Patriot Games (1987)

by Clancy, Tom - Jack Ryan 01

  “I see you two are getting along.”

  “Indeed,” the Prince replied. “I’ve wanted to meet an F-14 pilot for years. Now, you say that telescopic camera arrangement is really effective?”

  “Yes, sir! It’s not that big a deal. It’s a ten-power lens on a dinky little TV camera. You can identify your target fifty miles out, and it’s Phoenix time. If you play it right, you can splash the guy before he knows you’re in the same county, and that’s the idea, isn’t it?”

  “So you try to avoid the dogfight?”

  “ACM, you mean—air-combat maneuvering, Jack,” Robby explained to the ignorant bystander. “That’ll change when we get the new engines, Cap’n, but, yeah, the farther away you can take him, the better, right? Sometimes you have to get wrapped up in the fur-ball, but if you do that you’re giving away your biggest advantage. Our mission is to engage the other guy as far from the boat as we can. That’s why we call it the Outer Air Battle.”

  “It would have been rather useful at the Falklands,” His Highness observed.

  “That’s right. If you engage the enemy over your own decks, he’s already won the biggest part of the battle. We want to start scoring three hundred miles out, and hammer their butts all the way in. If your Navy’d had a full-size carrier, that useless little war never would have happened. Excuse me, sir. That wasn’t your fault.”

  “Can I show you around the house?” Jack asked. It always seemed to happen. You worked to have one of your guests meet another, and all of a sudden you were cut out of the conversation.

  “How old is it, Jack?”

  “We moved in a few months before Sally was born.”

  “The woodwork is marvelous. Is that the library down there?”

  “Yes, sir.” The way the house was laid out, you could look down from the living room into the library. The master bedroom was perched over it. There had been a rectangular hole in the wall, which allowed someone in there to see into the living room, but Ryan had placed a print over it. The picture was mounted on a rail and could be slid aside, Jackson noticed. The purpose of that was clear enough. Jack led them to his library next. Everyone liked that the only window was over his desk and looked out over the bay.

  “No servants, Jack?”

  “No, sir. Cathy’s talking about getting a nanny, but she hasn’t sold me on that idea yet. Is everyone ready for dinner?”

  The response was enthusiastic. The potatoes were already in the oven, and Cathy was ready to start the corn. Jack took the steaks from the refrigerator and led the menfolk outside.

  “You’ll like this, Cap’n. Jack does a mean steak.”

  “The secret’s in the charcoal,” Ryan explained. He had six gorgeous-looking sirloins, and a hamburger for Sally. “It helps to have good meat, too.”

  “I know it’s too late to ask, Jack, but where do you get those?”

  “One of my old stock clients has a restaurant-supply business. These are Kansas City strips.” Jack transferred them to the grill with a long-handled fork. A gratifying sizzle rose to their ears. He brushed some sauce on the meat.

  “The view is spectacular,” His Highness observed.

  “It’s nice to be able to watch the boats go by,” Jack agreed. “Looks a little thin now, though.”

  “They must be listening to the radio,” Robby observed. “There’s a severe-thunderstorm warning on for tonight.”

  “I didn’t hear that.”

  “It’s the leading edge of that cold front. They develop pretty fast over Pittsburgh. I’m going up tomorrow, like I said, and I called Pax Weather right before we left. They told me that the storms look pretty ferocious on radar. Heavy rain and gusts. Supposed to hit around ten or so.”

  “Do you get many of those here?” His Highness asked.

  “Sure do, Captain. We don’t get tornadoes like in the Midwest, but the thunder-boomers we get here’ll curl your hair. I was bringing a bird back from Memphis last—no, two years ago, and it was like being on a pogo stick. You just don’t have control of the airplane. Those suckers can be scary. Down at Pax, they’re taking all the birds they can inside the hangars, and they’ll be tying the rest down tight.”

  “It’ll be worth it to cool things off,” Jack said as he turned the steaks.

