Jack Ryan 2 - Patriot Games (78 page)

You don't talk to snakes. You kill snakes.

“Lieutenant . . . ” Breckenridge was a little slow to catch on.

Jack pushed Miller back against the metal wall of a container, his forearm across the man's neck. He savored the feel of the man's throat on his wrist.

This is the little bastard who nearly killed my family. Though he didn't know it, his face showed no emotion at all.

Miller looked into his eyes and saw . . . nothing. For the first time in his life, Sean Miller knew fear. He saw his own death, and remembered the long-past lessons in Catholic school, remembered what the sisters had taught him, and his fear was that they might have been right. His face broke out in a sweat and his hands trembled as, despite all his contempt for religion, he feared the eternity in hell that surely awaited him.

Ryan saw the look in Miller's eyes, and knew it for what it was. Goodbye, Sean. I hope you like it there . . .

“Lieutenant!”

Jack knew that he had little time. He brought up the pistol and forced it into Miller's mouth as his eyes bored in on Sean's. He tightened his finger on the trigger just as he'd been taught. A gentle squeeze, so you never know when the trigger will break . . .

But nothing happened, and a massive hand came down on the gun.

“He ain't worth it, Lieutenant, he just ain't worth it.” Breckenridge withdrew his hand, and Ryan saw that the gun's hammer was down. He'd have to cock it before the weapon could fire. “Think, son.”

The spell was broken. Jack swallowed twice and took a breath. What he saw now was something less monstrous than before. Fear had given Miller the humanity that he'd lacked before. He was no longer an animal, after all. He was a human being, an evil example of what could happen when a man lost something that all men needed. Miller's breath was coming in gasps as Ryan pulled the gun out of his mouth. He gagged, but couldn't bend over with Jack's arm across his throat. Ryan backed away and the man fell to the deck. The Sergeant Major put his hand on Ryan's right arm, forcing the gun downward.

“I know what you're thinking, what he did to your little girl, but it isn't worth what you'd have to go through. I could tell the cops you shot him when he tried to run. My boys would back me up. You'd never go to trial, but it ain't worth what it would do to you, son. You're not cut out to be a murderer,” Breckenridge said gently. “Besides, look what you did to him. I don't know what that is down there, but it's not a man, not anymore.”

Jack nodded, as yet unable to speak. Miller was still on all fours, looking down at the deck, unable to meet Ryan's eyes. Jack could feel his body again; the blood coursing through his veins told him that he was alive and whole. I've won, he thought, as his mind regained control of his emotions. I've won. I've defeated him and I haven't destroyed myself doing it. His hands relaxed around the pistol grip.

“Thanks, Gunny. If you hadn't --”

“If you'd really wanted to kill him, you would have remembered to cock it. Lieutenant, I had you figured out a long time ago.” Breckenridge nodded to reinforce his words. “Back on the deck, you,” he told Miller, who slowly complied.

“Before any of you people think you're lucky, I got a hot flash for you,” the Sergeant Major said next. “You have committed murder in a place that has a gas chamber. You can die by the numbers over here, people. Think about it.”

The Hostage Rescue Team arrived next. They found the Marines and state troopers on the deck, working their way aft. It took a few minutes to determine that no one was in the container stacks. The remaining four ULA members had used an alleyway to head aft, and were probably in the superstructure. Werner took over. He had a solid perimeter. Nobody was going anywhere. Another group of FBI agents went forward to collect the terrorists.

Three TV news trucks arrived on the scene, adding their lights to the ones turning night into day on the dock. The police were keeping them back, but already live news broadcasts were being sent worldwide. A colonel of the State Police was giving out a press release at the moment. The situation, he, told the cameras, was under control, thanks to a little luck and a lot of good police work.

By this time all the terrorists forward were handcuffed and had been searched. The agents read off their constitutional rights while three of their number went into the boat to collect their weapons and other evidence. The Prince finally came up the ladder, with a heavy guard. He came to where the terrorists were sitting, now. He looked at them for a minute or so but didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

“Okay, we have things contained aft. There seems to be four of them. That's what the crew says,” one of the HRT people said. “They're below somewhere, and we'll have to talk them out. It shouldn't be too hard, and we have all the time in the world.”

