Patriot Games (1987)

by Clancy, Tom - Jack Ryan 01

  “Let’s just stay put for a minute.”

  The Prince arrived next, then the women. Finally Robby started down, his Marine parka making him invisible against the black sky. He came down quickly, also jumping the last five feet.

  “They got to the house just as I started down. Maybe this’ll slow them some.” He held the white-wrapped stakes. It might make the ladders harder to find.

  “Good one, Rob.” Jack turned. The boats were out there, invisible again in the rain and shadows. Shorty had said that only one man was guarding them. What if he’s lying? Ryan asked himself. Is this guy willing to die for his cause? Will he sacrifice himself to shout a warning and get us killed? Does it make a difference—do we have a choice? No!

  “Move out, Shorty.” Ryan gestured with his gun. “Just remember who dies first.”

  It was high tide, and the water came to within a few feet of the base of the cliff. The sand was wet and hard under his feet as Ryan stayed three feet behind the terrorist. How far were they—a hundred yards? How far can one hundred yards be? Ryan asked himself. He was discovering that now. The people behind him kept close to the kudzu-covered cliff. That made them extremely hard to see, though if there was someone in the boat, he’d know that people were coming toward him.

  Krak!

  Everyone’s heart stopped for a moment. A lightning stroke had shattered a tree on the cliff’s edge not two hundred yards behind them. For a brief instant he saw the boats again—and there was a man in each.

  “Just one, eh?” Jack muttered. Shorty hesitated, then proceeded, hands at his side. With the return of darkness, he again lost sight of the boats, and Jack reasoned that everyone’s night vision was equally ruined by the lightning. His mind returned to the image he’d just seen. The man in the near boat was standing at the near side, amidships, and appeared to be holding a weapon—one that needed two hands. Ryan was enraged that Shorty had lied to him. It seemed absurd as he watched the emotion flare and fade in his consciousness.

  “What’s the password?”

  “There isn’t one,” Dennis Cooley replied, his voice unsteady as he contemplated the situation from rather a different perspective. He was between the loaded guns of two sides, each of which was likely to shoot. Cooley’s mind was racing, too, looking for something he could do to turn the tables.

  Was he telling the truth now? Ryan wondered, but there wasn’t time to puzzle that one out. “Keep moving.”

  The boat reappeared now. At first it was just something different from the darkness and the beach. In five more yards it was a shape. The rain was pouring down hard enough to distort everything he saw, but there was a white, almost rectangular shape ahead. Ryan guessed the range at fifty yards. He prayed for the lightning to hold off now. If they were lighted, the men in the boats might be able to recognize a face, and if they saw that Shorty was in front ...

  How do I do this ...?

  You can be a policeman or a soldier, but not both. Joe Evans’ words at the Tower came back, and told him what he had to do.

  Forty yards to go. There were rocks on the beach, too, and Jack had to be careful not to trip over one. He reached forward with his left hand and unscrewed the bulky silencer. He stuck it in his belt. He didn’t like what it did to the gun’s balance.

  Thirty yards. He searched for and found the stock release switch on the Uzi. Jack extended the stock, planting the metal buttplate in his armpit and snugging the weapon in tight. Just a few more seconds ...

  Twenty-five yards. He could see the boat clearly now, twenty feet or so, with a blunt bow, and another just like it perhaps twenty yards beyond. There was definitely a man in the near boat, standing amidships on its port side, looking straight at the people approaching him. Jack’s right thumb pushed the Uzi’s selector switch all the way forward, to full automatic fire, and he tightened his fist on the pistol grip. He hadn’t fired an Uzi since a brief familiarization at Quantico. It was small but nicely balanced. The black metal sights were nearly useless in the dark, though, and what he had to do ...

  Twenty yards. The first burst has to be right on, Jack, right the hell on ...

  Ryan took half a step to his right and dropped to one knee. He brought the weapon up, placing the front sight low and left of his target before he held the trigger down for a four-round burst. The gun jerked up and to the right as the bullets left, tracing a diagonal line across the target’s outline. The man dropped instantly from sight, and Ryan was again dazzled, this time by his own muzzle flashes. Shorty had dived to the ground at the sound.

  “Come on!” Ryan yanked Cooley up and threw him forward, but Jack stumbled in the sand and recovered to see that the terrorist was indeed running for the boat—where there was a gun to turn against them all! He was yelling something Ryan couldn’t understand.

  Jack had nearly caught up when Shorty got there first—

  And died. The man in the other boat fired a long, wild burst in their direction just as Cooley was leaping aboard. Ryan saw his head snap over and Shorty fell into the boat like a sack of groceries. Jack knelt at the gunnel and fired his own burst, and the other man went down. Hit or not, Ryan couldn’t tell. It was just like the exercises at Quantico, he told himself, total chaos, and the side that makes the fewest mistakes wins.

