Patriot games - Tom Clancy [140]
"You're getting there, Lieutenant," Breckenridge said at the spotting scope. "All in the black: a nine, four tens, one of 'em in the X-ring. Again."
Ryan reloaded with a smile. He'd allowed himself to forget how much fun a pistol could be. This was a pure physical skill, a man's skill that carried the same sort of satisfaction as a just-right golf shot. He had to control a machine that delivered a.357-inch bullet to a precise destination. Doing this required coordination of eye and hand. It wasn't quite the same as using a shotgun or a rifle. Pistol was much harder than either of those, and hitting the target carried a subintellectual pleasure that was not easily described to someone who hadn't done it. His next five rounds were all tens. He tried the two-hand Weaver stance, and placed four out of five in the X-ring, a circle half the diameter of the ten-ring, used for tie-breaking in competition shoots.
"Not bad for a civilian," Breckenridge said. "Coffee?"
"Thanks, Gunny." Ryan took the cup.
"I want you to concentrate a little more on your second round. You keep letting that one go off to the right some. You're rushing it a little." The difference, Ryan knew, was barely two inches at fifty feet. Breckenridge was a stone perfectionist. It struck him that the Sergeant Major and Cathy had very similar personalities: either you were doing it exactly right or you were doing it completely wrong. "Doc, it's a shame you got hurt. You would have made a good officer, with the right sergeant to bring you along-they all need that of course."
"You know something, Gunny? I met a couple of guys in London that you'd just love." Jack slipped the magazine back into his automatic.
"Ryan is rather a clever lad, isn't he?" Owens handed the document back to Murray.
"Nothing really new in here," Dan admitted, "but at least it's well organized. Here's the other thing you wanted."
"Oh, our friends in Boston. How is Paddy O'Neil doing?" Owens was more than just annoyed at this. Padraig O'Neil was an insult to the British parliamentary system, an elected mouthpiece for the Provisional IRA. In ten years of trying, however, neither Owens' Anti-Terrorist Branch nor the Royal Ulster Constabulary had ever linked him to an illegal act.
"Drinking a lot of beer, talking to a lot of folks, and raising a little money, just like always." Murray sipped at his port. "We have agents following him around. He knows they're there, of course. If he spits on the sidewalk, we'll put him on the next bird home. He knows that, too. He hasn't broken a single law. Even his driver-the guy's a teetotaler. I hate to say it, Jimmy, but the bum's clean, and he's making points."
"Oh, yes, he's a charming one, Paddy is." Owens flipped a page and looked up. "Let me see that thing your Ryan fellow did again."
"The guys at Five glommed your copy. I expect they'll give it to you tomorrow."
Owens grunted as he flipped to the summary at the back of the document. "Here it is Good God above!"
"What?" Murray snapped forward in his chair.
"The link, the bloody link. It's right here!"
"What are you talking about, Jimmy? I've read the thing twice myself."
" 'The fact that ULA personnel seem to have been drawn almost entirely from "extreme" elements within the PIRA itself,' " he read aloud, " 'must have a significance beyond that established by existing evidence. It seems likely that since the ULA membership has been so recruited, some ULA "defectors- in- place" remain within the PIRA, serving as information sources to their actual parent organization. It follows that such information may be of an operational nature in addition to its obvious counterintelligence value.' Operational," Owens said quietly. "We've always assumed that O'Donnell was simply trying to protect himself but he could be playing another game entirely."
"I still haven't caught up with you, Jimmy." Murray set his