Patriot games - Tom Clancy [12]
Ryan nodded agreement, briefly dizzy from the smoke. How'd they know to check through the Corps oh, my Marine Corps Association card
"In any event we have things pretty well sorted out. Your government are sending us everything we need-probably here by now, actually." Wilson checked his watch.
"My family's all right?"
Wilson smiled in rather an odd way. "They are being very well looked after. Doctor Ryan. You have my word on that."
"The name's Jack."
"Fine. I'm known to my friends as Tony." They finally got around to shaking hands. "And as I said, you're a bloody hero. Care to see what the press have to say?" He handed Ryan a Daily Mirror and a Times.
"Dear God!"
The tabloid Mirror's front page was almost entirely a color photograph of himself, sitting unconscious against the Rolls. His chest was a scarlet mass.
ATTEMPT ON HRH-MARINE TO THE RESCUE
A bold attempt to assassinate Their Royal Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales within sight of Buckingham Palace was thwarted today by the courage of an American tourist.
John Patrick Ryan, an historian and formerly a lieutenant in the United States Marines, dashed barehanded into a pitched battle on The Mall as over a hundred Londoners watched in shocked disbelief. Ryan, 31, of Annapolis, Maryland, successfully disabled one gunman and, taking his weapon, shot another dead. Ryan himself was seriously wounded in the exchange. He was taken by ambulance to St. Thomas 's Hospital, where emergency surgery was successfully performed by Sir Charles Scott.
A third terrorist is reported to have escaped the scene, by running east on The Mall, then turning north on Marlborough Road.
Senior police officials were unanimous in their opinion that, but for Ryan's courageous intervention. Their Highnesses would certainly have been slain.
Ryan turned the page to see another color photograph of himself in happier circumstances. It was his graduation photo from Quantico, and he had to smile at himself, resplendent, then, in blue high-necked blouse, two shiny gold bars, and the Mamaluke sword. It was one of the few decent photographs ever taken of him.
"Where did they get this?"
"Oh, your Marine chaps were most helpful. In fact, one of your Marine ships-helicopter carrier, or something like that-is at Portsmouth right now. I understand that your former colleagues are getting all the free beer they can swill."
Ryan laughed at that. Next he picked up the Times, whose headline was marginally less lurid.
The Prince and Princess of Wales escaped certain death this afternoon. Three, possibly four terrorists armed with hand grenades and Kalashnikov assault rifles lay in wait for their Rolls-Royce; only to have their carefully-laid plans foiled by the bold intervention of J. P. Ryan, formerly a second lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps, and now an historian
Ryan flipped to the editorial page. The lead item, signed by the publisher, screamed for vengeance while praising Ryan, America, and the United States Marine Corps, and thanked Divine Providence with a flourish worthy of a Papal Encyclical.
"Reading about yourself?" Ryan looked up. Sir Charles Scott was standing at the foot of his bed with an aluminum chart.
"First time I ever made the papers." Ryan set them down.
"You've earned it, and it would seem that the sleep did you some good. How do you feel?"
"Not bad, considering. How am I?" Ryan asked.
"Pulse and temperature normal-almost normal. Your color isn't bad at all. With luck we might even avoid a postoperative infection, though I should not wish to give odds on that," the doctor said. "How badly does it hurt?"
"It's there, but I can live with it," Ryan answered cautiously.
"It is only two hours since your last medication. I trust you are not one of those thickheaded fools who do not want pain medications?"
"Yes, I am," Ryan said. He went on slowly. "Doctor, I've been through this twice before. The first time, they