  “Roger that. It’s just your basic thunderstorm, Captain. We get the big ones three or four times a year. It’ll knock down some trees, but as long as you’re not in the air or out in a small boat, it’s no big deal. Down in Alabama with this kind of storm coming across, we’d be sweating tornadoes. Now that’s scary!”

  “You’ve seen one?”

  “More ’n one, Cap’n. You get those mostly in the spring down home. When I was ten or so, I watched one come across the road, pick up a house like it was part of a Christmas garden, and drop it a quarter mile away. They’re weird, though. It didn’t even take the weathervane off my pappy’s church. They’re like that. It’s something to see, all right—but you want to do it from a safe distance. ”

  “Turbulence is the main flying hazard, then?”

  “Right. But the other thing is water. I know of cases where jets have ingested enough water through the intakes to snuff the engines right out.” Robby snapped his fingers. “All of a sudden you’re riding in a glider. Definitely not fun. So you keep away from them when you can.”

  “And when you can’t?”

  “Once, Cap’n, I had to land on a carrier in one—at night. That’s about as close as I’ve come to wetting my pants since I was two.” He even threw in a shudder.

  “Your Highness, I have to thank you for getting all of this out of Robby. I’ve known him for over a year and he’s never admitted to being mildly nervous up there.” Jack grinned.

  “I didn’t want to spoil the image,” Jackson explained. “You have to put a gun to Jack’s head to get him aboard a plane, and I didn’t want to scare him any more than he already is.” Zing! And Robby took the point.

  It helped that the deck was now in the shade, and there was a slight northerly breeze. Jack manipulated the steaks over the coals. There were a few boats out on the bay, but most of them seemed to be heading back to harbor. Jack nearly jumped out of his skin when a jet fighter screamed past the cliff. He turned in time to see the white-painted aircraft heading south.

  “Robby, what the hell is that all about? They’ve been doing that for two weeks.”

  Jackson watched the plane’s double tail vanish in the haze. “They’re testing a new piece of gear on the F-18. What’s the big deal?”

  “The noise!” Ryan flipped the steaks over.

  Robby laughed. “Aw, Jack, that’s not noise. That’s the sound of freedom.”

  “Not bad, Commander,” His Highness judged.

  “Well, how about the sound of dinner?” Ryan asked.

  Robby grabbed the platter, and Jack piled the meat on it. The salads were already on the table. Cathy made a superb spinach salad, with homemade dressing. Jack noted that Sissy was bringing the corn and potatoes out, wearing an apron to protect her dress. He distributed the steaks and put Sally’s hamburger on a roll. Next he got their daughter in a booster seat. The one awkward thing was that nobody was drinking. He’d gotten four bottles of a choice California red to go with the steaks, but it seemed that everyone was in a teetotaling mood.

  “Jack, the electricity is acting up again,” his wife reported. “For a while there I didn’t think we’d get the corn finished.”

  The Secret Service agent stood in the middle of the road, forcing the van to stop.

  “Yes, sir?” the driver said.

  “What are you doing here?” The agent’s coat was unbuttoned. No gun was visible, but the driver knew it was there somewhere. He counted six more men within ten yards of the van and another four readily visible.

  “Hey, I just told the cop.” The man gestured backward. The two State Police cars were only two hundred yards away.

  “Could you tell me, please?”

  “There’s a probl
em with the transformer at the end of the road. I mean, you can see this is a BG and E truck, right?”

  “Could you wait here, please?”

  “Okay with me, man.” The driver exchanged a look with the man in the right-front seat. The agent returned with another. This one held a radio.

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  The driver sighed. “Third time. There’s a problem with the electrical transformer at the end of the road. Have the people here been complaining about the electricity?”

  “Yeah,” the second man, Avery, said. “I noticed, too. What gives?”

  The man in the right seat answered. “I’m Alex Dobbens, field engineer. We have a new, experimental transformer on this line. There’s a test monitor on the box, and it’s been sending out some weird signals, like the box is going to fail. We’re here to check it out. ”

  “Could we see some ID, please?”

  “Sure.” Alex got out of the truck and walked around. He handed over his BG&E identification card. “What the hell’s going on here?”

