the man. He looked at the clock and wondered what would come next.
“Mr. President, this is General Fremont.”
“I'm here, General.”
“Sir, we have re-targeted a Minuteman-III missile in North Dakota for the target specified. I — sir, have you thought this through?”
“General, I am your commander-in-chief. Is the missile readied for launch?”
“Sir, the launch sequence will take about a minute from the time you give the order.”
“The order is given.”
“Sir, it's not that simple. I need an ID check. You've been briefed on the procedure, sir.”
Fowler reached for his wallet and removed a plastic card, much like a credit card. On it were ten different eight-number groups. Only Fowler knew which one he was supposed to read.
“Three-Three-Six-Zero-Four-Two-Zero-Nine.”
“Sir, I confirm your identification code. Next, Mr. President, the order must be confirmed.”
“What?”
“Sir, the two-man rule applies. In the event of an overt attack, I can be the second man, but since that is not the case, someone on my list must confirm the order.”
“I have my Chief of Staff right here.”
“Sir, negative on that, the rule is that to be on the list you must be an elected official or one approved by Congress — the Senate, that is — like a cabinet secretary.”
“I'm on the list,” Jack said.
“Is that Dr. Ryan, DDCI?”
“Correct, General.”
“Deputy Director Ryan, this is CINC-SAC,” Fremont said in a voice that oddly mimicked the robotic one used to issue SAC orders. “Sir, I have received a nuclear-launch order. I need you to confirm that order, but first I also need to verify your identity, sir. Could you please read your identification code?”
Jack reached for his own ID card and read off his code group. Ryan could hear Fremont or one of his people flipping through the pages of a book.
“Sir, I confirm your identification as Dr. John Patrick Ryan, Deputy Director of Central Intelligence.”
Jack looked at Fowler. If he didn't do it, the President would just get someone else. It really was that simple, wasn't it? And was Fowler wrong — was he really wrong?
“It's my responsibility, Jack,” Fowler said, standing at Ryan's side, resting his hand on Jack's shoulder. “You're just confirming it.”
“Dr. Ryan, CINC-SAC here, I repeat, sir, I have a nuclear-launch order from the President, and I require confirmation, sir.”
Ryan looked at his President, then leaned down to the microphone. He struggled for the breath to speak. “CINC-SAC, this is John Patrick Ryan. I am DDCI.” Jack paused, then went on quickly:
“Sir, I do not confirm this order. I repeat, General, this is not a valid launch order. Acknowledge at once!”
“Sir, I copy negative approval of the order.”
That is correct,“ Jack said, his voice growing stronger. ”General, it is my duty to inform you that in my opinion the President is not, I repeat not in command of his faculties. I urge you to consider that if another launch order is attempted.' Jack rested his hands on the desk, took a deep breath, and snapped back erect.
Fowler was slow to react, but when he did, he pressed his face against Jack's. “Ryan, I order you—”
Jack's emotions exploded one last time: “To do what? To kill a hundred thousand people — and why?”
“What they tried to do—”
“What you damned near let them do!” Ryan jabbed a finger into the President's chest. “You're the one who fucked up! You're the one who took us to the edge — and now the real reason you're willing to slaughter a whole city is because you're mad, because your pride is hurt, and you want to get even. You want to show them that nobody can push you around! That's the reason, isn't it? ISN'T IT?” Fowler went white. Ryan lowered his voice. “You need a better reason than that to kill people. I know. I've had to do that. I have killed people. You want this man killed, we can do it, but I'm not going to help you kill a hundred thousand others just to take out the one man you want.”
Ryan stepped back. He dropped his ID card on the desk and walked from the room.
“Jesus!” Chuck Timmons observed. They'd heard the entire exchange over the hot mike. Everyone in SAC headquarters had.
“Yeah,” Fremont said. Thank Him. But first deactivate that missile!' The Commander-in-Chief Strategic Air Command had to think for a moment. He couldn't remember if Congress was in session or not, but that was beside the point. He ordered his communications officer to place a call to the chairmen and ranking minority members of the Senate and House armed-services committees. When all four were on line, they'd stage a conference call with the Vice President, who was still aboard Kneecap.
“Jack?” Ryan turned.
“Yeah, Arnie?”
“Why?”
“That's why they have a two-man rule. There are a hundred thousand people in that city — probably more. I can't recall how big it is.” Jack looked into the cold clear sky. “Not on my conscience. If we needed Daryaei dead, there are other ways.” Ryan blew smoke into the wind. “And that fucker'll be just as dead.”
“I think you were right. I want you to know that.”
Jack turned. “Thank you, sir.” A long pause. “Where's Liz, by the way?”
“Back in the cabin, under sedation. She didn't cut the mustard, did she?”
“Arnie, today nobody did. Mainly we were lucky. You can tell the President that I'm resigning effective — oh, Friday, I guess. Good a day as any. Someone else'll have to decide on the replacement.”
The President's Chief of Staff was quiet for a moment, then brought things back to the main issue. “You know what you've just started here, don't you?”
“Constitutional crisis, Arnie?” Jack flipped the butt into the snow. “Not my first, Arnie, not my first. I need to ride that chopper back to Andrews.”
“I'll take care of it.”
They'd just crossed into U.S. territory when a thought struck John Clark. Qati's bags had those medications. One was Prednizone, and another was Comazine. Prednizone was a steroid… often used to mitigate the adverse effects of — he got up from his seat and looked at Qati. Though still blindfolded, the man was different from the most recent photos he'd seen of the man, thinner, his hair was — the man had cancer, Clark thought. What did that mean? He got on the radio and called that information ahead.
The Gulf stream was a few minutes later getting in. Ryan was awakened on the couch in the VIP lounge on the south side of the Andrews complex. Murray was next to him, still awake. Three FBI vehicles were there. Clark, Chavez, Qati and Ghosn were loaded into them, and the convoy of four-wheel-drives headed into D.C.
“What are we going to do with them?” Murray asked.
“I have an idea, but we need to do something first.”
“What, exactly?”
“You have an interrogation room at the Hoover Building?”
“No, Buzzard's Point, the Washington Field Office,” Murray said. “Did your guy Mirandize them?”
“Yeah, I told him he had to do that, right before he started cutting their balls off.” Ryan turned as he heard a loud noise. Kneecap was landing on the same Runway Zero-One it had left ten or so hours before. They must have shut down the strategic systems quicker than expected, Jack thought.
The Admiral Lunin surfaced amid the flares and smoke floats dropped by the P-3. It was much too far for a rescue aircraft to come out, at least in this weather. The seas hadn't moderated, and the light was bad, but
