Patriot Games by Tom Clancy

The Cenlac entered the Solent, the channel between the English mainland and the Isle of Wight. If these waters were sheltered, Highland didn’t want to think what the open ocean was like. The Cenlac wasn’t all that large, and the ferry lacked the weatherly lines of a blue-water craft. The channel gale was broad on her starboard beam, as were the seas, and the boat was already taking fifteen-degree rolls.

“Bloody hell,” the Sergeant observed to himself. He looked at Miller. The terrorist’s demeanor hadn’t changed a whit. He sat there like a statue, head still against the van’s wall, eyes still closed, hands in his lap. Highland decided to try the same thing. There was nothing to be gained by staring out the back window. There wasn’t any traffic to worry about now. He sat back and propped his feet on the left-side bench. Somewhere he’d once read that closing one’s eyes was an effective defense against motion sickness. He had nothing to fear from Miller. Highland was not carrying a gun, of course, and the keys to the prisoner’s manacles were in the driver’s pocket. So he did close his eyes, and let his inner ear come to terms with the rolling motion of the ferry without the confusion that would come from staring at the unmoving interior of the truck. It helped a little. His stomach soon started to inform him of its dissatisfaction with the current scheme of things, but it didn’t get too bad. Highland hoped that the rougher seas farther out wouldn’t change this. They wouldn’t.

The sound of automatic weapons fire jerked his head up a moment later. The screams came next, from women and children, followed by the rough shouts of men. Somewhere an automobile horn started blaring and didn’t stop. More guns started. Highland recognized the short bark of some detective’s service automatic — answered at once by the staccato of a submachine gun. It couldn’t have lasted more than a minute. The Cenlac’s own horn started blowing short, loud notes, then stopped after a few seconds while the auto’s horn kept going. The screams diminished. No longer shrill cries of alarm, they were now the deeper cries of comprehended terror. A few more bursts of machine-gun fire crashed out, then stopped. Highland feared the silence more than the noise. He looked out the window and saw nothing but a car and the dark sea beyond. There would be more, and he knew what it would be. Uselessly his hand went inside his jacket for the pistol that wasn’t there.

How did they know — how did the bastards know we’d be here!

Now came more shouts, the sound of orders that would not be disobeyed by anyone who wanted to live through this Christmas Day. Highland’s hands balled into fists. He turned to look again at Miller. The terrorist was staring at him now. The Sergeant would have preferred a cruel smile to the empty expression he saw on that young, pitiless face.

The metal door shook to the impact of an open hand.

“Open the bloody door or we’ll blow it off!”

“What do we do?” the other cop asked.

“We open the door.”

“But –”

“But what? Wait for them to hold a gun at some baby’s head? They’ve won.” Highland twisted the handles. Both doors were yanked open.

There were three men there, ski masks pulled down over their faces. They held automatic weapons.

“Let’s see your guns,” the tall one said. Highland noted the Irish accent, not that he was very surprised by it.

“We are both unarmed,” the Sergeant answered. He held both hands up.

“Out. One at a time, and flat on the deck.” The voice didn’t bother to make any threats.

Highland stepped out of the truck and got to his knees, then was kicked down on his face. He felt the other cop come down beside him.

“Hello, Sean,” another voice said. “You didn’t think we’d forget you, did you now?”

Still Miller didn’t say anything. Highland thought in wonderment. He listened to the flat jingle of his chains as he hobbled out of the van. He saw the shoes of a man step to the doors, probably to help him down.

The driver must be dead. Highland thought. The gunmen had his keys. He heard the manacles come off, then a pair of hands lifted Miller to his feet. Miller was rubbing his wrists, finally showing a little emotion. He smiled at the deck before looking up at the Sergeant.

There wasn’t much point in looking at the terrorist. Around them he saw at least three men dead. One of the black-clad gunmen pulled a shattered head off a car’s wheel, and the horn finally stopped. Twenty feet away a man was grasping at a bloody stomach and moaning, a woman — probably his wife — trying to minister to him. Others lay about on the deck in small knots, each watched by an armed terrorist as their hands sweated on the backs of their necks. There was no unnecessary noise from the gunmen, Highland noted. They were trained men. All the noise came from the civilians. Children were crying, and their parents were faring better than the childless adults. Parents had to be brave to protect their kids, while the single had only their own lives to fear for. Several of these were whimpering.

“You are Robert Highland,” the tall one said quietly. “Sergeant Highland of the famous C-13?”

“That’s right,” the policeman answered. He knew that he was going to die. It seemed a terrible thing to die on Christmas Day. But if he was going to die, there was nothing left to lose. He wouldn’t plead, he wouldn’t beg. “And who might you be?”

“Sean’s friends, of course. Did you really think that we’d abandon him to your kind?” The voice sounded educated despite the simple diction. “Do you have anything to say?”

Highland wanted to say something, but he knew that nothing would really matter. He wouldn’t even entertain them with a curse — and it came to him that he understood Miller a little better now. The realization shocked him out of his fear. Now he knew why Miller hadn’t spoken. What damned fool things go through your head at a time like this, he thought. It was almost funny, but more than that it was disgusting.

“Get on with it and be on your way.”

He could only see the tall one’s eyes, and was robbed of the satisfaction he might have had from seeing the man’s reactions. Highland became angry at that. Now that death was certain, he found himself enraged by the irrelevant. The tall one took an automatic pistol from his belt and handed it to Miller.

“This one’s yours, Sean.”

Sean took the gun in his left hand and looked one last time at Highland.

I might as well be a rabbit for all that little fucker cares.

“I should have left you in that cell,” Highland said, his own voice now devoid of emotion.

Miller considered that for a moment, waiting for a fitting reply to spring from his brain as he held the gun at his hip. A quote from Josef Stalin came to mind. He raised his gun. “Gratitude, Mr. Highland . . . is a disease of dogs.” He fired two rounds from a distance of fifteen feet.

“Come on,” O’Donnell said from behind his mask. Another black-clad man appeared on the vehicle deck. He trotted to the leader.

“Both engines are disabled.”

O’Donnell checked his watch. Things had gone almost perfectly. A good plan, it was — except for the bloody weather. Visibility was under a mile, and —

“There it is, coming up aft,” one man called.

“Patience, lads.”

“Just who the hell are you?” the cop at their feet asked.

O’Donnell fired a short burst for an answer, correcting this oversight. Another chorus of screams erupted, then trailed quickly away into the shriek of the winds. The leader took a whistle from inside his sweater and blew it. The assault group formed up on the leader. There were seven of them, plus Sean. Their training showed, O’Donnell noted with satisfaction. Every man of them stood facing outward around him, gun at the ready in case one of these terrified civilians might be so foolish as to try something. The ferry’s captain stood on the ladder sixty feet away, clearly worrying about his next hazard, handling his craft in a storm without engine power. O’Donnell had considered killing all aboard and sinking the boat, but rejected the idea as counterproductive. Better to leave survivors behind to tell the tale, otherwise the Brits might not know of his victory.

“Ready!” the man at the stern announced.

One by one the gunmen moved aft. There was an eight-foot sea rolling, and it would get worse farther out beyond the shelter of Sconce Point. It was a hazard that O’Donnell could accept more readily than the Cenlac’s captain.