“How do we get these characters off?” Sergeant Powers asked.

“We haven't worked that out yet, but let's get the civilians off. We'd prefer you did it from here. It might be a little dangerous to use the aft ladder. That means the Marines, too. Thanks for the assist. Captain.”

“I hope we didn't screw anything up, joining in, I mean.”

The agent shook his head. “You didn't break any laws that I know of. We got all the evidence we need, too.”

“Okay, then we head back to Annapolis.”

“Fine. There'll be a team of agents waiting to interview you there. Please thank the boat crew for us.”

“Sar-Major, let's get the people moving.”

“Okay, Marines, saddle up,” Breckenridge called. Two minutes later everyone was aboard the patrol boat, heading out of the harbor. The rain had finally ended and the sky was clearing, the cooler Canadian air finally breaking the heat wave that had punished the area. The Marines took the opportunity to climb into the boat's bunks. Chief Znamirowski and her crew handled the driving. Ryan and the rest congregated in the galley and started drinking the coffee that no one had touched to this point.

“Long day,” Jackson said. He checked his watch. “I'm supposed to fly in a few hours. Well, I was, anyway.”

“Looks like we finally won a round,” Captain Peters observed.

“It wasn't cheap.” Ryan stared into his cup.

“It's never cheap, sir,” Breckenridge said after a few seconds.

The boat rumbled with increased engine power. Jackson lifted a phone and asked why they were speeding up. He smiled at the answer, but said nothing.

Ryan shook his head to clear it and went topside. Along the way he found a crewman's pack of cigarettes on a table and stole one. He proceeded out onto the fantail. Baltimore Harbor was already low on the horizon, and the boat was turning south toward Annapolis, chugging along at thirteen knots -- about fifteen miles per hour, but on a boat it seemed fast enough. The smoke he blew out made its own trail as he stared aft. Was Breckenridge right? he asked the sky. The answer came in a moment. He got one part right. I'm not cut out to be a murderer. Maybe he was right on the other part, too. I sure hope so . . .

“Tired, Jack?” the Prince asked, standing beside him.

“I ought to be, but I guess I'm still too pumped up.”

“Indeed,” His Highness observed quietly. “I wanted to ask them why. When I went up to look at them, I wanted --”

“Yeah.” Ryan took a last drag and flipped the butt over the side. “You could ask, but I doubt the answer would mean much of anything.”

“Then how are we supposed to solve the problem?”

We did solve my problem. Jack thought. They won't be coming after my family anymore. But that's not the answer you want, is it? “I guess maybe it comes down to justice. If people believe in their society, they don't break its rules. The trick's making them believe. Hell, we can't always accomplish that.” Jack turned. “But you try your best, and you don't quit. Every problem has a solution if you work at it long enough. You have a pretty good system over there. You just have to make it work for everybody, and do it well enough that they believe. It's not easy, but I think you can do it. Sooner or later, civilization always wins over barbarism.” I just proved that, I think. I hope.

The Prince of Wales looked aft for a moment. “Jack, you're a good man.”

“So are you, pal. That's why we'll win.”

It was a grisly scene, but not one to arouse pity in any of the men who surveyed it. Geoffrey Watkins' body was quite warm, and his blood was still dripping from the ceiling. After the photographer finished up, a detective took the gun from his hands. The television remained on, and “Good Morning, Britain” continued to run its live report from America. All the terrorists were now in custody. That's what must have done it, Murray thought.

“Bloody fool,” Owens said. “We didn't have a scrap of usable evidence.”

“We do now.” A detective held three sheets of paper in his hand. “This is quite a letter. Commander.” He slid the sheets into a plastic envelope.

Sergeant Bob Highland was there, too. He was still learning to walk again, with a leg brace and a cane, and looked down at the body of the man whose information had almost made orphans of his children. Highland didn't say a word.

“Jimmy, you've closed the case,” Murray observed.

“Not the way I would have liked,” Owens replied. “But now I suppose Mr. Watkins is answering to a higher authority.”

The boat arrived in Annapolis forty minutes later. Ryan was surprised when Chief Znamirowski passed the line of moored boats and proceeded straight to Hospital Point. She conned the boat expertly alongside the seawall, where a couple of Marines were waiting. Ryan and everyone but the boat's crew jumped off.

