Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  Then they looked up to where he was, thirty yards away.

  “You dummies!” he called through the light rain. “See ya ‘round, assholes!” He started moving again, careful, of course, to keep his eyes on them. That’s what had won him the race, Kelly told himself. Caution, brains, experience. Guts, too, but Kelly dismissed that thought after allowing himself just the tiniest peek at it. Just a little one. He nursed the Scout back onto a strip of pavement, upshifted, and drove off, listening to the little clods of mud thrown by his tires into the wheel wells.

  “You can get up now, Pam. We won’t be seeing them for a while.”

  Pam did that, looking back to see Billy and his Roadrunner. The sight of him so close made her face go pale again. “What did you do?”

  “I just let them chase me into a place that I selected,” Kelly explained. “That’s a nice car for running the street, but not so good for dirt.”

  Pam smiled for him, showing bravery she didn’t feel at the moment, but completing the story just as Kelly would have told it to a friend. He checked his watch. Another hour or so until shift change at the police station. Billy and his friends would be stuck there for a long time. The smart move was to find a quiet place to wait. Besides, Pam looked like she needed a little calming down. He drove for a little while, then, finding an area with no major street activity, he parked.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “That was scary,” she replied, looking down and shaking badly.

  “Look, we can go right back to the boat and—”

  “No! Billy raped me . . . and killed Helen. If I don’t stop him, he’ll just keep doing it to people I know.” The words were as much to persuade herself as him, Kelly knew. He’d seen it before. It was courage, and it went part and parcel with fear. It was the thing that drove people to accomplish missions, and also the thing that selected those missions for them. She’d seen the darkness, and finding the light, she had to extend its glow to others.

  “Okay, but after we tell Frank about it, we get you the hell out of Dodge City.”

  “I’m okay,” Pam said, lying, knowing he saw the lie, and ashamed of it because she didn’t grasp his intimate understanding for her feelings of the moment.

  You really are, he wanted to tell her, but she hadn’t learned about those things yet. And so he asked a question: “How many other girls?”

  “Doris, Xantha, Paula, Maria, and Roberta . . . they’re all like me, John. And Helen . . . when they killed her, they made us watch.”

  “Well, with a little luck you can do something about that, honey.” He put his arm around her, and after a time the shaking stopped.

  “I’m thirsty,” she said.

  “There’s a cooler on the backseat.”

  Pam smiled. “That’s right.” She turned in the seat to reach for a Coke—and her body suddenly went rigid. She gasped, and Kelly’s skin got that all-too-familiar unwelcome feeling, like an electric charge running along its surface. The danger feeling.

  “Kelly!” Pam screamed. She was looking towards the car’s left rear. Kelly was already reaching for his gun, turning his body as he did so, but it was too late. and part of him already knew it. The outraged thought went through his mind that he’d erred badly, fatally, but he didn’t know how, and there was no time to figure it out because before he could reach his gun, there was a flash of light and an impact on his head, followed by darkness.

  7

  Recovery

  It was a routine police patrol that spotted the Scout. Officer Chuck Monroe, sixteen months on the force, just old enough to have his own solo radio car, made it a habit to patrol his part of the District after taking to the street. There wasn’t much he could do about the dealers—that was the job of the Narcotics Division—but he could show the flag, a phrase he’d learned in the Marine Corps. Twenty-five, newly married, young enough to be dedicated and angry at what was happening in his city and his old neighborhood, the officer noted that the Scout was an unusual vehicle for this area. He decided to check it out, record its tag number, and then came the heart-stopping realization that the car’s left side had taken at least two shotgun blasts. Officer Monroe stopped his car, flipped on his rotating lights, and made the first, preliminary call of possible trouble, please stand by. He stepped out of the car, switching his police baton into his left hand, leaving his right at the grip of his service revolver. Only then did he approach the car. A well-trained officer, Chuck Monroe moved in slowly and carefully, his eyes scanning everything in sight.

