Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 1-6

by Tom Clancy

  Greer and Podulski told themselves at this moment that it had mattered, that freedom had a price, that some men must pay that price else there would be no flag, no Constitution, no holiday whose meaning people had the right to ignore. But in both cases, those unspoken words rang hollow. Greer’s marriage had ended, largely from the grief of Bobby’s death. Podulski’s wife would never be the same. Though each man had other children, the void created by the loss of one was like a chasm never to be bridged, and as much as each might tell himself that, yes, it was worth the price, no man who could rationalize the death of a child could truly be called a man at all, and their real feelings were reinforced by the same humanity that compelled them to a life of sacrifice. This was all the more true because each had feelings about the war that the more polite called “doubts,” and which they called something else, but only among themselves.

  “Remember the time Bobby went into the pool to get Mike Goodwin’s little girl—saved her life?” Podulski asked. “I just got a note from Mike. Little Amy had twins last week, two little girls. She married an engineer down in Houston, works for NASA.”

  “I didn’t even know she was married. How old is she now?” James asked.

  “Oh, she must be twenty . . . twenty-five? Remember her freckles, how the sun used to breed them down at Jax?”

  “Little Amy,” Greer said quietly. “How they grow.” Maybe she wouldn’t have drowned that hot July day, but it was one more thing to remember about his son. One life saved, maybe three? That was something, wasn’t it? Greer asked himself.

  The three men turned and left the grave without a word, heading slowly back to the driveway. They had to stop there. A funeral procession was coming up the hill, soldiers of the Third Infantry Regiment, “The Old Guard,” doing their somber duty, laying another man to rest. The admirals lined up again, saluting the flag draped on the casket and the man within. The young Lieutenant commanding the detail did the same. He saw that one of the flag officers wore the pale blue ribbon denoting the Medal of Honor, and the severity of his gesture conveyed the depth of his respect.

  “Well, there goes another one,” Greer said with quiet bitterness after they had passed by. “Dear God, what are we burying these kids for?”

  “ ‘Pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe . . . ’ ” Cas quoted. “Wasn’t all that long ago, was it? But when it came time to put the chips on the table, where were the bastards?”

  “We are the chips, Cas,” Dutch Maxwell replied. “This is the table.”

  Normal men might have wept, but these were not normal men. Each surveyed the land dotted with white stones. This had been the front lawn of Robert E. Lee once—the house was still atop the hill—and the placement of the cemetery had been the cruel gesture of a government that had felt itself betrayed by the officer. And yet Lee had in the end given his ancestral home to the service of those men whom he had most loved. That was the kindest irony of this day, Maxwell reflected.

  “How do things look up the river, James?”

  “Could be better, Dutch. I have orders to clean house. I need a pretty big broom.”

  “Have you been briefed in on BOXWOOD GREEN?”

  “No.” Greer turned and cracked his first smile of the day. It wasn’t much, but it was something, the others told themselves. “Do I want to be?”

  “We’ll probably need your help.”

  “Under the table?”

  “You know what happened with KINGPIN,” Casimir Podulski noted.

  “They were damned lucky to get out,” Greer agreed. “Keeping this one tight, eh?”

  “You bet we are.”

  “Let me know what you need. You’ll get everything I can find. You doing the ‘three’ work, Cas?”

  “That’s right.” Any designator with a -3 at the end denoted the operations and planning department, and Podulski had a gift for that. His eyes glittered as brightly as his Wings of Gold in the morning sun.

  “Good,” Greer observed. “How’s little Dutch doing?”

  “Flying for Delta now. Copilot, he’ll make captain in due course, and I’ll be a grandfather in another month or so.”

  “Really? Congratulations, my friend.”

  “I don’t blame him for getting out. I used to, but not now.”

  “What’s the name of the SEAL who went in to get him?”

  “Kelly. He’s out, too,” Maxwell said.

  “You should have gotten the Medal for him, Dutch,” Podulski said. “I read the citation. That was as hairy as they come.”

  “I made him a chief. I couldn’t get the Medal for him.” Maxwell shook his head. “Not for rescuing the son of an admiral, Cas. You know the politics.”

