Free Jack Ryan 1 - Without Remorse by Tom Clancy Page B

scientist, an expert on adverse interactions, chemical structures, how we can design new drugs to do special things - but now I have to spend nearly all of my time in clinical work, trying to keep children alive who should be just learning how to drink a beer but instead have their systems full of chemical shit that never should have made it outside a god-damned laboratory!'
    'And it's going to get worse,' Sam noted gloomily.
    Sarah nodded. 'Oh yeah, the next big one is cocaine. She needs you, John,' Sarah said again, leaning forward. It was as though she had surrounded herself with her own storm cloud of electrical energy. 'You'd damned well better be there for her, boy. You be there for her! Somebody dealt her a really shitty hand, but she's fighting. There's a person in there.'
    'Yes, ma'am,' Kelly said humbly. He looked up and smiled, no longer confused. 'In case you were worried, I decided that a while back.'
    'Good.' Sarah nodded curtly.
    'What do I do first?'
    'More than anything else, she needs rest, she needs good food, and she needs time to flush the barbiturates out of her system. We'll support her with phenobarb, just in case we have withdrawal problems- I don't expect that. I examined her while you two were gone. Her physical problem is not so much addiction as exhaustion and undernourishment. She ought to be ten pounds heavier than she is. She ought to tolerate withdrawal rather well if we support her in other ways.'
    'Me, you mean?' Kelly asked.
    'That's a lot of it.' She looked over towards the open bedroom door and sighed, the tension going out of her. 'Well, given her underlying condition, that phenobarb will probably have her out for the rest of the night. Tomorrow we start feeding her and exercising her. For now,' Sarah announced, 'we can feed ourselves.'
    Dinner talk focused deliberately on other subjects, and Kelly found himself delivering a lengthy discourse on the bottom contours of the Chesapeake Bay, segueing into what he knew about good fishing spots. It was soon decided that his visitors would stay until Monday evening. Time over the dinner table lengthened, and it was nearly ten before they rose. Kelly cleaned up, then quietly entered his bedroom to hear Pam's quiet breathing.
    Only thirteen feet long, and a scant three thousand sixty-five pounds of mass - nearly half of that fuel - the Buffalo Hunter angled towards the ground as it accelerated to an initial cruising speed of over five hundred knots. Already its navigational computer, made by Lear-Siegler, was monitoring time and altitude in a very limited way. The drone was programmed to follow a specific flight path and altitude, all painstakingly predetermined for systems that were by later standards absurdly primitive. For all that, Cody-193 was a sporty-looking beast. Its profile was remarkably like that of a blue shark with a protruding nose and underslung air intake for a mouth - stateside it was often painted with aggressive rows of teeth. In this particular case, an experimental paint scheme - flat white beneath and mottled brown and green atop - was supposed to make it harder to spot from the ground - and the air. It was also stealthy - a term not yet invented. Blankets of RAM - radar-absorbing material - were integral with the wing surfaces, and the air intake was screened to attenuate the radar return off the whirling engine blades.
    Cody-193 crossed the border between Laos and North Vietnam at 11:41:38 local time. Still descending, it leveled out for the first time at five hundred feet above ground level, turning northeast, somewhat slower now in the thicker air this close to the ground. The low altitude and small size of the speeding drone made it a difficult target, but by no means an impossible one, and outlying gun positions of the dense and sophisticated North Vietnamese air-defense network spotted it. The drone flew directly towards a recently sited 37mm twin gun mount whose alert crew got their mount slued around quickly enough