Jack Ryan Books 7-12

by Tom Clancy

  JACK HAD TO let go, finally. There was only hurt in their eyes now. The objective part of his mind thought that was probably good—they had to let it out—but that made it no easier to see, for children of that age weren’t supposed to have such things at all. But these children did, and there was nothing to be done for it but to try, somehow, to ease the pain. He looked over at the uncles and aunts who’d accompanied them. They were weeping also, but through their tears he saw a grateful look, and that, at least, told him that he’d done something. Nodding, he turned to return to his seat. Cathy looked at him, and there were tears in her eyes, too, and though she couldn’t speak, she gripped his hand. Jack saw one more example of his wife’s intelligence. She’d worn no eye makeup to run from her tears. Inwardly, he smiled. He didn’t like makeup, and his wife didn’t really need it.

  “WHAT DO WE know of her?”

  “She’s a physician, an eye surgeon, actually, supposed to be a good one.” He checked his notes. “The American news media say that she is continuing to work at her profession despite her official duties.”

  “And their children?”

  “There’s nothing on that, though ... I should be able to find out what school they attend.” He saw the quizzical look and went on. “If the wife will continue to do her medical work, then I would guess that the children will continue to attend the same schools.”

  “How do you find that out?”

  “Easily. All American news stories can be accessed by computer. Ryan has been the subject of numerous news pieces. I can find out anything I want.” In fact he already had, but not information about his family. The modern age had made the life of an intelligence officer so much easier. He already knew Ryan’s age, height, weight, color of hair and eyes, and much of his personal habits, favorite food and drink, the golf clubs he belonged to, all manner of trivia, none of which was trivial to a man in his line of work. He didn’t have to ask what his boss was thinking. The opportunity which both had missed with all of the chiefs of state at the National Cathedral was gone forever, but it would not be the only one.

  WITH ONE FINAL hymn, it was over. The soldiers returned to collect the caskets, and the procession began again in reverse. Mark and Amy collected themselves well, aided by their relatives, and followed their parents. Jack led his family just after them. Katie was mainly bored and glad to be moving. Jack Jr. was sad for the Durling kids. Sally looked worried. He’d have to talk to her about that. Down the aisle he looked closely into a number of faces, distantly surprised that the first four or five rows of them looked not at the caskets, but at him. They never turned it off, did they? His fellow chiefs of state, Jack thought, wondering just what sort of club he’d just entered. A few faces were friendly. The Prince of Wales, who was not a chief of state and therefore placed by protocol behind the others—some of whom were outright thugs, but that could not be helped—gave a friendly nod. Yeah, he would understand, Jack thought. The new President wanted to check his watch, so tired he felt from the events of a day yet young, but he’d been sternly lectured about looking at one’s watch, to the point of being advised to take it off. A President didn’t need a watch. There were always people to tell him what came next, just as there were now people searching coat racks, ready to hand Ryan and his family what they needed before going back outside. There was Andrea Price, and other members of the Detail. Outside would be more: a not-so-small army of people with guns and fears, and a car to take him to his next destination, where he would perform more official duties, then be whisked off to the next set, and on, and on.

  He couldn’t let all this take control of his life. Ryan frowned at the thought. He’d do the work, but he couldn’t make the mistake Roger and Anne had made. He thought of the faces he’d seen walking out of the church and knew that it was a club he might be forced to enter but which he would never join. Or so he told himself.

