by Tom Clancy
“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 slips? 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 stem. 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 lookout. Y’all heard the man, so stay awake!”
Breckenridge walked up and down the seawall for a minute, checking fields of view and fields of fire. The .45 Colt automatic looked small in his hands. They could see in his face that he didn’t like the situation, and wouldn’t until he had more people here and the civilians tucked safely away. Next he checked the women out.
“You ladies all right—oh, sorry, Mrs. Jackson. We’ll get you to the sick bay real quick, ma’am.”
“Any way to turn the lights off?” Ryan asked.
“Not that I know of—I don’t like being under ‘em either. Settle down, Lieutenant, we got all this open ground behind us, so nobody’s goin
g to sneak up this way. Soon as I get things organized, we’ll get the ladies off to the dispensary and put a guard on ’em. You ain’t as safe as I’d like, but we’re gettin’ there. How did you get away?”
“Like Robby said, we got lucky. He did two of them with the shotgun. I got one in the boat. The other one got popped by his own man.” Ryan shivered, this time not from wind or rain. “It was kinda hairy there for a while.”
“I believe it. These guys any good?”
“The terrorists? You tell me. They had surprise going for them before, and that counts for a lot.”
“We’ll see about that.” Breckenridge nodded.
“There’s a boat out there!” It was Mendoza, up on one of the YPs.
“Okay, boys,” the Sergeant Major breathed, holding his .45 up alongside his head. “Just wait another couple of minutes, till we get some real weapons here.”
“They’re coming in slow,” the Marine called.
Breckenridge’s first look was to make sure the women were safely behind cover. Then he ordered everyone to spread out and pick an open spot between the moored boats. “And for Christ’s sake keep your damned heads down!”
Ryan picked a spot for himself. The others did the same, at intervals of from ten to over a hundred feet apart. He felt the reinforced-concrete seawall with his hand. He was sure it would stop a bullet. The four sailors from the YP duty section stayed with the women, with a Marine on either side. Breckenridge was the only one moving, crouching behind the seawall, following the white shape of the moving boat. He got to Ryan.
“There, about eighty yards out, going left to right. They’re trying to figure things out, too. Just give me a couple more minutes, people,” he whispered.
“Yeah.” Ryan thumbed off the safety, one eye above the lip of the concrete. It was just a white outline, but he could hear the muted sputter of the engine. The boat turned in toward where Robby had tied up the one they’d stolen. It was their first real mistake, Jack thought.
“Great.” The Sergeant Major leveled his automatic, shielded by the stern of a boat. “Okay, gentlemen. Come on if you’re coming....”
Another pickup truck approached on Sims Drive. It came up without lights and stopped right by the women. Eight men jumped off the back. Two Marines ran along the seawall, and were illuminated by a light between two of the moored YPs. Out on the water, the small boat lit up with muzzle flashes, and both Marines went down. Bullets started hitting the moored boats around them. Breckenridge turned and yelled.
“Fire!” The area exploded with noise. Ryan spotted on the flashes and depressed his trigger with care. The submachine gun fired four rounds before locking open on an empty magazine. He cursed and stared stupidly at the weapon before he realized that he had a loaded pistol in his belt. He got the Browning up and fired a single shot before he realized that the target wasn’t there anymore. The noise from the boat’s motor increased dramatically.
“Cease fire! Cease fire! They’re buggin’ out,” Breckenridge called. “Anybody hit?”
“Over here!” someone called to the right, where the women were.
Ryan followed the Sergeant Major over. Two Marines were down, one with a flesh wound in the arm, but the other had taken a round right through the hip and was screaming like a banshee. Cathy was already looking at him.
“Mendoza, what’s happening?” Breckenridge called.
“They’re heading out—wait—yeah, they’re moving east!”
“Move your hands, soldier,” Cathy was saying. The Private First-Class had taken a painful hit just below the belt on his left side. “Okay, okay, you’re going to be all right. It hurts, but we can fix it.” Breckenridge reached down to take the man’s rifle. He tossed it to Sergeant Cummings.
“Who’s in command here?” demanded Captain Mike Peters.
“I guess I am,” Robby said.
“Christ, Robby, what’s going on?”
“What the hell does it look like!”
Another truck arrived, carrying another six Marines. They took one collective look at the wounded men and yanked at the charging handles on their rifles.
“Goddammit, Robby—sir!” Captain Peters yelled.
“Terrorists. They tried to get us at Jack’s place. They were trying to get—well, look!”
“Good evening, Captain,” the Prince said after checking his wife. “Did we get any? I didn’t have a clear shot.” His voice showed real disappointment at that.
“I don’t know, sir,” Breckenridge answered. “I saw some rounds go short, and pistol stuff won’t penetrate a boat like that.” Another series of lightning flashes illuminated the area.
“I see ’em, they’re going out to the bay!” Mendoza called.
