“Hello.”
“Jack? Rob.”
“How you doing, Robby?”
“Just got myself frocked.”
“Congratulations, Captain Jackson! Aren’t you a little young for that?”
“Call it affirmative action, lettin’ the aviators catch up with the bubbleheads. Hey, Sissy and I are heading over to Annapolis. Any problem we stop by on the way?”
“Hell, no. How about lunch?”
“Sure it’s no trouble?” Jackson asked.
“Robby, give me a break,” Ryan replied. “Since when did you get humble on me?”
“Ever since you got important and all.”
Ryan violated an FCC rule with his retort.
“Little over an hour okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be finished the grass by then. See ya’, bud.” Ryan terminated the call and placed one to his house, which had three lines. It was, perversely, a long-distance call. He needed a D.C. line for his work. Cathy needed a Baltimore connection for hers, plus a local line for other matters.
“Hello?” Cathy answered.
“Rob and Sis are coming over for lunch,” Jack told his wife. “How about hot dogs on the grill?”
“My hair’s a mess!” Caroline Ryan announced.
“Okay, I’ll grill that, too. Can you set up the charcoal for me? I ought to be finished out here in twenty minutes or so.”
In fact, it took just over thirty. Ryan parked the mower in the garage next to his Jaguar and went into the house to wash up. He had to shave, too, which he barely finished doing when Robby pulled into the driveway.
“How the hell did you make it this fast?” Jack demanded. He still wearing his dingy cut-offs.
“You prefer I should be late, Dr. Ryan?” Robby asked as he and his wife got out of the car. Cathy appeared at the door. Handshakes and kisses were exchanged as everyone caught up with what they’d been doing since the last time they’d gotten together. Cathy and Sissy went into the living room while Jack and Robby got the hot dogs and walked out to the deck. The charcoal wasn’t quite ready yet.
“So how do you like being a captain?”
“Be even better when they pay me what I am most clearly worth.” Being frocked meant that Robby could wear the four stripes of a captain, but still drew the pay of a mere commander. “I’m getting a CAG slot, too. Admiral Painter told me last night.”
“Shit hot!” Jack clapped Robby on the shoulder. “That’s the next big step, isn’t it?”
“So long as I don’t step on my weenie. The Navy giveth, and the Navy taketh away. I don’t get it for a year and a half, which means giving up part of my delightful tour in the Pentagon, sob.” Robby stopped for a moment and got serious. “That’s not why I came.”
“Oh?”
“Jack, what the hell have you guys got going in Colombia?”
“Rob, I don’t know.”
“Look, Jack, this is cool, okay? I fucking know! Your security on the op sucks. Hey, I know you got need-to-know rules, but my admiral is kinda pissed that you’re using his assets without telling him about it.”
“Who’s that?”
“Josh Painter,” Jackson answered. “You met him on Kennedy, remember?”
“Who told you that!”
“A reliable source. I’ve been thinking about it. The story back then was that Ivan lost a sub and we were out to help ’em find it, but things got a little rough for a while, explaining why my RIO had to have brain surgery and my Tomcat needed three weeks before it could fly again. I guess there was more to that than met the eye, and it never made the papers. Shame I can’t hear the story. Anyway, we’ll set that one aside for a while. This is why I’m here:
“Those two druggie houses that got blown up – the bombs came off of an A-6E Intruder medium attack bomber belonging to the United States Navy. I’m not the only one who knows. Whoever set up this operation, well, the security’s for shit, Jack. You also got a bunch of light-infantry soldiers running around. Doing what, I don’t know, but people also know that they’re down there. Maybe you can’t tell me what’s happening. I know it’s compartmented and all that, and you can’t tell me anything but I’m telling you, Jack, the word’s leaking out, and some folks in the Pentagon are going to be big-league angry when this sucker hits the networks. Whatever dickhead set this thing is in way the hell over his head, and the word from on high is that us guys in blue and green suits will not repeat not get left holding the bag this time.”
