by Tom Clancy
Did I really look forward to this? It took all of Ryan’s energy just to think that question of himself. But he didn’t have any further excuses. In London his injuries had prevented him from doing it. The same had been true of the first few weeks at home. Then he’d spent the early mornings traveling to CIA. That had been his last excuse. None were left.
Rickover Hall, he told himself. I’ll stop when I get to Rickover Hall. He had to stop soon. Breathing the cold air off the river was like inhaling knives. His nose and mouth were like sandpaper and his heart threatened to burst from his chest. Jack hadn’t jogged in months, and he was paying the price for his sloth.
Rickover Hall seemed a thousand miles away, though he knew it was only a few hundred more yards. As recently as the previous October, he’d been able to make three circuits of the grounds and come away with nothing more than a good sweat. Now he was only at the halfway mark of his first lap, and death seemed amazingly attractive. His legs were already rubbery with fatigue. His stride was off; Ryan was weaving slightly, a sure sign of a runner who was beyond his limit.
Another hundred yards. About fifteen seconds more, he told himself. All the time he’d spent on his back, all the time sitting down, all the cigarettes he’d sneaked at CIA were punishing him now. The runs he’d had to do at Quantico had been nothing like this. You were a lot younger then, Ryan’s mind pointed out gleefully.
He turned his head left and saw that he was lined up on the building’s east wall. Ryan leaned back and slowed to a walk, hands supported on his hips as his chest heaved to catch up on the oxygen it needed.
“You okay, Doc?” A mid stopped—his legs still pumping in double-time—to look Jack over. Ryan tried to hate him for his youth and energy, but couldn’t summon enough energy.
“Yeah, just out of training,” Jack gasped out over three breaths.
“You gotta work back into it slowly, sir,” the twenty-year-old pointed out, and sped off, leaving his history teacher scornfully in his dust. Jack started laughing at himself, but it gave him a coughing fit. The next one to pass him was a girl. Her grin really made things worse.
Don’t sit down. Whatever you do, don’t sit down.
He turned and moved away from the seawall. Just walking on his wobbly legs was an effort. He took the towel from around his neck to wipe the sweat from his face before he got too much of a chill. Jack held the towel taut between his hands and stretched his arms high. He’d caught his breath by now. A renewed supply of oxygen returned to his limbs, and most of the pain left. The rubberiness would go next, he knew. In another ten minutes he’d feel pretty good. Tomorrow he’d make it a little farther—to the Nimitz Library, he promised himself. By May he wouldn’t have the mids—at least not the girls—racing past him. Well, not all of the girls, anyway. He was spotting a minimum of ten years to the midshipmen, something that would only get worse. Jack had already passed thirty. Next stop: forty.
Cathy Ryan was in her greens, scrubbing at the special basin outside the surgical suite. The elastic waistband of the pants was high, above the curve of her abdomen, and that made the pants overly short, like the clamdiggers that had been fashionable in her teenage years. A green cap was over her hair, and she wondered yet again why she bothered to brush it out every morning. By the time the procedure was finished, her hair would look like the snaky locks of the Medusa.
“Game time,” she said quietly to herself. She hit the door-opening switch with her elbow, keeping her hands high, just like it was done in the movies. Bernice, the circulating nurse, had her gloves ready, and Cathy reached her hands into the rubber until the tops of the gloves came far up on her forearms. Because of this, she was rarely able to wear her engagement ring, though her simple wedding band posed no problem. “Thanks.”
“How’s the baby?” Bernice asked. She had three of her own.
“At the moment he’s learning to jog.” Cathy smiled behind her mask. “Or maybe he’s lifting weights.”
“Nice necklace.”
“Christmas present from Jack.”
Dr. Terri Mitchell, the anesthesiologist, hooked the patient up to her various monitors and went to work as the surgeons looked on. Cathy gave the instruments a quick look, knowing that Lisa-Marie always got things right. She was one of the best scrub nurses in the hospital and was picky on the doctors she’d work with.
“All ready, Doctor?” Cathy asked the resident. “Okay, people, let’s see if we can save this lady’s eyesight.” She looked at the clock. “Starting at eight forty-one.”
Miller assembled the submachine gun slowly. He had plenty of time. The weapon had been carefully cleaned and oiled after being test fired the night before at a quarry twenty miles north of Washington. This one would be his personal weapon. Already he liked it. The balance was perfect, the folding stock, when extended, had a good, solid feel to it. The sights were easy to use, and the gun was fairly steady on full-automatic fire. All in all, a nice combination of traits for such a small, deadly weapon. He palmed back the bolt and squeezed the trigger to get a better feel for where it broke. He figured it at about twelve pounds—perfect, not too light and not too heavy. Miller left the bolt closed on an empty chamber and loaded the magazine of thirty 9mm rounds. Then he folded the stock and tried the hanging hook inside his topcoat. A standard modification to the Uzi, it allowed a person to carry it concealed. That probably wouldn’t be necessary, but Miller was a man who planned for all the contingencies. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.
“Ned?”
