Free Jack Ryan 2 - Patriot Games by Tom Clancy Page A

last commercial. The human shoulder -- his, at any rate -- was a solid collection of bones that bullets -- one bullet -- all too easily broke. As the time for another medication approached it seemed that he could feel every jagged edge of every broken bone grating against its neighbor as he breathed, and even the gentle tapping of his right-hand fingers on the keyboard seemed to ripple across his body to the focus of his pain until he had to stop and watch the wall clock -- for the first time he wanted Kittiwake to appear with his next installment of chemical bliss.
    Until he remembered his fear. The pain of his back injury had made his first week at Bethesda a living hell. He knew that his present injury paled by comparison, but the body does not remember pain, and the shoulder was here and now. He forced himself to remember that pain medications had made his back problem almost tolerable . . . except that the doctors had gotten just a little too generous with his dosages. More than the pain, Ryan dreaded withdrawal from morphine sulphate. That had lasted a week, the wanting that seemed to draw his entire body into some vast empty place, someplace where his innermost self found itself entirely alone and needing . . . Ryan shook his head. The pain rippled through his left arm and shoulder and he forced himself to welcome it. I'm not going to go through that again. Never again.
    The door opened. It wasn't Kittiwake -- the med was still fourteen minutes away. Ryan had noticed a uniform outside the door when it had opened before. Now he was sure. A thirtyish uniformed officer came in with a floral arrangement and he was followed by another who was similarly loaded. A scarlet and gold ribbon decorated the first, a gift from the Marine Corps, followed by another from the American Embassy.
    “Quite a few more, sir,” one uniformed officer said.
    “The room isn't all that big. Can you give me the cards and spread these around some? I'm sure there's people around who'd like them.” And who wants to live in a jungle? Within ten minutes Ryan had a pile of cards, notes, and telegrams. He found that reading the words of others was better than reading his own when it came to blocking out the ache of his damaged shoulder.
    Kittiwake arrived. She gave the flowers only a fleeting glance before administering Ryan's medication, and hustled out with scarcely a word. Ryan learned why five minutes later.
    His next visitor was the Prince of Wales. Wilson snapped to his feet again, and Jack wondered if the kid's knees were tiring of this. The med was already working. His shoulder was drifting farther away, but along with this came a slight feeling of lightheadedness as from a couple of stiff drinks. Maybe that was part of the reason for what happened next.
    “Howdy.” Jack smiled. “How are you feeling, sir?”
    “Quite well, thank you.” The answering smile contained no enthusiasm. The Prince looked very tired, his thin face stretched an extra inch or so, with a lingering sadness around the eyes. His shoulders drooped within the conservative gray suit.
    “Why don't you sit down, sir?” Ryan invited. “You look as though you had a tougher night than I did.”
    “Yes, thank you, Doctor Ryan.” He made another attempt to smile. It failed. “And how are you feeling?”
    “Reasonably well, Your Highness. And how is your wife -- excuse me, how is the Princess doing?”
    The Prince's words did not come easily, and he had trouble looking up to Ryan from his chair. “We both regret that she could not come with me. She's still somewhat disturbed -- in shock, I believe. She had a very . . . bad experience.”
    Brains splattered over her face. I suppose you might call that a bad experience. “I saw. I understand that neither of you was physically injured, thank God. I presume your child also?”
    “Yes, all thanks to you. Doctor.”
    Jack tried another one-armed shrug. The gesture didn't hurt so much this time. “Glad to help, sir -- I just