Patriot games - Tom Clancy [267]
"Coast Guard, have you gotten things straightened out with the local cops?"
"That's a rog, Navy."
"Tell them that we believe the target's objective is the Costanza."
"Roger that. We'll have our thirty-two boat stake her out and call in the cops."
"Don't let them see you, Coast Guard!"
"Understood, Navy. We can handle that part easy enough. Stand by Navy, be advised that our forty-one boat reports radar contact with you and the target, rounding Bodkin Point. Is this correct? Over."
"Yes!" called the Quartermaster at the chart table. He was making a precise record of the course tracks from the radar plot.
"That's affirm, Coast Guard. Tell your boat to take station five hundred yards forward of the target. Acknowledge."
"Roger, five-zero-zero yards. Okay, let's see if we can get the cops moving. Stand by."
"We got 'em," Ryan thought aloud.
"Uh, Lieutenant, keep your hands still, sir." It was Breckenridge. He reached into Ryan's belt and extracted the Browning automatic. Jack was surprised to see that he'd stuck it in there with the hammer back and safety off. Breckenridge lowered the hammer and put the pistol back where it was. "Let's try to think 'safe,' sir, okay? Otherwise you might lose something important."
Ryan nodded rather sheepishly. "Thanks, Gunny."
"Somebody has to protect the lieutenants." Breckenridge turned. "Okay, Marines-let's stay awake out there!"
"You got a man on the Prince?" Jack asked.
"Even before the Admiral said so." The Sergeant Major gestured to where a corporal was standing, rifle in hand, three feet from His Highness, with orders to stay between him and the gunfire.
Five minutes later a trio of State Police cars drove without lights to Berth Six of the Dundalk Marine Terminal. The cars were parked under one of the gantry cranes used for transferring cargo containers, and five officers walked quietly to the ship's accommodation ladder. A crewman stationed there stopped them-or tried to. A language barrier prevented proper communications. He found himself accompanying the troopers, with his hands cuffed behind his back. The senior police officer bounded up three more ladders and arrived at the bridge.
"What is this!"
"And who might you be?" the cop inquired from behind a shotgun.
"I am the master of this ship!" Captain Nikolai Frenza proclaimed.
"Well, Captain, I am Sergeant William Powers of the Maryland State Police, and I have some questions for you."
"You have no authority on my ship!" Frenza answered. His accent was a mixture of Greek and some other tongue. "I will talk to the Coast Guard and no one else."
"I want to make this real clear." Powers walked the fifteen feet to the Captain, his hands tight around the Ithaca 12-gauge shotgun. "That shore you're tied to is the State of Maryland, and this shotgun says I got all the authority I need. Now we have information that a boatload of terrorists is coming here, and the word is they've killed a bunch of people, including three state troopers." He planted the muzzle against Frenza's chest. "Captain, if they do come here, or if you fuck with me any more tonight, you are in a whole shitpot full of trouble-do you understand me!"
The man wilted before his eyes. Powers saw. So the information is correct. Good.
"You would be well advised to cooperate, 'cause pretty soon we're going to have more cops here 'n you ever saw. You just might need some friends, mister. If you have something to tell me, I want to hear it right now."
Frenza hesitated, his eyes shifting toward the bow and back. He was in deep trouble, more than his advance payment would ever cover. "There are four of them aboard. They are forward, starboard side, near the bow. We didn't know-"
"Shut up." Powers nodded to a corporal, who got on his portable radio. "What about your crew?"
"The crew is below, preparing to take the ship to sea."
"Sarge, the Coast