“Cool off, Rob.” Ryan popped open a can of beer for Robby and one for himself.
“Jack, we’re friends, and ain’t nothing gonna change that. I know you’d never do anything this dumb, but -”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t fucking know, okay? I was in Belgium last week and I told them I didn’t know. I was in Chicago Friday morning with that Fowler guy, and I told him and his aide that I don’t know. And I’m telling you that I don’t know.”
Jackson was quiet for a moment. “You know, anybody else, I’d call him a liar. I know what your new job is, Jack. You’re telling me that you’re serious? Honest to God, Jack, this here is important.”
“Word of honor, Captain, I don’t know dick.”
Robby drained his beer and crushed the can flat. “Ain’t that the way it always is?” he said. “We got people out there killing, maybe getting hurt, too, and nobody knows anything. God, I love being a fucking pawn. You know, I don’t mind taking my chances, but it’s nice to know why.”
“I’ll do my best to find out.”
“Good idea. They really haven’t told you what’s happening, eh?”
“They haven’t told me shit, but I’m going to damned well find out. You might want to drop a hint on your boss,” Jack added.
“What’s that?”
“Tell him to keep a low profile until I get back to you.”
Whatever doubt the Patterson brothers had about what they should do ended that Sunday afternoon. The Grayson sisters came for visitors’ day, sitting across from their men – neither pair had no trouble distinguishing who was who – and proclaiming their undying love for the men who’d liberated them from their pimp. It was no longer just a question of getting out of jail. The final decision was made on the way back to their cell.
Henry and Harvey were in the same cell, mainly for security and reasons. Had they been separated, then by the simple expedient of changing shirts, they could have swapped cells and somehow – the jailers knew that the Pattersons were clever bastards – done something to screw things up for everybody. The additional advantage was that the brothers didn’t fight each other, as was hardly uncommon with the rest of the jail population, and the fact that they were quiet and untroublesome allowed them to work in undisturbed peace.
Jails are necessarily buildings designed to take abuse. The floors are of bare reinforced concrete, since carpets or tile would just be ripped up to start a fire or some other mischief. The resulting hard, smooth concrete floor made a good grinding surface. Each brother had a simple length of heavy metal wire taken from the bedstead. No one has yet designed a prison bed that doesn’t require metal, and metal makes good weapons. In prison such weapons are called shanks, an ugly word completely suitable to their ugly purpose. Law requires that jails and prisons cannot be mere cages for housing prisoners like animals in a zoo, and this jail, like others, had a crafts shop. An idle mind, judges have ruled for decades, is the devil’s workshop. The fact that the devil is already a resident in the criminal mind simply means that the craft shops provide tools and material for making shanks more effective. In this case, each brother had a small, grooved piece of wood doweling and some electrician’s tape. Henry and Harvey took turns, one rubbing his shank on the concrete to get a needlelike point while the other stood guard for an approaching uniform. It was high-quality wire, and the sharpening process took some hours, but people in jail have lots of idle time. Finished, each wire was inserted in the groove in the dowel – miraculously enough, the groove, cut by a craft-shop router, was exactly the right size and length. The electrician’s tape secured the wire in place, and now each brother had a six-inch shank, capable of inflicting a deep, penetrating trauma upon a human body.
They hid their weapons – prison inmates are very effective at it – and discussed tactics. Any graduate of a guerrilla or terrorist school would have been impressed. Though the language was coarse and the discussion lacking in the technical jargon preferred by trained professionals in the field of urban warfare, the Patterson brothers had a clear understanding of the idea of Mission. They understood covert approach, the importance of maneuver and diversion, and they knew about clearing the area after the mission was successfully executed. In this they expected the tacit assistance of their cellmates, but jails and prisons, though violent and evil places, remain communities of men, and the pirates were decidedly unpopular, whereas the Pattersons were fairly high in the hierarchical chain as tough, “honest” hoods. Besides, everyone knew that they were not people to cross, which encouraged cooperation and discouraged informants.