  8

  CHANGE OF COMMAND

  THE PART AT ANDREWS was mercifully short. From the Cathedral, the caskets had traveled in hearses, with the large official party left behind to disperse throughout Embassy Row. Air Force One was waiting on the ramp to take the Durlings back to California one last time. It seemed far more desultory now. There was yet another honor guard to salute the flag-draped coffins, but this was different. The crowd was smaller, composed mostly of Air Force and some other military personnel who had worked directly with the presidential party in one way or another. At the family’s request, the actual burial ceremony would be smaller, and limited to relatives only, which was probably better for everybody. And so here at Andrews came the last “Ruffles and Flourishes” and the last “Hail to the Chief.” Mark stood at attention, holding his hand over his heart in a gesture sure to be on the cover of all the news magazines. A good kid, doing his best, and being more manly than he would ever know. A scissors lift took the caskets to the cargo door, for at this point that’s what the bodies were; mercifully, that part of the transfer was hidden from view. Then it was time. The family walked up the steps into the VC-25 for their last ride. It wouldn’t even have the Air Force One call sign anymore, because that label went with the President, and the President wasn’t aboard. Ryan watched the aircraft taxi off, then rumble down the runway. TV cameras tracked it until it was a mere dot in the sky. Ryan’s eyes did the same. By that time, a flight of F-16s, relieved of their guard duty over Washington, landed one by one. When that was done, Ryan and his family climbed aboard a Marine helicopter to return to the White House. The flight crew smiled and fussed over his children. Little Jack got a unit patch after he buckled in. The mood of the day changed with that. The Marines of VMH-1 had a new family to take care of, and life for them moved on.

  Already the White House staff was at work, moving their things in (they’d labored throughout the morning moving the Durlings’ things out), changing some furniture, and tonight his family would sleep in the same house first occupied by John Adams. The kids, being kids, looked out the windows as the helicopter began its descent. The parents, being parents, looked at each other.

  Things changed at this point. At a private family funeral, this would have been the wake. The sadness was supposed to be left behind, and the mourners would remember what a great guy Roger was, and then talk about what new things were going on in their lives, how the kids were doing at school, discussions of the baseball off-season trades. It was a way for things to return to normal after a sad and stressful day. And so it was in this case, if on a somewhat broader scale. The White House photographer was waiting there on the South Lawn as the helicopter touched down. The stairs were lowered, and a Marine corporal stood at the bottom of them. President Ryan came out first, getting a salute from the corporal in dress blues, which he automatically returned, so ingrained were the lessons from Quantico, Virginia, more than twenty years before. Cathy came down behind, and then the kids. The Secret Service agents formed a loose corridor which told them where to head. News cameras were off to the west, their left, but no questions were shouted—this time; that would change very quickly, too. Inside the White House, the Ryans were directed to the elevators for a rapid trip to the second, bedroom floor. Van Damm was waiting there.

  “Mr. President.”

  “Do I change, Arnie?” Jack asked, handing his coat to a valet. Ryan stopped cold, if only for a second or two, in surprise at how easy that simple activity was. He was President now, and in small ways he had automatically started to act like one. Somehow that was more remarkable than the duties he’d already undertaken.

  “No. Here.” The chief of staff handed over a list of the guests already downstairs in the East Room. Jack scanned it, standing there in the middle of the hall. The names weren’t so much people as countries, many friendly, many acquaintances, some genuine strangers, and some ... Even as a former National Security Advisor, he didn’t know everything he ought to have known about them. While he read, Cathy hustled the kids off to the bathroom—or started to. An agent from the Detail had to assist in locating them. R
yan walked into his own, checking his hair in the mirror. He managed to comb it himself, without the ministrations of Mrs. Abbot, under van Damm’s scrutiny. Not even safe in here, the President told himself.

  “How long will this go, Arnie?”

  “No telling, sir.”

  Ryan turned. “When we’re alone, the name’s still Jack, remember? I’ve been afflicted, not anointed.”

  “Okay, Jack.”

  “Kids, too?”

  “That’ll be a nice touch.... Jack, so far, you’ve been doing well.”

  “Do I have my speechwriter mad at me?” he asked, checking his tie and leaving the bathroom.

  “Your instincts weren’t so bad, but next time we can have a speech prepared for that.”

  Ryan thought about that, handing the list back to van Damm. “You know, just because I’m President doesn’t mean I stopped being a person.”

  “Jack, get used to it, okay? You’re not allowed to be ‘just a person’ anymore. Okay, you’ve had a few days to get used to the idea. When you walk downstairs, you are the United States of America, not just a person. That goes for you, that goes for your wife, and to some degree that goes for your kids.” For his revelation, the chief of staff got a poisonous look that may have lasted a second or two. Arnie ignored it. It was just personal, not business. “Ready, Mr. President?”

