Jack Ryan 2 - Patriot Games Read Online Free Page A

the best orthopods in the world. He trained Professor Knowles -- he did a super job on you. You're lucky to have an arm at all, you know -- my God!”
    “Easy, babe. I'm going to live, remember?”
    “I know, I know.”
    “It's going to hurt, isn't it?”
    Another smile. “Just a bit. Well. I've got to put Sally down. I'll be back tomorrow.” She bent down to kiss him. Skin full of drugs, oxygen tube, dry mouth, and all, it felt good. God, he thought, God, how I love this girl. Cathy squeezed his hand one more time and left.
    The Bette Davis nurse came back. It was not a satisfactory trade.
    “I'm 'Doctor' Ryan, too, you know,” Jack said warily.
    “Very good, Doctor. It is time for you to get some rest. I'll be here to look after you all night. Now sleep. Doctor Ryan.”
    On this happy note Jack closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be a real bitch, he was sure. It would keep.

Jack Ryan 2 - Patriot Games

Chapter 2
Cops and Royals
    Ryan awoke at 6:35 A.M. He knew that because it was announced by a radio disc jockey whose voice faded to an American Country & Western song of the type which Ryan avoided at home by listening to all-news radio stations. The singer was admonishing mothers not to allow their sons to become cowboys, and Ryan's first muddled thought of the day was. Surely they don't have that problem over here . . . do they? His mind drifted along on this tangent for half a minute, wondering if the Brits had CAW bars with sawdust on the floors, mechanical bull rides, and office workers who strutted around with pointy-toed boots and five-pound belt buckles . . . Why not? he concluded. Yesterday I saw something right out of a Dodge City movie.
    Jack would have been just as happy to slide back into sleep. He tried closing his eyes and willing his body to relax, but it was no use. The flight from Dulles had left early in the morning, barely three hours after he'd awakened. He hadn't slept on the plane -- it was something he simply could not do -- but flying always exhausted him, and he'd gone to bed soon after arriving at the hotel. Then how long had he been unconscious in the hospital? Too long, he realized. Ryan was all slept out. He would have to begin facing the day.
    Someone off to his right was playing a radio just loudly enough to hear. Ryan turned his head and was able to see his shoulder --
    Shoulder, he thought, that's why I'm here. But where's here? It was a different room. The ceiling was smooth plaster, recently painted. It was dark, the only illumination coming from a light on the table next to the bed, perhaps enough to read by. There seemed to be a painting on the wall -- at least a rectangle darker than the wall, which wasn't white. Ryan took this in, consciously delaying his examination of his left arm until no excuses remained. He turned his head slowly to the left. He saw his arm first of all. It was sticking up at an angle, wrapped in a plaster and fiberglass cast that went all the way to his hand. His fingers stuck out like an afterthought, about the same shade of gray as the plaster-gauze wrappings. There was a metal ring at the back of the wrist, and in the ring was a hook whose chain led to a metal frame that arced over the bed like a crane.
    First things first. Ryan tried to wiggle his fingers. It took several seconds before they acknowledged their subservience to his central nervous system. Ryan let out a long breath and closed his eyes to thank God for that. About where his elbow was, a metal rod angled downward to join the rest of the cast, which, he finally appreciated, began at his neck and went diagonally to his waist. It left his arm sticking out entirely on its own and made Ryan look like half a bridge. The cast was not tight on his chest, but touched almost everywhere, and already he had itches where he couldn't scratch. The surgeon had said something about immobilizing the shoulder, and, Ryan thought glumly, he hadn't been kidding. His shoulder ached in a distant sort of way with the