Jack Ryan 2 - Patriot Games (28 page)

He stood alone in the pilothouse and looked at his radios -- smashed. With them he could call for help, a tug, a merchantman, anything that could put a line on his bow and pull him to safe harbor. But all three of his radio transmitters were wrecked beyond repair by a whole clip of machine gun bullets.

Why did the bastards leave us alive? he asked himself in quiet, helpless rage. His engineer appeared at the door.

“Can't fix it. We just don't have the tools we need. The bastards knew exactly what to break.”

“They knew exactly what to do, all right,” the Captain agreed.

“We're late for Yarmouth. Perhaps --”

“They'll write it off to the weather. We'll be on the rocks before they get their thumbs out.” The Captain turned and opened a drawer. He withdrew a flare pistol and a plastic box of star shells. “Two-minute intervals. I'm going to see to the passengers. If nothing happens in . . . forty minutes, we launch the boats.”

“But we'll kill the wounded getting them in --”

“We'll lose bloody everyone if we don't!” The Captain went below.

One of the passengers was a veterinarian, it turned out. Five people were wounded, and the doctor was trying to treat them, assisted by a member of the crew. It was wet and noisy on the vehicle deck. The ferry was rolling twenty degrees, and a window had been smashed by the seas. One of his deck crew was struggling to put canvas over the hole. The Captain saw that he would probably succeed, then went to the wounded.

“How are they?”

The veterinarian looked up, the anguish plain on his face. One of his patients was going to die, and the other four . . .

“We may have to move them to the lifeboats soon.”

“It'll kill them. I --”

“Radio,” one of them said through his teeth.

“Lie still,” the doctor said.

“Radio,” he persisted. The man's hands were clasping bandages to his abdomen, and it was all he could do not to scream out his agony.

“The bastards wrecked them,” the Captain said. “I'm sorry -- we don't have one.”

“The truck -- a radio in the fucking truck!”

“What?”

“Police,” Highland gasped. “Police van -- prisoner transport . . . radio . . . ”

“Holy Jesus!” He looked at the van -- the radio might not work from inside the ferry. The Captain ran back to the pilothouse and gave an order to his engineer.

It was an easy enough task. The engineer used his tools to remove the VHF radio from the truck. He was able to hook it up to one of the ferry's antennas, and the Captain was using it within five minutes.

“Who is this?” the police dispatcher asked.

“This is the Cenlac, you bloody fool. Our marine radios are out. We are disabled and adrift, three miles south of Lisle Court, and we need assistance at once!”

“Oh. Very well. Stand by.” The desk sergeant in Lymington was no stranger to the sea. He lifted his telephone and ran his finger down a list of emergency numbers till he found the right one. Two minutes later he was back to the ferry.

“We have a tugboat heading towards you right now. Please confirm your position three miles south of Lisle Court.”

“That is correct, but we are drifting northeast. Our radar is still operating. We can guide the tug in. For Christ's good sake, tell him to hurry. We have wounded aboard.”

The Sergeant bolted upright in his chair. “Say again -- repeat your last.”

The Captain explained in as few words as possible now that help was en route to his ship. Ashore, the Sergeant called his superior, then the local superintendent. Another call went to London. Fifteen minutes later, a Royal Navy flight crew was warming up a Sea King rescue helicopter at Gosport. They flew first to the naval hospital at Portsmouth to pick up a doctor and a medical orderly, then reversed course into the teeth of the gale. It took twenty dreadful minutes to find her, the pilot fighting his aircraft through the buffering winds while the copilot used the look-down radar to pick the ferry's profile out from the sea return on the scope. That was the easy part.

He had to give his aircraft more than forty knots of forward speed just to hold her steady over the boat -- and the wind never stayed the same for more than a few seconds, veering a few degrees in direction, changing ten knots in speed as he struggled with the controls to maintain something like a hover over her. Aft, the crew chief wrapped the rescue sling around the doctor first, holding him at the open door. Over the intercom, the pilot told the chief to lower away. At least they had a fairly large target. Two crewmen waited on the top deck of the ferry to receive the doctor. They'd never done it before, but the helicopter crew had, dropping him rapidly to ten feet over the rocking deck, then mote easily the last few feet. One crewman tackled the doctor and detached the collar. The medical orderly came next, cursing fate and nature all the way down. He too arrived safely, and the helicopter shot upward to get away from the dangerous surface.