  Jack nodded, wondering if Arnie was right or not, and wondering why the observation had angered him so much. And then wondering again how true it was. You couldn’t tell with Arnie. He was and would continue to be a teacher, and as with most skilled teachers, he would occasionally tell lies as harsh exemplars of a deeper truth.

  Don Russell appeared in the corridor, leading Katie by the hand. She had a red ribbon in her hair as she broke free and ran to her mother. “Look what Uncle Don did!” At least one member of the Detail was already a member of the family.

  “You may want to get them all into the bathroom now, Mrs. Ryan. There are no restrooms on the State Floor.”

  “None?”

  Russell shook his head. “No, ma’am, they sort of forgot when they built the place.”

  Caroline Ryan grabbed the two youngest and led them off, doing her motherly duty. She returned in a couple of minutes.

  “Want me to carry her downstairs for you, ma’am?” Russell asked with a grandfatherly smile. “The stairs are a little tricky in heels. I’ll hand her off at the bottom.”

  “Sure.” People started heading for the stairwell, and Andrea Price keyed her microphone.

  “SWORDSMAN and party are moving from the residence to the State Floor.”

  “Roger,” another agent responded from downstairs.

  They could hear the noise even before making the last turn on the marble steps. Russell set Katie Ryan on the floor next to her mother. The agents faded away, becoming strangely invisible as the Ryans, the First Family, walked into the East Room.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a staff member announced, “the President of the United States, Dr. Ryan, and family.” Heads turned. There was a brief wave of applause which quickly faded, but the looks continued. They appeared friendly enough, Jack thought, knowing that not all were. He and Cathy moved a little to the left, and formed the receiving line.

  They came mainly one by one, though some of the visiting chiefs of state had brought wives. A protocol officer at Ryan’s left whispered the name of each into his ear, making Jack wonder how she knew all of these people by sight. The procession to him wasn’t quite as haphazard as it appeared. The ambassadors representing countries whose heads had chosen not to make the trip held back, but even those, standing about in little knots of associates and sipping at their Perrier-with-a-twist, didn’t hide their professional curiosity, checking out the new President and the way he greeted the men and women who came up to him.

  “The Prime Minister of Belgium, M. Arnaud,” the protocol officer whispered. The official photographer started clicking away to record every official greeting, and two TV cameras were doing the same, albeit more quietly.

  “Your telegram was very gracious, Mr. Prime Minister, and it came at a sensitive moment,” Ryan said, wondering if the truth sounded good enough, wondering if Arnaud had even read it—well, of course he had, though he probably hadn’t drafted it.

  “Your talk to the children was very moving. I’m sure everyone here thinks the same,” the P.M. replied, gripping Ryan’s hand, testing it for firmness, looking hard and deep into his eyes, and rather pleased with himself for the very skilled mendacity of his greeting. For all that, he had read the telegram and pronounced it fitting, and was gratified at hearing Ryan’s reaction to it. Belgium was an ally, and Arnaud had been well briefed by the chief of his country’s military-intelligence service, who’d worked with Ryan at several NATO conferences, and always liked the American’s read on the Soviets—and now, the Russians. An unknown quantity as a political leader, the gist of the briefing had been, but a bright and capable analyst. Arnaud did his own reading now, first in line mainly by accident, by grip and look and many years of experience in such things. Then he moved on.

  “Dr. Ryan, I have heard so much about you.” He kissed her hand in a very graceful Continental way. He hadn’t been told how attractive the new First Lady was, and how dainty her hands were. Well, she was a surgeon, wasn’t she? New to the game and uncomfortable with it, but playing along as she had to.

  “Thank you, Prime Minister Arnaud,” Cathy replied, informed by her own protocol officer (this one was just behind her) who this gentleman was. The hand business, she thought, was very theatrical ... but nice.

  “Your children are angels.”

  “How nice of you to say that.” And he moved on, to be replaced by the President of Mexico.