  “Yeah.” Podulski looked up the hill. The funeral procession had stopped, and the casket was being moved off the gun carriage. A young widow was watching her husband’s time on earth end. “Yeah, I know about politics.”

  Tucker eased the boat into the slip. The inboard-outboard drive made that easy. He cut the engine and grabbed the mooring lines, which he tied off quickly. Tony and Eddie lifted the beer cooler out while Tucker collected the loose gear and snapped a few covers into place before joining his companions on the parking lot.

  “Well, that was pretty easy,” Tony noted. The cooler was already in the back of his Ford Country Squire station wagon.

  “Who do you suppose won the race today?” Eddie asked. They’d neglected to take a radio with them for the trip.

  “I had a yard bet on Foyt, just to make it interesting.”

  “Not Andretti?” Tucker asked.

  “He’s a paisan, but he ain’t lucky. Betting is business,” Piaggi pointed out. Angelo was a thing of the past now, and the manner of his disposal was, after all, a little amusing, though the man might never eat crab cakes again.

  “Well,” Tucker said, “you know where to find me.”

  “You’ll get your money,” Eddie said, speaking out of place. “End of the week, the usual place.” He paused. “What if demand goes up?”

  “I can handle it,” Tucker assured him. “I can get all you want.”

  “What the hell kind of pipeline do you have?” Eddie asked, pushing further.

  “Angelo wanted to know that, too, remember? Gentlemen, if I told you that, you wouldn’t need me, would you?”

  Tony Piaggi smiled. “Don’t trust us?”

  “Sure.” Tucker smiled. “I trust you to sell the stuff and share the money with me.”

  Piaggi nodded approval. “I like smart partners. Stay that way. It’s good for all of us. You have a banker?”

  “Not yet, haven’t thought about it much,” Tucker lied.

  “Start thinking, Henry. We can help set you up, overseas bank. It’s secure, numbered account, all that stuff. You can have somebody you know check it out. Remember, they can track money if you’re not careful. Don’t live it up too much. We’ve lost a lot of friends that way.”

  “I don’t take chances, Tony.”

  Piaggi nodded. “Good way to think. You have to be careful in this business. The cops are getting smart.”

  “Not smart enough.” Neither were his partners, when it came to that, but one thing at a time.

  5

  Commitments

  The package arrived with a very jet-lagged Captain at the Navy’s intelligence headquarters in Suitland, Maryland. On-staff photo-interpretation experts were supplemented by specialists from the Air Force’s 1127th Field Activities Group at Fort Belvoir. It took twenty hours to go through the entire process, but the frames from the Buffalo Hunter were unusually good, and the American on the ground had done what he was supposed to do: look up and stare at the passing reconnaissance drone.

  “Poor bastard paid the price for it,” a Navy chief observed to his Air Force counterpart. Just behind him the photo caught an NVA soldier with his rifle up and reversed. “I’d like to meet you in a dark alley, you little fuck.”

  “What do you think?” The
Air Force senior master sergeant slid an ID photo over.

  “Close enough I’d bet money on it.” Both intelligence specialists thought it odd that they had such a thin collection of files to compare with these photographs, but whoever had guessed had guessed well. They had a match. They didn’t know that what they had was a series of photographs of a dead man.

  Kelly let her sleep, glad that she was able to without any chemical help. He got himself dressed, went outside, and ran around his island twice—the circumference was about three quarters of a mile—to work up a sweat in the still morning air. Sam and Sarah, early risers also, bumped into him while he was cooling down on the dock.

  “The change in you is remarkable, too,” she observed. She paused for a moment. “How was Pam last night?”

  The question jarred Kelly into a brief silence, followed by: “What?”

  “Oh, shit, Sarah . . .” Sam looked away and nearly laughed. His wife flushed almost as crimson as the dawn.

  “She persuaded me not to medicate her last night,” Sarah explained. “She was a little nervous, but she wanted to try and I let her talk me out of it. That’s what I meant, John. Sorry.”

  How to explain last night? First he’d been afraid to touch her, afraid to seem to be pressing himself on her, and then she’d taken that as a sign that he didn’t like her anymore, and then . . . things had worked out.

