Patriot Games by Tom Clancy

“Count your blessings, Commander.”

“Bet your ass, boy! I guess I picked a good time to take a leak.”

Ryan grunted agreement. “I didn’t know you could handle a shotgun.”

“Back when I was a kid, the Klan had this little hobby. They’d get boozed up every Tuesday night and burn down a nigger church — just to keep us in line, y’know? Well, one night, the sheetheads decided to burn my pappy’s church. We got word — a liquor-store owner called; not all rednecks are assholes. Anyway, Pappy and me were waiting for them. Didn’t kill any, but we must have scared them as white as their sheets. I blew the radiator right out of one car.” Robby chuckled at the memory. “They never did come back for it. The cops didn’t arrest anybody, but that’s the last time anybody tried to burn a church in our town, so I guess they learned their lesson.” He paused again. When he went on, his voice was more sober. “That’s the first time I ever killed a man. Jack. Funny, it doesn’t feel like anything, not anything at all.”

“It will tomorrow.”

Robby looked over at his friend. “Yeah.”

Ryan looked aft, his hands tight on the Uzi. There was nothing to be seen. The sky and water merged into an amorphous gray mass, and the wind-driven rain stung at his face. The boat surged up and down on the breaking swells, and for a moment Jack wondered why he wasn’t seasick. Lightning flashed again, and still he saw nothing, as though they were under a gray dome on a sparkling, uneven floor.

They were gone. After the sniper team reported that all the terrorists had disappeared over the cliff, Werner’s men searched the house and found nothing but dead men. The second HRT group was now on the scene, plus over twenty police, and another crowd of firemen and paramedics. Three of the Secret Service agents were still alive, plus a terrorist who’d been left behind. All were being transported to hospitals. That made for seventeen security people dead, and a total of four terrorists, two of them apparently killed by their own side.

“They all crowded into the boat and took off that way,” Paulson said. “I could have taken a few out, but there just wasn’t any way to figure who was who.” He’d done the right thing. The sniper knew it, and so did Werner. You don’t shoot without knowing what your target is.

“So now what the hell do we do?” This question came from a captain of the State Police. It was a rhetorical question insofar as there was no immediate answer.

“Do you suppose the good guys got away?” Paulson asked. “I didn’t see anything that looked like a friendly, and the way the bad guys were acting . . . something went wrong,” he said. “Something went wrong for everybody.”

Something went wrong, all right, Werner thought. A goddamned battle was fought here. Twenty-some people dead and nobody in sight.

“Let’s assume that the friendlies escaped somehow — no, let’s just assume that the bad guys got away in a boat. Okay. Where would they go?” Werner asked.

“Do you know how many boatyards there are around here?” the State Police Captain asked. “Jesus, how many houses with private slip’s? Hundreds — we can’t check them all out!”

“Well, we have to do something!” Werner snapped back, his anger amplified by his sprained back. A black dog came up to them. He looked as confused as everyone else.

“I think they lost us.”

“Could be,” Jackson replied. The last lightning flash had revealed nothing. “The bay’s right big, and visibility isn’t worth a damn — but the way the rain’s blowing, they can see better than we can. Twenty yards, maybe, just enough to matter.”

“How about we go farther east?” Jack asked.

“Into the main ship channel? It’s a Friday night. There’ll be a bunch of ships coming out of Baltimore, knocking down ten-twelve knots, and as blind as we are.” Robby shook his head. “Uh-uh, we didn’t make it this far to get run down by some Greek rustbucket. This is hairy enough.”

“Lights ahead,” the Prince reported.

“We’re home, Jack!” Robby went forward. The lights of the twin Chesapeake Bay Bridges winked at them unmistakably in the distance. Jackson took the wheel, and the Prince took up his spot in the stem. All were long since soaked through by the rain, and they shivered in the wind. Jackson brought the boat around to the west. The wind was on the bow now, coming straight down the Severn River valley, as it usually did here. The waves moderated somewhat as he steered past the Annapolis town harbor. The rain was still falling in sheets, and Robby navigated the boat mostly by memory.

The lights along the Naval Academy’s Sims Drive were a muted, linear glow through the rain and Robby steered for them, barely missing a large can buoy as he fought the boat through the wind. In another minute they could see the line of gray YPs — Yard Patrol boats — still moored to the concrete seawall while their customary slips were being renovated across the river. Robby stood to see better, and brought the boat in between a pair of the wood-hulled training craft. He actually wanted to enter the Academy yacht basin, but it was too full at the moment. Finally he nosed the boat to the seawall, holding her to the concrete with engine power.

“Y’all stop that!” A Marine came into view. His white cap had a plastic cover over it, and he wore a raincoat. “Y’all can’t tie up here.”

“This is Lieutenant Commander Jackson, son,” Robby replied. “I work here. Stand by Jack, you get the bowline.”

Ryan ducked under the windshield and unsnapped the bow cover. A white nylon line was neatly coiled in the right place, and Ryan stood as Robby used engine power to bring the boat’s port side fully against the seawall. Jack jumped up and tied the line off. The Prince did the same at the stern. Robby killed the engine and went up to face the Marine.

“You recognize me, son?”

The Marine saluted. “Beg pardon. Commander, but –” He flashed his light into the boat. “Holy Christ!”

About the only good thing that could be said about the boat was that the rain had washed most of the blood down the self-bailing hole. The Marine’s mouth dropped open as he saw two bodies, three women, one of them apparently shot, and a sleeping child. Next he saw a machine gun draped around Ryan’s neck. A dull, wet evening of walking guard came to a screeching end.

“You got a radio, Marine?” Robby asked. He held it up and Jackson snatched it away. It was a small Motorola CC unit like those used by police. “Guardroom, this is Commander Jackson.”

“Commander? This is Sergeant Major Breckenridge. I didn’t know you had the duty tonight, sir. What can I do for you?”

Jackson took a long breath. “I’m glad it’s you, Gunny. Listen up: Alert the command duty officer. Next, I want some armed Marines on the seawall west of the yacht basin immediately! We got big trouble here, Gunny, so let’s shag it!”

“Aye aye, sir!” The radio squawked. Orders had been given. Questions could wait.

“What’s your name, son?” Robby asked the Marine next.

“Lance Corporal Green, sir!”

“Okay, Green, help me get the womenfolk out of the boat.” Robby reached out his hand. “Let’s go, ladies.”

Green leaped down and helped Sissy out first, then Cathy, then the Princess, who was still holding Sally. Robby got them all behind the wood hull of one of the YPs.

“What about them, sir?” Green gestured at the bodies.

“They’ll keep. Get back up here, Corporal!”

Green gave the bodies a last look. “Reckon so,” he muttered. He already had his raincoat open and the flap loose on his holster.

“What’s going on here?” a woman’s voice asked. “Oh, it’s you. Commander.”

“What are you doing here, Chief?” Robby asked her.

“I have the duty section out keeping an eye on the boats, sir. The wind could beat ’em to splinters on this seawall if we don’t –” Chief Bosun’s Mate Mary Znamirowski looked at everyone on the dock. “Sir, what the hell . . . ”

“Chief, I suggest you get your people together and put them under cover. No time for explanations.”

A pickup truck came next. It halted in the parking lot just behind them. The driver jumped out and sprinted toward them with three others trailing behind. It was Breckenridge. The Sergeant Major gave the women a quick look, then turned to Jackson and asked the night’s favorite question —

“What the hell is going on, sir?”

Robby gestured to the boat. Breckenridge gave it a quick look that lingered into four or five seconds. “Christ!”