  News cameras floated around the room, along with fifteen reporters, because this was a working function of sorts. The piano in the room’s northeast corner played some light classical—not quite what on the radio was called “easy listening,” but close.

  “And how long have you known the President?” The question came from the Prime Minister of Kenya, pleased to find a black admiral in the room.

  “We go back quite a ways, sir,” Robby Jackson replied.

  “Robby! Excuse me, Admiral Jackson,” the Prince of Wales corrected himself.

  “Captain.” Jackson shook his hand warmly. “It’s been a while, sir.”

  “You two know—ah! Yes!” the Kenyan realized. Then he saw his counterpart from Tanzania and moved off to conduct business, leaving the two alone.

  “How is he doing—really, I mean,” the Prince asked, vaguely saddening Jackson. But this man had a job. Sent over as a friend in what Robby knew to have been a political decision, he would, on his return to Her Britannic Majesty’s embassy, dictate a contact report. It was business. On the other hand, the question deserved an answer. The three of them had “served” together briefly one hot, stormy summer night.

  “We had a short meeting with the acting chiefs a couple of days ago. There’ll be a working session tomorrow. Jack’ll be okay,” the J-3 decided he would say. He put some conviction behind it. He had to. Jack was now NCA—National Command Authority—and Jackson’s loyalty to him was a matter of law and honor, not mere humanity.

  “And your wife?” He looked over to where Sissy Jackson was talking with Sally Ryan.

  “Still number two piano for the National Symphony.”

  “Who’s the lead?”

  “Miklos Dimitri. Bigger hands,” Jackson explained. He decided it would be impolitic to ask any family questions of his own.

  “You did well in the Pacific.”

  “Yeah, well, fortunately we didn’t have to kill all that many people.” Jackson looked his almost-friend in the eye. “That really stopped being fun, y’know?”

  “Can he handle the job, Robby? You know him better than I do.”

  “Captain, he has to handle the job,” Jackson answered, looking over at his Commander-in-Chief-friend, and knowing how much Jac
k detested formal occasions. Watching his new President endure the circulating line, it was impossible to avoid thinking back. “Long way from teaching history at the Trade School, Your Highness,” the admiral observed in a whisper.

  For Cathy Ryan, it was more than anything else an exercise in protecting her hand. Oddly she knew the formal occasion drill better than her husband. As a senior physician at Johns Hopkins’s Wilmer Ophthalmological Institute, she’d had to deal with numerous formal fund-raisers over the years, essentially a high-class version of begging—most of which occasions Jack had missed, often to her displeasure. So, here she was, again, meeting people she didn’t know, would never have the chance to like, and not one of whom would support her research programs.

  “The Prime Minister of India,” her protocol officer said quietly.

  “Hello.” The First Lady smiled her greeting, shook the hand, which was blessedly light.

  “You must be very proud of your husband.”

  “I’ve always been proud of Jack.” They were of the same height. The Prime Minister’s skin was swarthy, and she squinted her eyes behind her glasses, Cathy saw. She probably needed a prescription change, and she probably got headaches from her out-of-date one. Strange. They had some pretty good doctors in India. Not all of them came to America.

  “And such lovely children,” she added.

  “How nice of you to say that.” Cathy smiled again, in an automatic sort of way, to an observation that was as perfunctory as a comment on the clouds in the sky. A closer look at the woman’s eyes told Cathy something she didn’t like. She thinks she’s better than me. But why? Because she was a politician and Caroline Ryan a mere surgeon? Would it be different had she chosen to become a lawyer? No, probably not, her mind went on, racing as it sometimes did when a surgical procedure went bad unexpectedly. No, it wasn’t that at all. Cathy remembered a night right here in the East Room, facing off with Elizabeth Elliot. It was the same supercilious mind-set: I’m better than you because of who I am and what I do. SURGEON—that was her Secret Service code name, which had not displeased her at all, really—looked more deeply into the dark eyes before hers. There was even more to it than that. Cathy let go of her hand as the next big shot came through the mill.