  “Oh, shit!” The return to his radio car was rapid. First Monroe called for backup and then for an ambulance, and then he notified his District desk of the license number of the subject automobile. Then, grabbing his first-aid kit, he returned to the Scout. The door was locked, but the window was blown out, and he reached inside to unlock it. What he saw then froze him in his tracks.

  The head rested on the steering wheel, along with the left hand, while the right rested in his lap. Blood had sprayed all over the inside. The man was still breathing, which surprised the officer. Clearly a shotgun blast, it had obliterated the metal and fiberglass of the Scout’s body and hit the victim’s head, neck, and upper back. There were several small holes in the exposed skin, and these were oozing blood. The wound looked as horrible as any he had seen on the street or in the Marine Corps, and yet the man was alive. That was sufficiently amazing that Monroe decided to leave his first-aid kit closed. There would be an ambulance here in minutes, and he decided that any action he took was as likely to make things worse as better. Monroe held the kit under his right hand like a book, looking at the victim with the frustration of a man of action to whom action was denied. At least the poor bastard was unconscious.

  Who was he? Monroe looked at the slumped form and decided that he could extricate the wallet. The officer switched the first-aid kit to his left hand and reached in for the wallet pocket with his right. Unsurprisingly, it was empty, but his touch had elicited a reaction. The body moved a little, and that wasn’t good. He moved his hand to steady it, but then the head moved, too, and he knew that the head had better stay still, and so his hand automatically and wrongly touched it. Something rubbed against something else, and a cry of pain echoed across the dark, wet street before the body went slack again.

  “Shit!” Monroe looked at the blood on his fingertips and unconsciously rubbed it off on his blue uniform trousers. Just then he heard the banshee-wail of a Fire Department ambulance approaching from the east, and the officer whispered a quiet prayer of thanks that people who knew what they were doing would shortly relieve him of this problem.

  The ambulance turned the corner a few seconds later. The large, boxy, red-and-white vehicle halted just past the radio car, and its two occupants came at once to the officer.

  “What d’we got.” Strangely, it didn’t come out like a question. The senior fireman-paramedic hardly needed to ask in any case. In this part of town at this time of night, it wouldn’t be a traffic accident. It would be “penetrating trauma,” in the dry lexicon of his profession. “Jesus!”

  The other crewman was already moving back to the ambulance when another police car arrived on the scene.

  “What gives?” the watch supervisor asked.

  “Shotgun, close range, and the guy’s still alive!” Monroe reported.

  “I don’t like the neck hits,” the first ambulance guy observed tersely.

  “Collar?” the other paramedic called from an equipment bay.

  “Yeah, if he moves his head . . . damn.” The senior firefighter placed his hands on the victim’s head to secure it in place.

  “ID?” the sergeant asked.

  “No wallet. I haven’t had a chance to look around yet.”

  “Did you run the tags?”

  Monroe nodded. “Called ’em in; it takes a little while.”

  The sergeant played his flashlight on the inside of the car to help the firemen. A lot of blood, otherwise empty. Some kind of cooler
in the backseat. “What else?” he asked Monroe.

  “The block was empty when I got here.” Monroe checked his watch. “Eleven minutes ago.” Both officers stood back to give the paramedics room to work.

  “You ever seen him before?”

  “No, Sarge.”

  “Check the sidewalks.”

  “Right.” Monroe started quartering the area around the car.

  “I wonder what this was all about,” the sergeant asked nobody in particular. Looking at the body and all the blood, his next thought was that they might never find out. So many crimes committed in this area were never really solved. That was not something pleasing to the sergeant. He looked at the paramedics. “How is he, Mike?”

  “Damned near bled out, Bert. Definite shotgun,” the man answered, affixing the cervical collar. “A bunch of pellets in the neck, some near the spine. I don’t like this at all.”

  “Where you taking him?” the police sergeant asked.

  “University’s full up,” the junior paramedic advised. “Bus accident on the Beltway. We have to take him to Hopkins.”

  “That’s an extra ten minutes.” Mike swore. “You drive, Phil, tell them we have a major trauma and we need a neurosurgeon standing by.”