“Yes, Sean?” Eamon Clark, known as Ned, hadn’t stopped going over the maps and photographs of his place since arriving in America. One of the most experienced assassins in Ireland, he was one of the men the ULA had broken from Long Kesh Prison the previous year. A handsome young man, Clark had spent the previous day touring the Naval Academy grounds, carrying his own camera as he’d photographed the statue of Tecumseh ... and carefully examined Gate Three. Ryan would drive straight uphill, giving him roughly fifteen seconds to get ready. It would demand vigilance, but Ned had the necessary patience. Besides, they knew the target’s schedule. His last class ended at three that afternoon and he hit the gate at a predictable time. Alex was even now parking the getaway car on King George Street. Clark had misgivings, but kept them to himself. Sean Miller had master-minded the prison break that had made him a free man. This was his first real operation with the ULA. Clark decided that he owed them loyalty. Besides, his look at the Academy’s security had not impressed him. Ned Clark knew that he was not the brightest man in the room, but they needed a man able to work on his own, and he did know how to do that. He’d proven this seven times.
Outside the house were three cars, the van and two station wagons. The van would be used for the second part of the operation, while the station wagons would take everyone to the airport when the operation was finished.
Miller sat down in an overstuffed chair and ran over the entire operation in his mind. As always, he closed his eyes and visualized every event, then he inserted variables. What if the traffic were unusually heavy or unusually light? What if ...
One of Alex’s men came through the front door. He tossed Miller a Polaroid.
“Right on time?” Sean Miller asked.
“You got it, man.”
The photograph showed Cathy Ryan leading her daughter by the hand into—what was the name of the place? Oh, yes, Giant Steps. Miller smiled at that. Today would be a giant step indeed. Miller leaned back again, eyes closed, to make sure.
“But there wasn’t a threat,” a mid objected.
“That’s correct. Which is to say we know that now. But how did it look to Spruance? He knew what the Japanese fleet had in surface ships. What if they had come east, what if the recall order had never been issued?” Jack pointed to the diagram he’d drawn on the blackboard. “There would have been contact at about oh-three-hundred hours. Who do you think would have won that one, mister?”
“But he blew his chance for a good air
strike the next day,” the midshipman persisted.
“With what? Let’s look at the losses in the air groups. With all the torpedo craft lost, just what losses do you think he could have inflicted?” Jack asked.
“But—”
“You remember the Kenny Rogers song: You have to know when to walk away, and know when to run. Buck fever is a bad thing in a hunter. In an admiral commanding a fleet it can be disastrous. Spruance looked at his information, looked at his capabilities, and decided to call it a day. A secondary consideration was—what?”
“To cover Midway?” another mid asked.
“Right. What if they had carried on with the invasion? That was gamed out at Newport once and the invasion was successful. Please note that this is a manifestation of logic overpowering reality, but it was a possibility that Spruance could not afford to dismiss. His primary mission was to inflict damage on a superior Japanese fleet. His secondary mission was to prevent the occupation of Midway. The balance he struck here is a masterpiece of operational expertise....” Ryan paused for a moment. What was it that he’d just said? Logic overcoming reality. Hadn’t he just come to the logical conclusion that the ULA wouldn’t—no, no, a different situation entirely. He shook off the thought and kept going on the lessons from the Battle of Midway. He had the class going now, and ideas were crackling across the room like lightning.
“Perfect,” Cathy said as she pulled her mask down around her neck. She stood up from the stool and stretched her arms over her head. “Nice one, folks.”
The patient was wheeled out to the recovery room while Lisa-Marie made a final check of her instruments. Cathy Ryan pulled off her mask and rubbed her nose. Then her hands went down to her belly. The little guy really was kicking up a storm.
“Football player?” Bernice asked.
“Feels like a whole backfield. Sally wasn’t this active. I think this one’s a boy,” Cathy judged, knowing that there was no such correlation. It was good enough that the baby was very active. That was always a positive sign. She smiled, mostly to herself, at the miracle and the magic of motherhood. Right there inside her was a brand-new human being waiting to be born, and by the feel of it, rather impatient. “Well. I have a family to talk to.”
She walked out of the operating room, not bothering to change out of her greens. It always looked more dramatic to keep them on. The waiting room was a mere fifty feet away. The Jeffers famiiy—the father and one of their daughters—was waiting on the inevitable couch, staring at the inevitable magazines but not reading them. The moment she came through the swinging door, both leaped to their feet. She gave them her best smile, always the quickest way to convey the message.
“Okay?” the husband asked, his anxiety a physical thing.
“Everything went perfectly,” Cathy said. “No problems at all. She’ll be fine.”
“When will she be able—”
“A week. We have to be patient on this. You’ll be able to see her in about an hour and a half. Now, why don’t you get yourselves something to eat. There’s no sense having a healthy patient if the family is worn out, I—”
“Doctor Ryan,” the public address speaker said. “Doctor Caroline Ryan.”
“Wait a minute.” Cathy walked to the nurses’ station and lifted the phone. “This is Doctor Ryan.”
“Cathy, this is Gene in the ER. I’ve got a major eye trauma. Ten-year-old black male, he took his bike through a store window,” the voice said urgently. “His left eye is badly lacerated.”