“Surgeon Lieutenant Dilk, Doctor.”

“Welcome. I'm afraid my practice is usually limited to horses and dogs,” the vet replied at once. “One sucking chest, the other three are belly wounds. One died -- I did my best, but --” there wasn't much else to say. “Fucking murderers!”

The sound of a diesel horn announced the arrival of the tugboat. Lieutenant Dilk didn't bother looking while the Captain and crew caught the messenger line and hauled in a lowing wire. Together, the doctors administered morphine and worked to stabilize the wounded.

The helicopter was already gone southwest, a grimmer purpose to their second mission for the day. Another helicopter, this one with armed Marines aboard, was lifting off from Gosport while the first searched the surface with radar and eyes for a black ten-meter zodiac-type rubber boat. Orders had come from the Home Office with record speed, and for once they were orders that men in uniform were trained and equipped to handle: Locate and destroy.

“The radar's hopeless,” the copilot reported over the intercom.

The pilot nodded agreement. On a calm day they'd have a good chance to pick the rubber boat out, but the return from the confused seas and the flying spray made radar detection impossible.

“They can't have gone too far, and visibility isn't all that bad from up here. We'll do a quartering search and eyeball the bastards.”

“Where do we start?”

“Off the Needles, then inward to Christchurch Bay, then we'll work west if we have to. We'll catch the bastards before they make landfall and have the bootnecks meet them on the beach. You heard the orders.”

“Indeed.” The copilot activated his tactical navigation display to set up the search pattern. Ninety minutes later it was plain that they'd searched in the wrong place. Surprised -- baffled -- the helicopters returned to Gosport empty-handed. The pilot went into the ready shack and found two very senior police officers.

“Well?”

“We searched from the Needles to Poole Bay -- we didn't miss a thing.” The pilot traced his flight path on the chart. “That type of boat can make perhaps twenty knots in these sea conditions -- at most, and then only with an expert crew. We should not have missed them.” The pilot sipped at a mug of tea. He stared at the chart and shook his head in disbelief. “No way we could have missed them! Not with two machines up.”

“What if they went seaward, what if they went south?”

“But where? Even if they carried enough fuel to cross the Channel, which I doubt, only a madman would try it. There will be twenty-foot seas out there, and the gale is still freshening. Suicide,” the pilot concluded.

“Well, we know that they're not madmen, they're too damned smart for that. No way they could have gotten past you, made landfall before you caught up with them?”

“Not a chance. None.” The flyer was emphatic.

“Then where the hell are they?”

“I'm sorry, sir, but I haven't a clue. Perhaps they sank.”

“Do you believe that?” the cop demanded.

“No, sir.”

Commander James Owens turned away. He looked out the windows. The pilot was right; the storm was worsening. The phone rang.

“For you, sir.” A petty officer held it up.

“Owens. Yes?” His face changed from sadness to rage and back. “Thank you. Please keep us posted. That was the hospital. Another of the wounded died. Sergeant Highland's in surgery now. One of the bullets hit his spine. That's a total of nine dead, I believe. Gentlemen, is there anything you can suggest to us? I'd be quite willing to hire a gypsy fortune teller at the moment.”

“Perhaps they made south from the Needles, then curved east and made landfall on the Isle of Wight.”

Owens shook his head. “We have people there. Nothing.”

“Then they might have rendezvoused with a ship. There is the usual amount of traffic in the Channel.”

“Any way to check that?”

The pilot shook his head. “No. There's a ship-traffic-control radar at Dover Strait, but not here. We can't board every ship, can we?”