  “You got it.” Both men lifted him onto the gurney. The body reacted to the movement, and the two police officers—three more radio cars had just arrived—helped hold him in place while the firefighters applied restraints.

  “You’re a real sick puppy, my friend, but we’ll have you in the hospital real quick now,” Phil told the body, which might or might not still be alive enough to hear the words. “Time to roll, Mike.”

  They loaded the body in the back of the ambulance. Mike Eaton, the senior paramedic, was already setting up an IV bottle of blood-expanders. Getting the intravenous line was difficult with the man facedown, but he managed it just as the ambulance started moving. The sixteen-minute trip to Johns Hopkins Hospital was occupied with taking vital signs—the blood pressure was perilously low—and doing some preliminary paperwork.

  Who are you? Eaton asked silently. Good physical shape, he noted, twenty-six or -seven. Odd for a probable drug user. This guy would have looked pretty tough standing up, but not now. Now he was more like a large, sleeping child, mouth open, drawing oxygen from the clear plastic mask, breathing shallowly and too slowly for Eaton’s comfort.

  “Speed it up,” he called to the driver, Phil Marconi.

  “Roads are pretty wet, Mike, doing my best.”

  “Come on, Phil, you wops are supposed to drive crazy!”

  “But we don’t drink like you guys,” came the laughing reply. “I just called ahead, they got a neck-cutter standing by. Quiet night at Hopkins, they’re all ready for us.”

  “Good,” Eaton responded quietly. He looked at his shooting victim. It often got lonely and a little spooky in the back of an ambulance, and that made him glad for the otherwise nerve-grating wail of the electronic siren. Blood dripped off the gurney down to the floor of the vehicle; the drops traveled around on the metal floor, as though they had a life entirely of their own. It was something you never got used to.

  “Two minutes,” Marconi said over his shoulder. Eaton moved to the back of the compartment, ready to open the door. Presently he felt the ambulance turn, stop. then back up quickly before stopping again. The rear doors were yanked open before Eaton could reach for them.

  “Yeow!” the ER resident observed. “Okay, folks, we’re taking him into Three.” Two burly orderlies pulled the gurney out while Eaton disconnected the IV bottle from the overhead hook and carried it beside the moving cart.

  “Trouble at University?” the resident asked.

  “Bus accident,” Marconi reported, arriving at his side.

  “Better off here anyway. Jesus, what did he back into?” The doctor bent down to inspect the wound as they moved. “Must be a hundred pellets in there!”

  “Wait till you see the neck,” Eaton told him.

  “Shit . . . ” the resident breathed.

  They wheeled him into the capacious emergency room, selecting a cubicle in the corner. The five men moved the victim from the gurney to a treatment table, and the medical team went to work. Another physician was standing by, along with a pair of nurses.

  The resident, Cliff Severn, reached around delicately to remove the cervical collar after making sure the head was secured by sandbags. It took only one look.

  “Possible spine,” he announced at once. “But first we have to replace blood volume.” He rattled off a series of orders. While the nurses got two more IVs started, Severn took the patient’s shoes off and ran a sharp metal instrument across the sole of his left foot. The foot moved. Okay, there was no immediate nerve damage. Good news. A few more sticks on the legs also got reactions. Remarkable. While that was happening, a nurse took blood for the usual battery of tests. Severn scarcely had to look as his well-trained crew did their separate jobs. What appeared to be a flurry of activity was more like the movement of a football backfield, the end product of months of diligent practice.

  “Where the hell’s neuro?” Severn asked the ceiling.

  “Right here!” a voice answered.

  Severn looked up. “Oh—Professor Rosen.”

  The greeting stopped there. Sam Rosen was not in a good mood, as the resident saw at once. It had been a twenty-hour day for the professor already. What ought to have been a six-hour procedure had only begun a marathon effort to save the life of an elderly woman who’d fallen down a flight of stairs, an effort that had ended unsuccessfully less than an hour before. He ought to have saved her, Sam was telling himself, still not sure what had gone wrong. He was grateful rather than angry about this extension to a hellish day. Maybe he could win this one.