  “Can’t say.” Avery examined the pass and handed it back. “You have a work order?”

  Dobbens gave the man his clipboard. “Hey, if you want to check it out, you can call that number up top. That’s the field-operations office at company headquarters in Baltimore. Ask for Mr. Griffin.”

  Avery talked into his radio, ordering his men to do just that. “Do you mind if we look at the truck?”

  “Be my guest,” Dobbens replied. He led the two agents around. He noted also that four men were keeping a very close eye on things, and that they were widely separated, with their hands free. Others were scattered across the yard. He yanked open the sliding door and waved the two agents inside.

  The agents saw a mass of tools and cables and test equipment. Avery let his subordinate do the searching. “Do you have to go back there now?”

  “The transformer might go out, man. I could let it, but the folks in the neighborhood might be upset if the lights went off. People are like that, you know? Do you mind if I ask who you are?”

  “Secret Service.” Avery held up his ID. Dobbens was taken aback.

  “Jeez! You mean the President’s back there?”

  “I can’t say,” Avery replied. “What’s the problem with the transformer—you said it was new?”

  “Yeah, it’s an experimental model. It uses an inert cooling agent instead of PBBs, and it has a built-in surge-suppressor. That’s probably the problem. It looks like the unit’s temperature-sensitive for some reason. We’ve adjusted it several times, but we can’t seem to get it dialed in right. I’ve been on the project for a couple of months. Usually I let my people do it, but this time the boss wanted me to eyeball it myself.” He shrugged. “It’s my project.”

  The other agent came out of the van and shook his head. Avery nodded. Next the chief agent called the radio van, whose occupants had called Baltimore Gas & Electric and confirmed what Alex had told them.

  “You want to send a guy to watch us?” Dobbens asked.

  “No, that’s okay. How long will it take?” Avery asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, sir. It’s probably something simple, but we haven’t figured it out yet. The simple ones are the ones that kill you.”

  “There’s a storm coming in. I wouldn’t want to be up on a pole in one of those,” the agent observed.

  “Yeah, well, while we’re sitting here, we’re not getting much work done. Everything okay with you guys?”

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  “You really can’t tell me who’s in the neighborhood?”

  Avery smiled. “Sorry.”

  “Well, I didn’t vote for him anyway.” Dobbens laughed.

  “Hold it!” the second agent called.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “That left-front tire.” The man pointed.

  “Goddammit, Louis!” Dobbens growled at the driver. The steel belt was showing on part of the tire.

  “Hey, boss, it’s not my fault. They were supposed to change it this morning. I wrote it up Wednesday,” the driver protested. “I got the order slip right here.”

  “All right, just take it easy.” Dobbens looked over to the agent. “Thanks, man.”

  “Can’t you change it?”

  “We don’t have a jack. Somebody lifted it. That’s a problem with company trucks. Something is always missing. It’ll be all right. Well, we got a transformer to fix. See ya.” Alex reboarded the truck and waved as the vehicle pulled off.

  “Good one, Louis.”

  The driver smiled. “Yeah, I thought the tire was a nice touch. I counted fourteen.”

  “Right. Three in the trees. Figure four more in the house. They’re not our problem.” He paused, looking at the clouds that were building on the horizon. “I hope Ed and Willy made out all right. ”

  “They did. All they had to do was hose down one pigmobile and switch cars. The pigs here were more relaxed than I expected,” Louis observed.

  “Why not? They think we’re someplace else.” Alex opened a toolbox and removed his transceiver. The agent had seen it and not questioned it. He couldn’t tell that the frequency range had been altered. There were no guns in the van, of course, but radios were far deadlier. He radioed what he’d learned and got an acknowledgment. Then he smiled. The agents hadn’t even asked about the two extension ladders on the roof. He checked his watch. Rendezvous was scheduled in ninety minutes....

  “The problem is, there really isn’t a civilized way to eat corn on the cob,” Cathy said. “Not to mention buttering it.”

