"Roger. Moving in now." Damn.
He floored his accelerator and watched his speedometer go to ninety. The van had slowed a little, it seemed. He was now two hundred yards back. His eyes squinted. He could see the plate but not the number. He closed the distance more slowly now. At fifty yards he could make out the plate—it was a handicap one. The trooper lifted his radio microphone to call in the tag numbers when the rear doors flew open.
It all hit him in a moment: This was how Larry Fontana got it! He slammed on his brakes and tried to turn the wheel, but the microphone cable got caught on his arm. The police officer cringed and slid down behind the dashboard as the car slowed, and then he saw the flash, a sun-white tongue of flame that reached directly at him. As soon as he understood what that was, he heard the impacting rounds. One of his tires blew, and his radiator exploded, sending a shower of steam and water into the air. More rounds walked up the hood into the right side of the car, and the trooper dived under the steering wheel while the car bounced up and down on the flattened tire. Then the noise stopped. The State Police officer stuck his head up and saw the van was a hundred yards away, accelerating up the hill. He tried to make a call on the radio, but it didn't work. He discovered soon after that two bullets had blasted through the car's battery, now leaking acid on the pavement. He stood there for several minutes, wondering why he was alive, before another police car arrived.
The trooper was shaking badly enough that he had to hold the microphone in both hands. "Hagerstown, the bastard machine-gunned my car! It's a Ford van, looks like an eighty-four, handicap tag Nancy two-two-nine-one, last seen westbound on I-70 east of exit thirty-fi-five."
"Were you hit?"
"Negative, but the car's b-beat to shit. They used a goddamned machine gun on me!"
That really got things rolling. The FBI was again notified, and every available State Police helicopter converged on the Hagerstown area. For the first time, the choppers held men with automatic weapons. In Annapolis, the Governor wondered if he should use National Guard units. An infantry company was put on alert—it was already engaged in its weekend drill—but for the moment, he limited the Guard's active involvement to helicopter support of the State Police. The hunt was on in the central Maryland hill country. Warnings went out over commercial radio and TV stations for people to be on the alert. The President was spending the weekend in the country, and that was another major complication. Marines at nearby Camp David and a few other highly secret defense installations tucked away in the rolling hills hung up their usual dress blues and pistol belts. They substituted M-16 rifles and camouflage greens.
25 Rendezvous
They arrived exactly on time. A pair of State Police cars remained on the road, and three more loaded with security people accompanied the Rolls up the driveway to the Ryan house. The chauffeur, one of the security force, pulled right to the front and jumped out to open the passenger door. His Highness came out first, and helped his wife. The security people were already swarming all over the place. The leader of the British contingent conferred with Avery, and the detail dispersed to their predetermined stations. As Jack came down the steps to greet his guests, he had the feeling that his home had been subjected to an armed invasion.
"Welcome to Peregrine Cliff."
"Hello, Jack!" The Prince took his hand. "You're looking splendid."
"You, too, sir." He turned to the Princess, whom he'd never actually met. "Your Highness, this is a great pleasure."
"And for us, Doctor Ryan."
He led them into the house. "How's your trip been so far?"
"Awfully hot," the Prince answered. "Is it always like this in the summer?"
"We've had two pretty bad weeks," Jack answered. The temperature had hit ninety-five a few hours earlier. "They say that's going to change by tomorrow. It isn't supposed to go much past eighty for the next few days." This did not get an enthusiastic response.
Cathy was waiting inside with Sally. The weather was especially hard on her, this close to delivery. She shook hands, but Sally remembered how to curtsy from England, and performed a beautiful one, accompanied by a giggle.
"Are you quite all right?" Her Highness asked Cathy.
"Fine, except for the heat. Thank God for air conditioning!"
"Can we show you around?" Jack led the party into the living/dining room.
"The view is marvelous," the Prince observed.
"Okay, the first thing is, nobody wears a coat in my house," Ryan pronounced. "I think you call this 'Planter's Rig' over in England."
"Excellent idea," said the Prince. Jack took his jacket and hung it in the foyer closet next to his old Marine parka, then got rid of his own. By this time Cathy had everyone seated. Sally perched next to her mother, her feet high off the floor as she tried to keep her dress down on her knees. Cathy found it almost impossible to sit comfortably.
"How much longer?" the Princess asked.
"Eight days—of course with number two, that means any time."
"I shall find that out myself in seven more months."
"Really? Congratulations!" Both women beamed.
"Way to go, sir," Ryan observed.
"Thank you, Jack. How have you been?"
"I suppose you know the work I'm doing?"
"Yes, I heard last night from one of our security people. I've been told that you located and identified a terrorist camp that has since been… neutralized," the Prince said quietly.
Ryan nodded discreetly. "I'm afraid that I'm not able to discuss that."
"Understood. And how has your little girl done after…"
"Sally?" Jack turned. "How's my little girl?"
"I'm a big girl!" she replied forcefully.
"What do you think?"
"I think you've been damned lucky."
"I'd settle for a little bit more. I presume you've heard?"
"Yes." He paused. "I hope your chaps are careful."
Jack voiced agreement, then rose as he heard a car pull up. He opened the door to see Robby and Sissy Jackson getting out of the pilot's Corvette. The Secret Service's communications van moved to block the driveway behind them. Robby stormed up the steps.
"What gives? Who's here, the President?"
Cathy must have warned them, Jack saw. Sissy was dressed in a simple but very nice blue dress, and Robby had a tie on. Too bad.
"Come on in and join the party," Jack said with a nasty grin.
Robby looked at the two men by the pool, their jackets unbuttoned, and gave Jack a puzzled look, but followed. As they came around the brick fireplace, the pilot's eyes went wide.
"Commander Jackson, I presume." His Highness rose.
"Jack," Robby whispered. "I'm going to kill you!" Louder: "How do you do, sir. This is my wife, Cecilia." As usually happened, the people immediately split into male and female groups.
"I understand you're a naval aviator."
"Yes, sir. I'm going back to a fleet squadron now. I fly the F-14." Robby struggled to keep his voice under control. He was successful, mostly.
"Yes, the Tomcat. I've flown the Phantom. Have you?"
"I have a hundred twenty hours in them, sir. My squadron transitioned into fourteens a few months after I joined up. I was just getting the Phantom figured out when they took 'em away. I—uh—sir, aren't you a naval officer also?"
"Yes, Commander, I have the rank of captain," His Highness answered.
"Thank you. Now I know what to call you, Captain," Robby said with visible relief. "That's okay, isn't it?"
"Of course. You know, it does get rather tiresome when people act so awkwardly around one. This friend of yours here actually read me off some months ago."
Robby smiled finally. "You know Marines, sir. Long on mouth and short on brains."