Jack Ryan 2 - Patriot Games (76 page)

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 going 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.”

“Stem line is in,” a seaman -- this one was a man -- reported.

“Very well,” she acknowledged, and continued her 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.

“Is that where he is? I have the FBI on the other phone -- Christ, Robby! Okay, the civilians corner under guard at the hospital, and the FBI and police corner on the way here. Repeat your situation and then state your intentions.”

“Sir, we are tracking the boat that attacked the dock. Our intentions are to close and track by radar to determine its destination, then call in the proper law-enforcement agencies, sir.” Robby smiled into the mike at his choice of words. “My next call is to Coast Guard Baltimore, sir. Looks like they're heading in that direction at the moment.”

“Roger that. Very well, you may continue the mission, but the safety of your guests is your responsibility. Do not, repeat do not take any unnecessary chances. Acknowledge.”

“Yes, sir, we will not take any unnecessary chances.”

“Use your head, Commander, and report as necessary. Out.”

“Now there's a vote of confidence,” Jackson thought aloud. “Carry on.”

“Left fifteen degrees rudder,” Chief Z ordered, rounding Greenbury Point. “Come to new course zero-two-zero.”

“Target bearing zero-one-four, range fourteen hundred, speed still eight knots,” His Highness told the quartermaster on the chart table. “They took a shorter route around this point.”

“No problem,” the chief noted, looking at the radar plot. “We have deep water all the way up from here.”

“Chief Z, do we have any coffee aboard?”

“I got a pot in the galley, sir, but I don't have anybody to work it.”

“I'll take care of that,” Jack said. He went below, then to starboard and below again. The galley was a small one, but the coffee machine was predictably of the proper size. Ryan got it started and went back topside. Breckenridge was passing out life jackets to everyone aboard, which seemed a sensible enough precaution. The Marines were deployed on the bridgewalk outside the pilothouse.

“Coffee in ten minutes,” he announced.

“Say again, Coast Guard,” Robby said into the microphone.

“Navy Echo Foxtrot, this is Coast Guard Baltimore, do you read, over.”

“That's better.”

“Can you tell us what's going on?”

“We are tracking a small boat, about a twenty-footer -- with ten or more armed terrorists aboard.” He gave position, course, and speed. “Acknowledge that.”

“Roger, you say a boat full of bad guys and machine guns. Is this for real? Over.”

“That's affirmative, son. Now let's cut the crap and get down to it.”

The response was slightly miffed. “Roger that, we have a forty-one boat about to leave the dock and a thirty-two-footer'll be about ten minutes behind it. These are small harbor-patrol boats. They are not equipped to fight a surface gun action, mister.”

“We have ten Marines aboard,” Jackson replied. “Do you request assistance?”

“Hell, yes -- that's affirmative. Echo Foxtrot. I have the police and the FBI on the phone, and they are heading to this area.”

“Okay, have your forty-one boat call us when they clear the dock. Let's have your boat track from in front and we'll track from behind. If we can figure where the target is heading, I want you to call in the cops.”

“We can do that easy enough. Let me get some things rolling here, Navy. Stand by.”

“A ship,” the Prince said.

“It's gotta be,” Ryan agreed. “The same way they did it when they rescued that Miller bastard . . . Robby, can you get the Coast Guard to give us a list of the ships in the harbor?”

Werner and both Hostage Rescue groups were already moving. He wondered what had gone wrong -- and right -- tonight, but that would be determined later. For the moment he had agents and police heading toward the Naval Academy to protect the people he was supposed to have rescued, and his men were split between an FBI Chevy Suburban and two State Police cars, all heading north on Ritchie Highway toward Baltimore. If only they could use helicopters, he thought, but the weather was too bad, and everyone had had enough of that for one night. They were back to being a SWAT team, a purpose for which they were well suited. Despite everything that had gone wrong tonight, they now had a large group of terrorists flushed and in the open . . .