  “Tell me what we have,” the professor ordered curtly.

  “Shotgun wound, several pellets very close to the cord, sir.”

  “Okay.” Rosen bent down, his hands behind his back. “What’s with the glass?”

  “He was in a car,” Eaton called from the other side of the cubicle.

  “We need to get rid of that, need to shave the head, too,” Rosen said, surveying the damage. “What’s his pressure?”

  “BP fifty over thirty,” a nurse-practitioner reported. “Pulse is one-forty and thready.”

  “We’re going to be busy,” Rosen observed. “This guy is very shocky. Hmm.” He paused. “Overall condition of the patient looks good, good muscle tone. Let’s get that blood volume back up.” Rosen saw two units being started even as he spoke. The ER nurses were especially good and he nodded approval at them.

  “How’s your son doing, Margaret?” he asked the senior one.

  “Starting at Carnegie in September,” she answered, adjusting the drip-rate on the blood bottle.

  “Let’s get the neck cleaned off next, Margaret. I need to take a look.”

  “Yes, doctor.”

  The nurse selected a pair of forceps, grabbed a large cotton ball, which she dipped in distilled water, then wiped across the patient’s neck with care, clearing away the blood and exposing the actual wounds. It looked worse than it might really be, she saw at once. While she swabbed the patient off, Rosen looked for and got sterile garb. By the time he got back to the bedside, Margaret Wilson had a sterile kit in place and uncovered. Eaton and Marconi stayed in the corner, watching it all.

  “Nice job, Margaret,” Rosen said, putting his glasses on. “What’s he going to major in?”

  “Engineering.”

  “That’s good.” Rosen held his hand up. “Tweezers.” Nurse Wilson set a pair in his hand. “Always room for a bright young engineer.”

  Rosen picked a small, round hole on the patient’s shoulder, well away from anything really vital. With a delicacy that his large hands made almost comical to watch, he probed for and retrieved a single lead ball which he held up to the light. “Number seven shot, I believe. Somebody mistook this guy for a pigeon. That’s good news,” he told the pa
ramedics. Now that he knew the shot size and probable penetration, he bent down low over the neck. “Hmm . . . what’s the BP now?”

  “Checking,” another nurse said from the far side of the table. “Fifty-five over forty. Coming up.”

  “Thank you,” Rosen said, still bent over the patient. “Who started the first IV?”

  “I did,” Eaton replied.

  “Good work, fireman.” Rosen looked up and winked. “Sometimes I think you people save more lives than we do. You saved this one, that’s for damned sure.”

  “Thank you, doctor.” Eaton didn’t know Rosen well, but he made a note that the man’s reputation was deserved. It wasn’t every day that a fireman-paramedic got that sort of praise from a full professor. “How’s he going to—I mean, the neck injury?”

  Rosen was down again, examining it. “Responses, doctor?” he asked the senior resident.

  “Positive. Good Babinski. No gross indications of peripheral impairment,” Severn replied. This was like an exam, which always made the young resident nervous.

  “This may not be as bad as it looks, but we’re going to have to clean it up in a hurry before these pellets migrate. Two hours?” he asked Severn. Rosen knew the ER resident was better on trauma than he was.

  “Maybe three.”

  “I’ll get a nap out of it anyway.” Rosen checked his watch. “I’ll take him at, oh, six.”

  “You want to handle this one personally?”

  “Why not? I’m here. This one is straightforward, just takes a little touch.” Rosen figured he was entitled to an easy case, maybe once a month. As a full professor, he drew a lot of the hard ones.

  “Fine with me, sir.”

  “Do we have an ID on the patient?”

  “No, sir,” Marconi replied. “The police ought to be here in a few.”

  “Good.” Rosen stood and stretched. “You know, Margaret, people like us shouldn’t work these kind of hours.”

  “I need the shift-differential,” Nurse Wilson replied. Besides which, she was the nursing-team leader for this shift. “What’s this, I wonder?” she said after a moment.