“Very well. Gentlemen, thank you for your efforts, particularly getting your surgeon out as quickly as you did. I was told that this action saved several lives.” Commander Owens walked out of the building. Those left behind marveled at his self-control. Outside, the senior detective looked up into the leaden sky and swore a mental curse at fortune, but he was too consumed by anger to show what he felt. Owens was a man accustomed to concealing what he thought and felt. Emotions, he often lectured his men, had no place in police work. Of course that was false, and like many cops Owens only succeeded in turning his rage inward. That accounted for the packet of antacid pills always in his coat pocket, and the quiet spells at home that his wife had learned to live with. He reached in his shirt pocket for a cigarette that wasn't there, then snorted to himself -- how did you ever break that habit, Jimmy? He stood alone in the parking lot for a moment, as though the cold rain would dampen his anger. But it only gave him a chill, and he couldn't afford that. He'd have to answer for this, answer to the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, answer to the Home Office. Someone -- not me, thank God -- would also have to answer to the Crown.

That thought hammered home. He had failed them. He'd failed them twice. He had failed to detect and prevent the original attack on The Mall, and only the incredible luck of that Yank's intervention had saved the day. Then, when everything had subsequently gone right, this failure. Nothing like this had ever happened before. Owens was responsible. It had all happened on his watch. He had personally set up the transport scheme. The method was of his choosing. He had established the security procedures. Picked the day. Picked the routes. Picked the men, all dead now, except for Bob Highland.

How did they know? Owens demanded of himself. They knew when, they knew where. How did they know? Well, he told himself, that's one place to start looking. The number of people who had this information was known to Owens. Somehow it had been leaked. He remembered the report Ashley had brought back from Dublin. “So good, you would not believe it,” that PIRA bastard had said of O'Donnell's intelligence source. Murphy was wrong, the detective thought. Everyone will believe it now.

“Back to London,” he told the driver.

“Great day. Jack,” Robby observed on the couch.

“Not bad at all,” Ryan agreed. Of course the house looks like a Toys 'R Us that got nuked . . .

In front of them, Sally was playing with her new toys. She particularly liked the doll house. Jack was gratified to see. His daughter was winding down, having gotten her parents up at seven that morning. Jack and Cathy were winding down also after only five hours of sleep. That was a little tough on a pregnant wife, Jack had thought an hour earlier, and he and Robby had cleared away the dishes, now being processed by the dishwasher in the kitchen. Now their wives were on the other couch talking while the menfolk sipped at some brandy.

“Not flying tomorrow?”

Jackson shook his head. “The bird went tits-up, take another day or so to fix. Besides, what's Christmas without a good brandy? I'll be back in the simulator tomorrow, and regs don't prevent me from drinking before I do that. I don't strap in until three tomorrow, I ought to be fairly sober by then.” Robby'd had one glass of wine with dinner, and had limited himself to only one Hennessy.

“God, I need a stretch.” Jack stood up and beckoned his friend to the stairs.

“How late were you up last night, sport?”

“I think we hit the sack a little after two.”

Robby checked to see that Sally was out of earshot. “Being Santa is a bitch, isn't it? If you can put all those toys together, maybe I ought to turn you loose on my broke airplane.”

“Wait till I have both arms back.” Jack pulled his arm out of the sling and moved it around as they went down to the library level.

“What's Cathy say about that?”

“What docs always say -- hell, if you get well too soon, they lose money!” He moved his wrist around. “This thing knots up like you wouldn't believe.”

“How's it feel?”

“Pretty good. I think I might get full use back. At least I haven't had it quit on me yet.” Jack checked his watch. “Want to catch the news?”

“Sure.”

Ryan flipped on the small TV on his deck. Cable had finally made it down his road, and he was already hooked on CNN. It was so nice to get the national and world news whenever you wanted. Jack dropped into his swivel chair while Robby selected another in the corner. It was a few minutes short of the hourly headlines. Jack left the sound down.

“How's the book coming?”

“Getting there. I have all the information in line, finally. Four more chapters to write, and two I have to change around some, and it's done.”

“What did you change?” “Turned out that I got bum data. You were right about that deck-spotting problem on the Japanese carriers.”

“I didn't think that sounded right,” Robby replied. “They were pretty good, but they weren't that good -- I mean, we took 'em at Midway, didn't we?”

“What about today?”

“The Russians? Hey, Jack, anybody wants to fool with me and my Tomcat better have his will fixed up. They don't pay me to lose, son.” Jackson grinned like a sleepy lion.