  “Mainly she has some damned-fool idea—” Kelly stopped himself. Pam could talk to her about this, but it wasn’t proper for him to do so, was it? “She slept fine, Sarah. She really wore herself out yesterday.”

  “I don’t know that I’ve ever had a more determined patient.” She stabbed a hard finger into Kelly’s chest. “You’ve helped a lot, young man.”

  Kelly looked away, not knowing what he was supposed to say. The pleasure was all mine? Part of him still believed that he was taking advantage of her. He’d stumbled upon a troubled girl and . . . exploited her? No, that wasn’t true. He loved her. Amazing as that seemed. His life was changing into something recognizably normal —probably. He was healing her, but she was healing him as well.

  “She‘s—she’s worried that I won’t—the stuff in her past, I mean. I really don’t care much about that. You’re right, she’s a very strong girl. Hell, I have a somewhat checkered past, too, y’know? I ain’t no priest, guys.”

  “Let her talk it out,” Sam said. “She needs that. You have to let things in the open before you start dealing with them.”

  “You’re sure it won’t affect you? It might be some pretty ugly stuff,” Sarah observed, watching his eyes.

  “Uglier than war?” Kelly shook his head. Then he changed the subject. “What about the . . . medications?”

  The question relieved everyone, and Sarah was talking work again. “She’s been through the most crucial period. If there were going to be a serious withdrawal reaction, it would have happened already. She may still have periods of agitation, brought on by external stress, for example. In that case you have the phenobarb, and I’ve already written out instructions for you, but she’s gutting it out. Her personality is far stronger than she appreciates. You’re smart enough to see if she’s having a bad time. If so, make her—make her—take one of the tablets.”

  The idea of forcing her to do anything bridled Kelly. “Look, doc, I can’t—”

  “Shut up, John. I don’t mean jamming it down her throat. If you tell her that she really needs it, she’s going to listen to you, okay?”

  “How long?”

  “For another week, maybe ten days,” Sarah said after a moment’s reflection.

  “And then?”

  “Then you can think about the future you two might have together,” Sarah told him.

  Sam felt uneasy getting this personal. “I want her fully checked out, Kelly. When’s the next time you’re due into Baltimore?”

  “A couple of weeks, maybe sooner. Why?”

  Sarah handled that: “I wasn’t able to do a very thorough exam. She hasn’t seen a physician in a long time, and I’ll feel better if she has a CPX—complete history and physical. Who do you think, Sam?”

  “You know Madge North?”

  “She’ll do,” Sarah thought. “You know, Kelly, it wouldn’t hurt for you to get checked out, too.”

  “Do I look sick?” Kelly held his arms out, allowing them to survey the magnificence of his body.

  “Don’t give me that crap,” Sarah snapped back. “When she shows up, you show up. I want to make sure you’re both completely healthy—period. Got it?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “One more thing, and I want you to hear me through,” Sarah went on. “She needs to see a psychiatrist.”

  “Why?”

  “John, life isn’t a movie. People don’t put their problems behind and ride into a sunset in real life, okay? She’s been sexually abused. She’s been on drugs. Her self-esteem isn’t very high right now. People in her position blame themselves for being victims. The right kind of therapy can help to fix that. What you’re doing is important, but she needs professional help, too. Okay?”

  Kelly nodded. “Okay.”

  “Good,” Sarah said, looking up at him. “I like you. You listen well.”

  “Do I have a choice, Ma’am?” Kelly inquired with a twisted grin.

  She laughed. “No, not really.”

  “She’s always this pushy,” Sam told Kelly. “She really ought to be a nurse. Docs are supposed to be more civilized. Nurses are the ones who push us around.” Sarah kicked her husband playfully.

  “Then I better never run into a nurse,” Kelly said, leading them back off the dock.

  Pam ended up sleeping just over ten hours, and without benefit of barbiturates, though she did awaken with a crushing headache which Kelly treated with aspirin.

  “Get Tylenol,” Sarah told him. “Easier on the stomach.” The pharmacologist made a show of checking Pam again while Sam packed up their gear. On the whole she liked what she saw. “I want you to gain five pounds before I see you again.”

  “But—”

  “And John’s going to bring you in to see us so that we can get you completely checked out—two weeks, say?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Kelly nodded surrender again.

