his light into the boat. “Holy Christ!”

About the only good thing that could be said about the boat was that the rain had washed most of the blood down the self-bailing hole. The Marine's mouth dropped open as he saw two bodies, three women, one of them apparently shot, and a sleeping child. Next he saw a machine gun draped around Ryan's neck. A dull, wet evening of walking guard came to a screeching end.

“You got a radio, Marine?” Robby asked. He held it up and Jackson snatched it away. It was a small Motorola CC unit like those used by police. “Guardroom, this is Commander Jackson.”

“Commander? This is Sergeant Major Breckenridge. I didn't know you had the duty tonight, sir. What can I do for you?”

Jackson took a long breath. “I'm glad it's you, Gunny. Listen up: Alert the command duty officer. Next, I want some armed Marines on the seawall west of the yacht basin immediately! We got big trouble here, Gunny, so let's shag it!”

“Aye aye, sir!” The radio squawked. Orders had been given. Questions could wait.

“What's your name, son?” Robby asked the Marine next.

“Lance Corporal Green, sir!”

“Okay, Green, help me get the womenfolk out of the boat.” Robby reached out his hand. “Let's go, ladies.”

Green leaped down and helped Sissy out first, then Cathy, then the Princess, who was still holding Sally. Robby got them all behind the wood hull of one of the YPs.

“What about them, sir?” Green gestured at the bodies.

“They'll keep. Get back up here, Corporal!”

Green gave the bodies a last look. “Reckon so,” he muttered. He already had his raincoat open and the flap loose on his holster.

“What's going on here?” a woman's voice asked. “Oh, it's you. Commander.”

“What are you doing here, Chief?” Robby asked her.

“I have the duty section out keeping an eye on the boats, sir. The wind could beat 'em to splinters on this seawall if we don't --” Chief Bosun's Mate Mary Znamirowski looked at everyone on the dock. “Sir, what the hell . . . ”

“Chief, I suggest you get your people together and put them under cover. No time for explanations.”

A pickup truck came next. It halted in the parking lot just behind them. The driver jumped out and sprinted toward them with three others trailing behind. It was Breckenridge. The Sergeant Major gave the women a quick look, then turned to Jackson and asked the night's favorite question --

“What the hell is going on, sir?”

Robby gestured to the boat. Breckenridge gave it a quick look that lingered into four or five seconds. “Christ!”

“We were at Jack's place for dinner,” Robby explained. “And some folks crashed the party. They were after him --” Jackson gestured to the Prince of Wales, who turned and smiled. Breckenridge's eyes went wide in recognition. His mouth flapped open for a moment, but he recovered and did what Marines always do when they don't know what else -- he saluted, just as prescribed in the 'Guide Book'. Robby went on: “They killed a bunch of security troops. We got lucky. They planned to escape by boat. We stole one and came here, but there's another boat out there, full of the bastards. They might have followed us.”

“Armed with what?” the Sergeant Major asked.

“Like this, Gunny.” Ryan held up his Uzi.

The Sergeant Major nodded and reached into his coat. His hand came out with a radio. “Guardroom, this is Breckenridge. We have a Class-One Alert: Wake up all the people. Call Captain Peters. I want a squad of riflemen on the seawall in five minutes. Move out!”

“Roger,” the radio answered. “Class-One Alert.”

“Let's get the women the hell outa here,” Ryan urged.

“Not yet, sir,” Breckenridge replied. He looked around, his professional eye making a quick evaluation. “I want some more security here first. Your friends might have landed upriver and be coming overland -- that's how I'd do it. In ten minutes I'll have a platoon of riflemen sweepin' the grounds, maybe a full squad here in five. If my people ain't too drunked out,” he concluded quietly, reminding Ryan that it was indeed a Friday night -- Saturday morning -- and Annapolis had many bars. “Cummings and Foster, look after the ladies. Mendoza, get on one of these boats and keep a lockout. Y'all heard the man, so stay awake!”