Patriot Games

'He waved at us,' the Governor said. 'Do something!'

'What?' the pilot asked. 'What do you want us to do? Who do we stop? They're gone, they might as well be in California now.'

The Governor was slow to catch on, though faster than the Attorney General, who was still blubbering. What had begun as a routine political meeting in Salisbury, on Maryland's eastern shore, had turned into an exciting pursuit, but one with a most unsatisfactory ending. He'd watched one of his state troopers killed right before his eyes, and neither he nor his people could do a single thing about it. The Governor swore, finally. The voters would have been shocked at his language.

Trooper-1 was sitting on the Severn River bridge, its rotor turning rapidly to stay above the concrete barriers. The paramedic, Trooper Waverly, and a motorist who turned out to be a volunteer fireman, were loading the two accident victims into Stokes litters for transport on the helicopter. The other motorist who had assisted was standing alone by the police car, over a puddle of his own vomit. A fire engine was pulling up to the scene, and two more state troopers were preparing to get traffic moving, once the helicopter took off. The highway was already backed up at least four miles. As they prepared to start directing traffic, they heard on their radios what had happened to J-19 and its driver. The police officers exchanged looks, but no words. They would come later.

As first officer on the scene, Waverly took the driver's purse and started looking for identification. He had lots of forms to fill out, and people to notify. Inside the purse, he saw, was some kind of finger painting. He looked up as the little girl's litter was loaded into the top rack of the helicopter's passenger bay. The paramedic went in behind it, and less than thirty seconds later, Waverly's face stung with the impact of gravel, thrown up by the helicopter's rotor. He watched it lift into the air, and whispered a prayer for the little girl who'd done a painting of something that looked like a blue cow. Back to work, he told himself. The purse had a red address book. He checked the driver's license to get a name, then looked in the book under the same letter. Someone with the first name of Jack, but no last name written in, had a number designated 'work.' It was probably her husband's. Somebody had to call him.

'Baltimore Approach, this is Trooper-1 on a medivac inbound to Baltimore.'

'Trooper-1, roger, you are cleared for direct approach, come left to course three-four-seven and maintain current altitude,' the air controller at Baltimore-Washington International responded. The 5101 squawk number was clear on his scope, and medical emergencies had unconditional priority.

'Hopkins Emergency, this is Trooper-1, inbound with a white female child accident victim.'

'Trooper-1, Hopkins. Divert to University. We're full up here.'

'Roger. University, Trooper-1, do you copy, over.'

'Trooper-1, this is University, we copy, and we're ready for you.'

'Roger, ETA five minutes. Out.'

'Gunny, this is Cummings at Gate Three,' the Sergeant called on the telephone.

'What is it, Sergeant?' Breckenridge asked.

'There's this guy, he's been standing on the corner across the street for about forty-five minutes. It just feels funny, you know? He's off the grounds, but it doesn't feel right.'

'Call the cops?' the Sergeant Major asked.

'What for?' Cummings asked reasonably. 'He ain't even spit far as I can tell.'

'Okay, I'll walk on up.' Breckenridge stood. He was bored anyway. The Sergeant Major donned his cap and walked out of the building, heading north across the campus. It took five minutes, during which he saluted six officers and greeted a larger number of mids. He didn't like the cold. It had never been like this during his childhood on a Mississippi dirt farm. But spring was coming. He was careful not to look too obviously out of the gate as he crossed the street.

He found Cummings in the guardhouse, standing inside the door. A good young sergeant, Cummings was. He had the new look of the Corps. Breckenridge was built along the classic John Wayne lines, with broad shoulders and imposing bulk. Cummings was a black kid, a runner who had the frame of a Frank Shorter. The boy could run all day, something that the Gunny had never been able to do. But more than all of that, Cummings was a lifer. He understood what the Marine Corps was all about. Breckenridge had taken the young man under his wing, imparting a few important lessons along the way. The Sergeant Major knew that he would soon be part of the Corps' past. Cummings was its future, and he told himself that the future looked pretty good.

'Hey, Gunny,' the Sergeant greeted him.

'The guy in the doorway?'

'He's been there since a little after four. He don't live here.' Cummings paused for a moment. He was, after all, only a «buck» sergeant with no rockers under his stripes, talking to a man whom generals addressed with respect. 'It just feels funny.'

'Well, let's give him a few minutes,' Breckenridge thought aloud.

'God, I hate grading quizzes.'

'So go easy on the boys and girls,' Robby chuckled.

'Like you do?' Ryan asked.

'I teach a difficult, technical subject. I have to give quizzes.'

'Engineers! Shame you can't read and write as well as you multiply.'

'You must have taken a tough-pill this afternoon. Jack.'

'Yeah, well—' The phone rang. Jack picked it up. 'Doctor Ryan. Yes—who?' His face changed, his voice became guarded.

'Yes, that's right.' Robby saw his friend go stiff in the chair. 'Are you sure? Where are they now? Okay—ah, okay, thank you… I, uh, thank you.' Jack stared at the phone for a second or two before hanging it up.

'What's the matter, Jack?' Robby asked.

It took him a moment to answer. 'That was the police. There's been an accident.'

'Where are they?' Robby said immediately.

'They flew them—they flew them to Baltimore.' Jack stood shakily. 'I have to get there.' He looked down at his friend. 'God, Robby…'

Jackson was on his feet in an instant. 'Come on, I'll take you up there.'

'No, I'll—'

'Stuff it, Jack. I'm driving.' Robby got his coat and tossed Jack's over the desk. 'Move it, boy!'

'They took them by helicopter…'

'Where? Where to, Jack?'

'University,' he said.

'Get it together, Jack.' Robby grabbed his arm. 'Settle down some.' The flyer led his friend down the stairs and out of the building. His red Corvette was parked a hundred yards away.

'Still there,' the civilian guard reported when he came back in.

'Okay,' Breckenridge said, standing. He looked at the pistol holster hanging in the corner, but decided against that. 'This is what we're going to do.'

Ned Clark hadn't liked the mission from the first moment. Sean was too eager on this one. But he hadn't said so. Sean had masterminded the prison break that had made him a free man. If nothing else, Ned Clark was loyal to the Cause. He was exposed here and didn't like that either. His briefing had told him that the guards at the Academy gate were lax, and he could see that they were unarmed. They had no authority at all off the grounds of the school.

But it was taking too long. His target was thirty minutes late. He didn't smoke, didn't do anything to make himself conspicuous, and he knew that he'd be hard to spot. The doorway of the tired old apartment building had no light—one of Alex's people had taken care of that with a pellet gun the previous night.

Ought to call this one off, Clark told himself. But he didn't want to do that. He didn't want to fail Sean. He saw a pair of men leave the Academy. Bootnecks, bloody Marines in their Sunday clothes. They looked so pretty without their guns, so vulnerable.

'So the Captain, he says,' the big one was saying loudly, 'get that goddamned gook off my chopper!' And the other one started laughing.

'I love it!'

'How about a couple of beers?' the big one said next. They crossed the street, heading his way.

'Okay by me, Gunny. You buyin'?'