Patriot games - Tom Clancy [247]
"They did. All they had to do was hose down one pigmobile and switch cars. The pigs here were more relaxed than I expected," Louis observed.
"Why not? They think we're someplace else." Alex opened a toolbox and removed his transceiver. The agent had seen it and not questioned it. He couldn't tell that the frequency range had been altered. There were no guns in the van, of course, but radios were far deadlier. He radioed what he'd learned and got an acknowledgment. Then he smiled. The agents hadn't even asked about the two extension ladders on the roof. He checked his watch. Rendezvous was scheduled in ninety minutes
"The problem is, there really isn't a civilized way to eat corn on the cob," Cathy said. "Not to mention buttering it."
"It was excellent, though," the Prince noted. "From a local farm, Jack?"
"Picked 'em off the stalk this afternoon," Ryan confirmed. "That's the best way to get it."
Sally'd become a slow eater of late. She was still laboring at her food, but nobody seemed anxious to leave the table.
"Jack, Cathy, that was a wonderful dinner," His Highness pronounced.
His wife agreed. "And no after-dinner speechmaking!"
"I guess all that formal stuff gets to be tiresome," Robby noted, trying to ask a question that he couldn't voice: What's it like to be a prince?
"It wouldn't be so bad if the speeches could be original, but I've been listening to the same one for years!" he said wryly. "Excuse me. I mustn't say such things, even around friends."
"It's not all that different at a History Department meeting," Jack said.
At Quantico, Virginia, the phone rang. The FBI's Hostage Rescue Team had its own private building, located at the end of the long line of firing ranges that served the Bureau's training center. An engineless DC-4 sat behind it, and was used to practice assault techniques on hijacked aircraft. Down the hill was the "Hostage House" and other facilities used every day for the team members to hone their skills. Special Agent Gus Werner picked up the phone.
"Hi, Gus," Bill Shaw said.
"Have they found 'em yet?" Werner asked. He was thirty-five, a short, wiry man with red hair and a brushy mustache that never would have been allowed under Hoover 's directorship.
"No, but I want you to assemble an advance team and fly them up. If something breaks, we may have to move fast."
"Fair enough. Where are we going, exactly?"
" Hagerstown, the State Police barracks. S-A-C Baltimore will be waiting for you."
"Okay, I'll take six men. We can probably get moving in thirty or forty minutes, as soon as the chopper gets here. Buzz me if anything happens."
"Will do. See ya." Shaw hung up.
Werner switched buttons on the phone and alerted the helicopter crew. Next he walked across the building to the classroom on the far side. The five men of his ready-response group were lounging about, mostly reading. They'd been on alert status for several days. This had increased their training routines somewhat, but it was mainly to defend against boredom that came from waiting for something that probably wouldn't happen. Nighttimes were devoted to reading and television. The Red Sox were playing the Yankees on TV. These were not Brooks Brothers FBI agents. The men were in baggy jumpsuits lavishly equipped with pockets. In addition to being experienced field agents, nearly all were veterans of combat or peacetime military service, and each man was a match-quality marksman who fired several boxes of ammunition per week.
"Okay, listen up," Werner said. "They want an advance team in Hagerstown. The Chopper'll be here in half an hour."
"There's a severe thunderstorm warning," one objected lightly.
"So take your airsick pills," Werner advised.
"They find 'em yet?" another asked.
"No, but people are getting a little nervous."
"Right." The questioner was a long-rifleman. His custom-made sniper rifle was already packed in a foam-lined case. The team's gear was in a dozen duffle bags. The men buttoned their