“Damn!” Breckenridge growled. “You four, get the ladies over to the dispensary.” He bent down to help the Princess to her feet as Robby lifted his wife. “You want to give the little girl to the Private, ma’am? They’re going to take you to the hospital and get you all dried off.”
Ryan saw that his wife was still trying to help one of the wounded Marines, then looked at the patrol boat in front of him. “Robby?”
“Yeah, Jack?”
“Does this boat have radar?”
Chief Znamirowski answered. “They all do, sir.”
A Marine lowered the tailgate on the one pickup and helped Jackson load his wife aboard. “What are you thinking, Jack?”
“How fast are they?”
“About thirteen—I don’t think they’re fast enough.”
Chief Bosun’s Mate Znamirowski looked over the seawall at the boat Robby had steered in. “In the seas we got now, you bet I can catch one of those little things! But I need someone to work the radar. I don’t have an operator in my section right now.”
“I can do that,” the Prince offered. He was tired of being a target, and no one would keep him out of this. “It would be a pleasure in fact.”
“Robby, you’re senior here,” Jack said.
“Is it legal?” Captain Peters asked, fingering his automatic.
“Look,” Ryan said quickly, “we just had an armed attack by foreign nationals on a U.S. government reservation—that’s an act of war and posse commitatus doesn’t apply.” At least I don’t think it does, he thought. “Can you think of a good reason not to go after them?”
He couldn’t. “Chief Z, you have a boat ready?” Jackson asked.
“Hell, yes, we can take the seventy-six boat.”
“Crank her up! Captain Peters, we need some Marines.”
“Sar-Major Breckenridge, secure the area, and bring along ten men.”
The Sergeant Major had left the officers to their arguments while getting the civilians loaded onto the truck. He grabbed Cummings.
“Sergeant, take charge of the civilians, get ‘em to sick bay, and put a guard on ’em. Beef up the guard force, but your primary mission is to take care of these people here. Their safety is your responsibility—and you ain’t relieved till I relieve you! Got it?”
“Aye, Gunny.”
Ryan helped his wife to the truck. “We’re going after them.”
“I know. Be careful, Jack. Please.”
“I will, but we’re going to get ’em this time, babe.” He kissed his wife. There was a funny sort of look on her face, something more than concern. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine. You worry about you. Be careful!”
“Sure, babe. I’ll be back.” But they won’t! Jack turned away to jump aboard the boat. He went inside the deckhouse and found the ladder to the bridge.
“I am Chief Znamirowski, and I have the conn,” she announced. Mary Znamirowski didn’t look like a chief bosun’s mate, but the young seaman—was seawoman the proper term for her? Jack wondered—on the wheel jumped as though she were. “Starboard back two thirds, port back one third, left full rudder.”
“Stern line is in,” a seaman—this one was a man—reported.
“Very well,” she acknowledged, and continued h
er terse commands to get the YP away from the dock. Within seconds they were clear of the seawall and the other boats.
“Right full rudder, all ahead full! Come to new course one-three-five.” She turned. “How’s the radar look?”
The Prince was looking over the controls on the unfamiliar set. He found the clutter-suppression switch and bent down to the viewing hood. “Ah! Target bearing one-one-eight, range thirteen hundred, target course northeasterly, speed ... about eight knots. ”
“That’s about right, it can get choppy by the point,” Chief Z thought. “What’s our mission, Commander?”
“Can we stay with them?”
“They shot up my boats! I’ll ram the turkeys if you want, sir,” the chief replied. “I can give you thirteen knots as long as you want. I doubt they can do more than ten in the seas we got.”
“Okay. I want us to follow as close as we can without being spotted. ”
The chief opened one of the pilothouse doors and looked at the water. “We’ll close to three hundred. Anything else?”
“Go ahead and close up. For the rest of it, I am open to ideas,” Robby replied.
“How about we see where they’re going?” Jack suggested. “Then we can call in the cavalry.”
“That makes sense. If they try to run for shore ... Christ, I’m a fighter pilot, not a cop.” Robby lifted the radio microphone. The set showed the boat’s call sign: NAEF. “Naval Station Annapolis, this is November Alfa Echo Foxtrot. Do you read, over.” He had to repeat the call twice more before getting an acknowledgment.
“Annapolis, give me a phone patch to the Superintendent.”
“He just called us, sir. Stand by.” A few clicks followed, plus the usual static.
“This is Admiral Reynolds, who is this?”
“Lieutenant Commander Jackson, sir, aboard the seventy-six boat. We are one mile southeast of the Academy in pursuit of the boat that just shot up our waterfront.”
“Is that what happened? All right, who do you have aboard?”
“Chief Znamirowski and the duty boat section, Captain Peters and some Marines, Doctor Ryan, and, uh, Captain Wales, sir, of the Royal Navy,” Robby answered.