Patriot Games by Tom Clancy

Rather slowly and sluggishly Ryan thought to himself that the English sense of humor, admirable as it might otherwise be, was a little too dry for this sort of situation. He was composing a reply when Cathy came into view. The Bette Davis nurse moved to head her off.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Ryan, but only medical person –”

“I’m a doctor.” She held up her plastic ID card. The man took it.

“Wilmer Eye Institute, Johns Hopkins Hospital.” The surgeon extended his hand and gave Cathy a friendly, colleague-to-colleague smile. “How do you do. Doctor? My name is Charles Scott.”

“That’s right,” Ryan confirmed groggily. “She’s the surgeon doctor. I’m the historian doctor.” No one seemed to notice.

“Sir Charles Scott? Professor Scott?”

“The same.” A benign smile. Everyone likes to be recognized, Ryan thought as he watched from his back.

“One of my instructors knows you — Professor Knowles.”

“Ah, and how is Dennis?”

“Fine, Doctor. He’s associate professor of orthopedics now.” Cathy shifted gears smoothly, back to medical professional. “Do you have the X-rays?”

“Here.” Scott held up a manila envelope and extracted a large film. He held it up in front of a lighting panel. “We took this prior to going in.”

“Damn.” Cathy’s nose wrinkled. She put on the half-glasses she used for close work, the ones Jack hated. He watched her head move slowly from side to side. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

Professor Scott nodded. “Indeed. We reckon the collarbone was broken before he was shot, then the bullet came crashing through here — just missed the brachial plexus, so we expect no serious nerve damage — and did all this damage.” He traced a pencil across the film. Ryan couldn’t see any of it from the bed. “Then it did this to the top of the humerus before stopping here, just inside the skin. Bloody powerful thing, the nine millimeter. As you can see, the damage was quite extensive. We had a jolly time finding all these fragments and jigsawing them back into proper place, but — we were able to accomplish this.” Scott held a second film up next to the first. Cathy was quiet for several seconds, her head swiveling back and forth.

“That is nice work, Doctor!”

Sir Charles’ smile broadened a notch. “From a Johns Hopkins surgeon, yes, I think I’ll accept that. Both these pins are permanent, this screw also, I’m afraid, but the rest should heal rather nicely. As you can see, all the large fragments are back where they belong, and we have every reason to expect a full recovery.”

“How much impairment?” A detached question. Cathy could be maddeningly unemotional about her work.

“We’re not sure yet,” Scott said slowly. “Probably a little, but it should not be overly severe. We can’t guarantee a complete restoration of function — the damage was far too extensive for that.”

“You mind telling me something?” Ryan tried to sound angry, but it hadn’t come out right.

“What I mean, Mr. Ryan, is that you’ll probably have some permanent loss of use of your arm — precisely how much we cannot determine as yet — and from now on you’ll have a permanent barometer. Henceforth, whenever the weather is about to change for the worse, you’ll know it before anyone else.”

“How long in this cast?” Cathy wanted to know.

“At least a month.” The surgeon seemed apologetic. “It is awkward, I know, but the shoulder must be totally immobilized for at least that long. After that we’ll have to reevaluate the injury and we can probably revert to a normal cast for another . . . oh, another month or so, I expect. I presume he heals well, no allergies. Looks to be in good health, decent physical shape.”

“Jack’s in good physical shape, except for a few loose marbles in his head,” Cathy nodded, an edge on her weary voice. “He jogs. No allergies except ragweed, and he heals rapidly.”

“Yeah,” Ryan confirmed. “Her teethmarks go away in under a week, usually.” He thought this uproariously funny, but no one laughed.

“Good,” Sir Charles said. “So, Doctor, you can see that your husband is in good hands. I will leave the two of you together for five minutes. After that, I wish that he should get some rest, and you look as though you could use some also.” The surgeon moved off with Bette Davis in his wake.

Cathy moved closer to him, changing yet again from cool professional to concerned wife. Ryan told himself for perhaps the millionth time how lucky he was to have this girl. Caroline Ryan had a small, round face, short butter-blond hair, and the world’s prettiest blue eyes. Behind those eyes was a person with intelligence at least the equal of his own, someone he loved as much as a man could. He would never understand how he’d won her. Ryan was painfully aware that on his best day his own undistinguished features, a heavy beard and a lantern jaw, made him look like a dark-haired Dudley Do-Right of the Mounties. She played pussycat to his crow. Jack tried to reach out for her hand, but was foiled by straps. Cathy took his.

“Love ya, babe,” he said softly.

“Oh, Jack.” Cathy tried to hug him. She was foiled by the cast that he couldn’t even see. “Jack, why the hell did you do that?”

He had already decided how to answer that. “It’s over and I’m still alive, okay? How’s Sally?”

“I think she’s finally asleep. She’s downstairs with a policeman.” Cathy did look tired. “How do you think she is. Jack? Dear God, she saw you killed almost. You scared us both to death.” Her china-blue eyes were rimmed in red, and her hair looked terrible. Jack saw. Well, she never was able to do much of anything with her hair. The surgical caps always ruined it.

“Yeah, I know. Anyway, it doesn’t look like I’ll be doing much more of that for a while,” he grunted. “Matter of fact, it doesn’t look like I’ll be doing much of anything for a while.” That drew a smile. It was good to see her smile.

“Fine. You’re supposed to conserve your energy. Maybe this’ll teach you a lesson — and don’t tell me about all those strange hotel beds going to waste.” She squeezed his hand. Her smile turned impish. “We’ll probably work something out in a few weeks. How do I look?”

“Like hell.” Jack laughed quietly. “I take it the doc was a somebody?”

He saw his wife relax a little. “You might say that. Sir Charles Scott is one of the best orthopods in the world. He trained Professor Knowles — he did a super job on you. You’re lucky to have an arm at all, you know — my God!”

“Easy, babe. I’m going to live, remember?”

“I know, I know.”

“It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?”

Another smile. “Just a bit. Well. I’ve got to put Sally down. I’ll be back tomorrow.” She bent down to kiss him. Skin full of drugs, oxygen tube, dry mouth, and all, it felt good. God, he thought, God, how I love this girl. Cathy squeezed his hand one more time and left.

The Bette Davis nurse came back. It was not a satisfactory trade.

“I’m ‘Doctor’ Ryan, too, you know,” Jack said warily.

“Very good, Doctor. It is time for you to get some rest. I’ll be here to look after you all night. Now sleep. Doctor Ryan.”

On this happy note Jack closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be a real bitch, he was sure. It would keep.

Chapter 2

Cops and Royals

Ryan awoke at 6:35 A.M. He knew that because it was announced by a radio disc jockey whose voice faded to an American Country & Western song of the type which Ryan avoided at home by listening to all-news radio stations. The singer was admonishing mothers not to allow their sons to become cowboys, and Ryan’s first muddled thought of the day was. Surely they don’t have that problem over here . . . do they? His mind drifted along on this tangent for half a minute, wondering if the Brits had CAW bars with sawdust on the floors, mechanical bull rides, and office workers who strutted around with pointy-toed boots and five-pound belt buckles . . . Why not? he concluded. Yesterday I saw something right out of a Dodge City movie.

Jack would have been just as happy to slide back into sleep. He tried closing his eyes and willing his body to relax, but it was no use. The flight from Dulles had left early in the morning, barely three hours after he’d awakened. He hadn’t slept on the plane — it was something he simply could not do — but flying always exhausted him, and he’d gone to bed soon after arriving at the hotel. Then how long had he been unconscious in the hospital? Too long, he realized. Ryan was all slept out. He would have to begin facing the day.