  “It was excellent, though,” the Prince noted. “From a local farm, Jack?”

  “Picked ’em off the stalk this afternoon,” Ryan confirmed. “That’s the best way to get it.”

  Sally’d become a slow eater of late. She was still laboring at her food, but nobody seemed anxious to leave the table.

  “Jack, Cathy, that was a wonderful dinner,” His Highness pronounced.

  His wife agreed. “And no after-dinner speechmaking!”

  “I guess all that formal stuff gets to be tiresome,” Robby noted, trying to ask a question that he couldn’t voice: What’s it like to be a prince?

  “It wouldn’t be so bad if the speeches could be original, but I’ve been listening to the same one for years!” he said wryly. “Excuse me. I mustn’t say such things, even around friends.”

  “It’s not all that different at a History Department meeting,” Jack said.

  At Quantico, Virginia, the phone rang. The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team had its own private building, located at the end of the long line of firing ranges that served the Bureau’s training center. An engineless DC-4 sat behind it, and was used to practice assault techniques on hijacked aircraft. Down the hill was the “Hostage House” and other facilities used every day for the team members to hone their skills. Special Agent Gus Werner picked up the phone.

  “Hi, Gus,” Bill Shaw said.

  “Have they found ’em yet?” Werner asked. He was thirty-five, a short, wiry man with red hair and a brushy mustache that never would have been allowed under Hoover’s directorship.

  “No, but I want you to assemble an advance team and fly them up. If something breaks, we may have to move fast.”

  “Fair enough. Where are we going, exactly?”

  “Hagerstown, the State Police barracks. S-A-C Baltimore will be waiting for you.”

  “Okay, I’ll take six men. We can probably get moving in thirty or forty minutes, as soon as the chopper gets here. Buzz me if anything happens.”

  “Will do. See ya.” Shaw hung up.

  Werner switched buttons on the phone and alerted the helicopter crew. Next he walked across the building to the classroom on the far side. The five men of his ready-response group were lounging about, mostly reading. They’d been on alert status for several days. This had increased their training routines somewhat, but it was mainly to defend against boredom that came from waiting for som
ething that probably wouldn’t happen. Nighttimes were devoted to reading and television. The Red Sox were playing the Yankees on TV. These were not Brooks Brothers FBI agents. The men were in baggy jumpsuits lavishly equipped with pockets. In addition to being experienced field agents, nearly all were veterans of combat or peacetime military service, and each man was a match-quality marksman who fired several boxes of ammunition per week.

  “Okay, listen up,” Werner said. “They want an advance team in Hagerstown. The chopper’ll be here in half an hour.”

  “There’s a severe thunderstorm warning,” one objected lightly.

  “So take your airsick pills,” Werner advised.

  “They find ’em yet?” another asked.

  “No, but people are getting a little nervous.”

  “Right.” The questioner was a long-rifleman. His custom-made sniper rifle was already packed in a foam-lined case. The team’s gear was in a dozen duffle bags. The men buttoned their shirts. Some headed off to the bathroom for a preflight pitstop. None were especially excited. Their job involved far more waiting than doing. The Hostage Rescue Team had been in existence for years, but it had yet to rescue a single hostage. Instead its members were mainly used as a special SWAT team, and they had earned a reputation as awesome as it was little known, except within the law-enforcement community.

  “Wow,” Robby said. “Here it comes. This one’s going to be a beauty.” In the space of ten minutes, the wind had changed from gentle breezes to gusts that made the high-ceilinged house resonate.

  “It was a dark and stormy night,” Jack chuckled. He went into the kitchen. Three agents were making sandwiches to take out to the men by the road. “I hope you guys have raincoats.”

  “We’re used to it,” one assured him.

  “At least it will be a warm rain,” his British colleague thought. “Thank you very much for the food and coffee.” The first rumble of distant thunder rolled through the house.

  “Don’t stand under any trees,” Jack suggested. “Lightning can ruin your whole day.” He returned to the dining room. Conversation was still being made around the table. Robby was back to discussing flying. The current war-story was about catapults.