  “Get aboard!” He stayed up, holding his gun on the other boat. He didn’t turn his head, but felt the others board. Lightning flashed, and Ryan saw the man he’d shot, three red spots on his chest, his eyes and mouth agape in surprise. Shorty was beside him, the side of his head horribly opened. Between the two it seemed a gallon of blood had been poured onto the fiberglass deck. Robby finally arrived and jumped aboard. A head appeared in the other boat, and Ryan fired again, then clambered aboard.

  “Robby, get us the hell outa here!” Jack moved on hands and knees to the other side, making sure that everyone’s head was down.

  Jackson moved into the driver’s seat and searched for the ignition. If was set up just like a car, and the keys were in. He turned them, and the engine coughed to life as yet another burst of fire came from the other boat. Ryan heard the sound of bullets hitting the fiberglass. Robby cringed but didn’t move as his hand found the shift lever. Jack brought the gun up and fired again.

  “Men on the cliff!” the Prince shouted.

  O’Donnell gathered his men quickly and gave out new orders. All the security men were dead, he was sure, but that helicopter had probably landed to the west. He didn’t think the missile had hit, though it was impossible to be sure.

  “Thanks for the help, Sean, they were better than I expected. You have them in the house?”

  “I left Dennis and two others. I think we should leave.”

  “You got that right!” Alex said. He pointed west. “I think we have some more company.”

  “Very well. Sean, you collect them and bring them to the cliff.”

  Miller got his two men and ran back to the house. Alex and his man tagged along. The front door was open, and all five raced inside, turned around the fireplace, and stopped cold.

  Paulson, his spotter, and another agent were running too. He led them along the woodline to where the driveway turned, and dropped again, setting his rifle up on the bipod. There were sirens in the distance now, and he wondered what had taken so goddamned long as he tracked his night-sight in a search for targets. He caught a glimpse of men running around the northern side of the house.

  “Something feels wrong about this,” the sniper said.

  “Yeah,” his spotter agreed. “They sure as hell didn’t plan to leave by the road—but what else is there?”

  “Somebody better find out,” Paulson thought aloud, and got on his radio.

  Werner struggled forward on the south side of the yard, trying his best to ignore his throbbing back as he led his group forward. The radio squawked again, and he ordered his other team to advance with extreme caution.

  “Well, where are they, man?” Alex asked.

  Miller looked around in stun
ned amazement. Two of his men were dead on the floor, their guns were gone—and so were ...

  “Where the hell are they!” Alex repeated.

  “Search the house!” Miller screamed. He and Alex stayed in the room. The black man looked at him with an unforgiving stare.

  “Did I go through all this to watch you fuck up again?”

  The three men returned a few seconds later and reported the house empty. Miller had already determined that his men’s guns were gone. Something had gone wrong. He took his people outside.

  Paulson had a new spot and finally could see his targets again. He counted twelve, then more joined from the house. They seemed to be confused as he watched the images on his night-sight gesture at one another. Some men were talking while others just milled around waiting for orders. Several appeared to be hurt, but he couldn’t tell for sure.

  “They’re gone.” Alex said it before Miller had a chance.

  O’Donnell couldn’t believe it. Sean explained in a rapid, halting voice while Dobbens looked on.

  “Your boy fucked up,” Dobbens said.

  It was just too much. Miller slipped his own Uzi behind his back and retrieved the one he’d taken from the Secret Service agent. He brought it up in one smooth motion and fired into Alex’s chest from a distance of three feet. Louis looked at his fallen boss for a second, then tried to bring his pistol up, but Miller cut him down, too.

  “What the hell!” the spotter said.

  Paulson flipped the rifle’s safety off and centered his sight on the man who had just fired, killing two men—but whom had he killed? He could shoot only to save the lives of friendlies, and the dead men had almost certainly been bad guys. There weren’t any hostages to be saved, as far as he could tell. Where the hell are they? One of the men near the cliff’s edge appeared to shout something, and the others ran to join him. The marksman had his choice of targets, but without positive identification, he couldn’t dare to fire a shot.

  “Come on, baby,” Jackson said to the engine. The motor was still cold and ran unevenly as he shifted to reverse. The boat moved slowly backward, away from the beach. Ryan had his Uzi trained on the other boat. The man there appeared again, and Ryan fired three rounds before the gun stopped. He cursed and switched magazines before firing a number of short bursts again to keep his head down.

  “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 hooted. “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 stern, 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.”
<
br />   “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.