Patriot Games - vastav

unconsciously flexing his left hand at the far end of the cast. It didn't reduce the
pain, but did seem to move it about somewhat as the muscles and tendons changed
place slightly. It bothered his concentration however much he tried to shut it out.
Jack remembered all the TV shows in which the detective or otherwise employed
hero took a round in the shoulder but recovered fully in time for the 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 righthand
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