“Send him up to six.” Cathy hung up and went back to the Jeffers family. “I have to run, there’s an emergency case coming up. Your wife will be fine. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.” Cathy walked as quickly as she could to the OR.
“Heads up, we have an emergency coming in from ER. Major eye trauma to a ten-year-old.” Lisa-Marie was already moving. Cathy walked to the wall phone and punched the number for surgeons’ lounge. “This is Ryan in Wilmer six. Where’s Bernie?”
“I’ll get him.” A moment later: “Doctor Katz.”
“Bernie, I have a major eye trauma coming into six. Gene Wood in ER says it’s a baddie.”
“On the way.” Cathy Ryan turned.
“Terri?”
“All ready,” the anesthesiologist assured her.
“Give me another two minutes,” Lisa-Marie said.
Cathy went into the scrub room to rewash her hands. Bernie Katz arrived before she started. He was a thoroughly disreputable-looking man, only an inch taller than Cathy Ryan, with longish hair and a Bismarck mustache. He was also one of the best surgeons at Hopkins.
“You’d better lead on this one,” she said. “I haven’t done a major trauma in quite a while.”
“No problem. How’s the baby coming?”
“Great.” A new sound arrived, the high-pitched shrieks of a child in agony. The doctors moved into the OR. They watched dispassionately as two orderlies were strapping the child down. Why weren’t you in school? Cathy asked him silently. The left side of the boy’s face was a mess. The reconstructive teams would have to work on that later. Eyes came first. The child had already tried to be brave, but the pain was too great for that. Terri did the first medication, with both orderlies holding the child’s arm in place. Cathy and Bernie hovered over the kid’s face a moment later.
“Bad,” Dr. Katz observed. He looked to the circulating nurse. “I have a procedure scheduled for one o’clock. Have to bump it. This one’s going to take some time.”
“All ready on this side,” the scrub nurse said.
“Two more minutes,” the anesthesiologist advised. You had to be careful medicating kids.
“Gloves,” Cathy said. Bernie came over with them a moment later. “What happened?”
“He was riding his bike down the sidewalk on Monument Street,” the orderly said. “He hit something and went through an appliance-store window.”
“Why wasn’t he in school?” she asked, looking back at the kid’s left eye. She saw hours of work and an uncertain outcome.
“President’s Day, Doc,” the orderly replied.
“Oh. That’s right.” She looked at Bernie Katz. His grimace was visible around the mask.
“I don’t know, Cathy.” He was examining the eye through the magnifying-glass headset. “Must have been a cheap window—lots of slivers. I count five penetrations. Jeez, look at how that one’s extended into the cornea. Let’s go.”
The Chevy pulled into one of Hopkins’ high-rise parking garages. From the top level the driver had a perfect view of the door leading from the hospital to the doctors’ parking area. The garage was guarded, of course, but there was plenty of traffic in and out, and it was not unusual for someone to wait in a car while another visited a family member inside. He settled back and lit a cigarette, listening to music on the car radio.
Ryan put roast beef on his hard roll and selected iced tea. The Officer and Faculty Club had an unusual arrangement for charging: he set his tray on a scale and the cashier billed him by weight. Jack paid up his two dollars and ten cents. The price for lunch was hardly exorbitant, but it did seem an odd way to set the price. He joined Robby Jackson in a corner booth.
“Mondays!” he observed to his friend.
“Are you kidding? I can relax today. I was up flying Saturday and Sunday.”
“I thought you liked that.”
“I do,” Robby assured him. “But both days I got off before seven. I actually got to sleep until six this morning. I needed the extra two hours. How’s the family?”
“Fine. Cathy had a big procedure today—had to be up there early. The one bad thing about being married to a surgeon, they always start early. Sometimes it’s a little hard on Sally.”
“Yeah, early to bed, early to rise—might as well be dead,” Robby agreed. “How’s the baby coming?”
“Super.” Jack smiled. “He’s an active little bugger. I never figured how women can take that—having the kid kick, turn and like that, I mean.”
&
nbsp; “Mind if I join you?” Skip Tyler slipped into the booth.
“How are the twins?” Jack asked at once.
The reply was a low moan, and a look at the circles under Tyler’s eyes provided the answer. “The trick is getting both of them asleep. You just get one quieted down, then the other one goes off like a damned fire alarm. I don’t know how Jean does it. Of course”—Tyler grinned—“she can walk the floor with them. When I do it it’s step-thump, step-thump.”
All three men laughed. Skip Tyler had never been the least sensitive about losing his leg.
“How’s Jean holding up?” Robby asked.
“No problem—she sleeps when they do and I get to do all the housework.”
“Serves you right, turkey,” Jack observed. “Why don’t you give it a rest?”
“Can I help it if I’m hot-blooded?” Skip demanded.
“No, but your timing sucks,” Robby replied.
“My timing,” Tyler said with raised eyebrows, “is perfect.”
“I guess that’s one way to look at it,” Jack agreed.
“I heard you were out jogging this morning.” Tyler changed subjects.