“All secure,” Sergeant Cummings reported to Breckenridge. “We got a million cops and feds here, Gunny. Everybody's just fine.”

“Very well, you're relieved.”

“Doctor Ryan, will you come along with me? You want to hustle, sir,” the young Sergeant said. He led off at a slow trot.

It was well that the pace was an easy one. Ryan's legs were rubbery with fatigue as the Sergeant led him up the hill and into the old Academy hospital.

“Hold it!” A federal agent took the pistol from Ryan's belt. “I'll keep this for you, if that's okay.”

“Sorry,” Jack said with embarrassment.

“It's all right. You can go in.” There was no one in sight. Sergeant Cummings motioned for him to follow.

“Where is everybody?”

“Sir, your wife's in the delivery room at the moment.” Cummings turned to grin at him.

“Nobody told me!” Ryan said in alarm.

“She said not to worry you, sir.” They reached the proper floor. Cummings pointed. “Down there. Don't toss your cookies, Doc.”

Jack ran down the corridor. A corpsman stopped him and waved Ryan into a dressing room, where Ryan tore off his clothes and got into surgical greens. It took a few minutes. Ryan was clumsy from fatigue. He walked to the waiting room and saw that all his friends were there. Then the corpsman walked him into the delivery room.

“I haven't done this in a long time,” the doctor was saying.

“It's been a few years for me, too,” Cathy reproached him. “You're supposed to inspire confidence in your patient.” Then she started blowing again, fighting off the impulse to push. Jack grabbed her hand.

“Hi, babe.”

“Your timing is pretty good,” the doctor observed.

“Five minutes earlier would have been better. Are you all right?” she asked. As it had been the last time, her face was bathed in sweat, and very tired. And she looked beautiful.

“It's all over. All over,” he repeated. “I'm fine, how about you?”

“Her water broke two hours ago, and she'd be in a hurry if we weren't all waiting for you to get back from your boat ride. Otherwise everything looks good,” the doctor answered. He seemed far more nervous than the mother. “Are you ready to push?”

“Yes!”

Cathy squeezed his hand. Her eyes closed and she summoned her strength for the effort. Her breath came out slowly.

“There's the head. Everything's fine. One more push and we're home,” the doctor said. His gloved hands were poised to make the catch.

Jack turned as the rest of the newborn appeared. His position allowed him to tell even before the doctor did. The infant had already started screaming, as a healthy baby should. And that, too. Jack thought, is the sound of freedom.

“Boy,” John Patrick Ryan Sr. told his wife just before he kissed her, “I love you.”

The nearest corpsman assisted the doctor as he clamped off the cord and swaddled the infant in a white blanket to take him away a few feet. The placenta came next with an easy push.

“A little tearing,” the doctor reported. He reached for a painkiller before he started the stitching.

“I can tell,” Cathy replied with a slight grimace. “Is he okay?”

“Looks okay to me,” the corpsman said. “Eight pounds even, and all the pieces are in the right places. Airway's fine, and the kid's got a great little heart.”

Jack picked up his son, a small, noisy package of red flesh with an absurd little button of a nose.

“Welcome to the world. I'm your father,” he said quietly. And your father isn't a murderer. That might not sound like much, but it's a lot more than most people think. He cradled the newborn to his chest for a moment and reminded himself that there really was a God. After a moment he looked down at his wife. “Do you want to see your son?”

“I'm afraid he doesn't have much of a mother left.”

“She looks pretty good to me.” Jack placed his son in Cathy's arms. “Are you all right?”

“Except for Sally, I think I have everything here that I need, Jack.”

“Finished,” the doctor said. “I may not be much of an OB, but I do one hell of a good stitch.” He looked up to see the usual aftermath of a birth, and he wondered why he'd decided against obstetrics. It had to be the happiest discipline of them all. But the hours were lousy, he reminded himself.

The corpsman reclaimed the infant, and took John Patrick Ryan Jr. to the nursery, where he'd be the only baby for a while. It would give the pediatric people something to do.

Jack watched his wife drift off to sleep after -- he checked his watch -- a twenty-three-hour day. She needed it. So did he, but not quite yet. He kissed his wife one more time before another corpsman wheeled her away to the recovery room. There was one thing left for him to do.