“Here, sir.” A sailor handed him a phone receiver. “The line’s open, sir.”
“Robby?”
“Jack?”
“You’re still Vice President,” SWORDSMAN told TOMCAT.
“For now, I suppose. Christ, Jack, what the hell were you trying to do?”
“I’m not sure. It seemed like the right idea at the time.” Jack was seated now, both holding the phone in his hand and cradling it between cheek and shoulder, lest he drop it on the deck. “Is there anything else coming in?”
“NORAD says the sky is clear-only one bird got off. Targeted on us. Shit, the Russians still have dedicated ABM batteries all around Moscow.
“Yeah, it was that way here, too. Now what?” the President asked.
“You mean with China? Part of me says, load up the B-2 bombers on Guam with the B-61 gravity bombs and send them to Beijing, but I suppose that’s a little bit of an overreaction.”
“I think some kind of public statement-not sure what kind yet. What are you gonna be doing?”
“I asked. The drill is for us to stay up for four hours before we come back to Andrews. Same for Cathy and the kids. You might want to call them, too.”
“Roger. Okay, Robby, sit tight. See you in a few hours. I think I’m going to have a stiff one or two.”
“I hear that, buddy.”
“Okay, POTUS out.” Ryan handed the phone back. “Captain?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Your entire ship’s crew is invited to the White House, right now, for some drinks on the house. I think we all need it.”
“Sir, I will not disagree with that.”
“And those who stay aboard, if they feel the need to bend an elbow, as Commander in Chief, I waive Navy Regulations on that subject for twenty-four hours.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Chief?” Jack said next.
“Here, sir.” He handed his pack and lighter over. “I got more in my locker, sir.”
Just then two men in civilian clothes entered CIC. It was Hilton and Malone from the night crew.
“How’d you guys get here so fast?” Ryan asked.
“Andrea called us, sir-did what we think happened just happen?”
“Yep, and your President needs a bottle and a soft chair, gentlemen.”
“We have a car on the pier, sir. You want to come with us?”
“Okay-Captain, you get buses or something, and come to the White House right away. If it means locking the ship up and leaving her without anyone aboard, that’s just fine with me. Call the Marine Barracks at Eighth and I for security if you need to.”
“Aye, aye, Mr. President. We’ll be along shortly.”
The car Hilton and Malone had brought down was one of the black armored Chevy Suburbans that followed the President everywhere he went. This one just drove back to the White House. The streets were suddenly filled with people simply standing and looking up-it struck Ryan as odd. The thing was no longer in the sky, and whatever pieces were on the ground were too dangerous to touch. In any case, the drive back to the White House was uneventful, and Ryan ended up in the Situation Room, strangely alone. The uniformed people from the White House Military Office-called Wham-O by the staff, which seemed particularly inappropriate at the moment-were all in a state somewhere between bemused and stunned. And the immediate consequence of the great effort to whisk senior government officials out of town-the scheme was officially called the Continuation of Government-had had the reverse effect. The government was at the moment still fragmented in twenty or so helicopters and one E-4B, and quite unable to coordinate itself. Ryan figured that the emergency was better designed to withstand a nuclear attack than to avoid one, and that, at the moment, seemed very strange.
Indeed, the big question for the moment was
“This is President Ryan.”
“Sir, this is General Dan Liggett at Strike Command in Omaha. Mr. President, I gather we just dodged a major bullet.”
“Yeah, I think you can say that, General.”
“Sir, do you have any orders for us?”
“Like what?”
“Well, sir, one option would be retaliation, and-”
“Oh, you mean because they blew a chance to nuke us, we should take the opportunity to nuke them for real?”
“Sir, it’s my job to present options, not to advocate any,” Liggett told his Commander-in-Chief.
“General, do you know where I was during the attack?”
“Yes, sir. Gutsy call, Mr. President.”
“Well, I am now trying to deal with my own restored life, and I don’t have a clue what I ought to do about the big picture, whatever the hell that is. In another two hours or so, maybe we can think of something, but at the moment I have no idea at all. And you know, I’m not sure I want to have any such idea. So, for the moment, General, we do nothing at all. Are we clear on that?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Nothing at all happens with Strike Command.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
“Jack?” a familiar voice called from the door.
“Arnie, I hate drinking alone-except when there’s nobody else around. How about you and me drain a bottle of something? Tell the usher to bring down a bottle of Midleton, and, you know, have him bring a glass for himself.”
“Is it true you rode it out on the ship down at the Navy Yard?”
“Yep.” Ryan bobbed his head.
“Why?”
“I couldn’t run away, Arnie. I couldn’t run off to safety and leave a couple of million people to fry. Call it brave. Call it stupid. I just couldn’t bug out that way.”
Van Damm leaned into the corridor and made the drink order to someone Jack couldn’t see, and then he came back in. “I was just starting dinner at my place in Georgetown when CNN ran the flash. Figured I might as well come here-didn’t really believe it like I should have, I suppose.”
“It was somewhat difficult to swallow. I suppose I ought to ask myself if it was our fault, sending the special-operations people in. Why is it that people second-guess everything we do here?”
“Jack, the world is full of people who can only feel big by making other people look small, and the bigger the target, the better they feel about it. And reporters love to get their opinions, because it makes a good story to say you’re wrong about anything. The media prefers a good story to a good truth most of the time. It’s just the nature of the business they’re in.”
“That’s not fair, you know,” Ryan observed, when the head usher arrived with a silver tray, a bottle of Irish whiskey, and some glasses with ice already in them. “Charlie, you pour yourself one, too,” the President told him.
“Mr. President, I’m not supposed-”
“Today the rules changed, Mr. Pemberton. If you get too swacked to drive home, I’ll have the Secret Service take you. Have I ever told you what a good guy you are, Charlie? My kids just plain love you.”
Charles Pemberton, son and grandson of ushers at the White House, poured three drinks, just a light one for himself, and handed the glasses over with the grace of a neurosurgeon.
“Sit down and relax, Charlie. I have a question for you.”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