  “But—”

  “Pam, they ganged up on me. I have to go in, too,” Kelly reported in a remarkably docile voice.

  “You have to leave so early?”

  Sarah nodded. “We really should have left last night, but what the hell.” She looked at Kelly. “If you don’t show up like I said, I’ll call you and scream.”

  “Sarah. Jesus, you’re a pushy broad!”

  “You should hear what Sam says.”

  Kelly walked her out to the dock, where Sam’s boat was already rumbling with life. She and Pam hugged. Kelly tried just to shake hands, but had to submit to a kiss. Sam jumped down to shake their hands.

  “New charts!” Kelly told the surgeon.

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  “I’ll get the lines.”

  Rosen was anxious to show him what he’d learned. He backed out, drawing mainly on his starboard shaft and turning his Hatteras within her own length. The man didn’t forget. A moment later Sam increased power on both engines and drove straight out, heading directly for water he knew to be deep. Pam just stood there, holding Kelly’s hand, until the boat was a white speck on the horizon.

  “I forgot to thank her,” Pam said finally.

  “No, you didn’t. You just didn’t say it, that’s all. So how are you today?”

  “My headache’s gone.” She looked up at him. Her hair needed washing, but her eyes were clear and there was a spring in her step. Kelly felt the need to kiss her, which he did. “So what do we do now?”

  “We need to talk,” Pam said quietly. “lt’s time.”

  “Wait here.” Kelly went back into the shop and returned with a pair of folding lounge chairs. He gestured her into one. “Now tell me how terrible you are.”
<
br />   Pamela Starr Madden was three weeks shy of her twenty-first birthday, Kelly learned, finally discovering her surname as well. Born to a lower-working-class family in the Panhandle region of northern Texas, she’d grown up under the firm hand of a father who was the sort of man to make a Baptist minister despair. Donald Madden was a man who understood the form of religion, but not the substance, who was strict because he didn’t know how to love, who drank from frustration with life—and was angry at himself for that, too—yet never managed to come to terms with it. When his children misbehaved, he beat them, usually with a belt or a switch of wood until his conscience kicked in, something which did not always happen sooner than fatigue. The final straw for Pam, never a happy child, had come on the day after her sixteenth birthday, when she’d stayed late at a church function and ended up going on what was almost a date with friends, feeling that she finally had the right to do so. There hadn’t even been a kiss at the end of it from the boy whose household was almost as restrictive as her own. But that hadn’t mattered to Donald Madden. Arriving home at ten-twenty on a Friday evening, Pam came into a house whose lights blazed with anger, there to face an enraged father and a thoroughly cowed mother.

  “The things he said . . . ” Pam was looking down at the grass as she spoke. “I didn’t do any of that. I didn’t even think of doing it, and Albert was so innocent . . . but so was I, then.”

  Kelly squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to tell me any of this, Pam.” But she did have to, and Kelly knew that, and so he continued to listen.

  After sustaining the worst beating of her sixteen years. Pamela Madden had slipped out her first-floor bedroom window and walked the four miles to the center of the bleak, dusty town. She’d caught a Greyhound bus for Houston before dawn, only because it had been the first bus, and it hadn’t occurred to her to get off anywhere in between. So far as she could determine, her parents had never even reported her as missing. A series of menial jobs and even worse housing in Houston had merely given emphasis to her misery, and in short order she’d decided to head elsewhere. With what little money she’d saved, she’d caught yet another bus—this one Continental Trailways—and stopped in New Orleans. Scared, thin, and young, Pam had never learned that there were men who preyed on young runaways. Spotted almost at once by a well-dressed and smooth-talking twenty-five-year-old named Pierre Lamarck, she’d taken his offer of shelter and assistance after he had sprung for dinner and sympathy. Three days later he had become her first lover. A week after that, a firm slap across the face had coerced the sixteen-year-old girl into her second sexual adventure, this one with a salesman from Springfield, Illinois, whom Pam had reminded of his own daughter—so much so that he’d engaged her for the entire evening, paying Lamarck two hundred fifty dollars for the experience. The day after that, Pam had emptied one of her pimp’s pill containers down her throat, but only managed to make herself vomit, earning a savage beating for the defiance.