kings! the phrase proclaimed—had begun to raise the country, but made the mistake of moving too fast and making too many enemies. In Iran's dark age, as in every other such time, secular power had devolved to the Islamic clergy, and in liberating the nation's peasantry, he'd trod on too many toes, making enemies of people whose power was spiritual and to whom the common folk looked for order in lives made chaotic by change. Even so, the Shah had almost succeeded, but not quite, and not quite was as damning a curse as the world produced for those who would be great.
What did such men think? Just as he himself was old, so the Shah had grown old and sick with cancer, and watched the work of a lifetime evaporate in a matter of weeks, his associates executed in a brief orgy of settled scores, bitter at his betrayal by his American friends. Had he thought that he'd gone too far—or not far enough? Daryaei didn't know, and now he would have liked to know, as he listened for the distant sounds of waterfalls in the still of a Persian night.
To move too fast was a grievous error, which the young learned and the old knew, but not to move enough, fast enough, far enough, strongly enough, that was what really denied goals to those who would be great. How bitter it must be to lie in bed, without the sleep one needed to think clearly, and wonder and curse oneself for chances missed and chances lost.
Perhaps he knew what the Shah had thought, Daryaei admitted to himself. His own country was drifting again. Even insulated as he was, he knew the signs. It showed up as subtle differences in dress, especially the dress of women. Not much, not quite enough for his true believers to persecute them, for even the true believers had softened their devotion, and there were gray areas into which people could venture to see what might happen. Yes, the people still believed in Islam, and yes, they still believed in him, but, really, the Holy Koran wasn't that strict, and their nation was rich, and to grow richer it needed to do business. How could it be a champion of the Faith unless it grew richer, after all? The best and brightest of Iran's young went abroad to be educated, for his country did not possess the schools that the infidel West had—and, for the most part, they came back, educated in skills which his country needed. But they also came back with other things, invisible, doubts and questions, and memories of a freewheeling life in a different society where the pleasures of the flesh were available to the weak, and all men were weak. What if all Khomeini and he had accomplished was to delay what the Shah had started? The people who had come back to Islam in reaction to Pahlavi were now drifting back to the promise of freedom he'd offered them. Didn't they know? Didn't they see? They could have all the trappings of power and all the blessings of what people called civilization and still remain faithful, still have the spiritual anchor—without which all was nothing.
But to have all that, his country needed to be more than it was, and so he could not afford to be not quite. Daryaei had to deliver the things that would show he'd been right all along, that uncompromising faith was the true root of power.
The assassination of the Iraqi leader, the misfortune that had befallen America—these things had to be a sign, didn't they? He'd studied them carefully. Now Iraq and Iran were one, and that had been the quest of decades— and at virtually the same instant, America had been crippled. It wasn't just Badrayn who was telling him things. He had his own America experts who knew the workings of that country's government. He knew Ryan from a single important meeting, had seen his eyes, heard the bold but hollow words, and so he knew the measure of the man who might be his principal adversary. He knew that Ryan had not, and by the laws of his country could not, have a replacement selected for himself, and so there was only this moment, and he had to act in it, or else assume for himself the curse of not quite.
No, he would not be remembered as another Moham-mad Pahlavi. If he did not covet the trappings of power, he lusted for the fact of it. Before his death he would lead all Islam. In a month he would have the oil of the Persian Gulf and the keys to Mecca, secular and spiritual power. From that his influence would expand in all directions. In but a few years his country would be a superpower in every way, and he would leave to his successors a legacy such as the world hadn't seen since Alexander, but with the added security that it was founded in the words of God. To achieve that end, to unite Islam, to fulfill the Will of Allah and the words of the Prophet Mohammed, he would do what was needed, and if that meant moving fast, then he would move fast. Overall, the process was a simple one, three simple steps, the third and most difficult of which was already established and nothing could stop, even if Badrayn's plans all failed completely.
Was he moving too fast? Daryaei asked himself for the last time. No, he was moving decisively, with surprise, with calculation, with boldness. That was what history would say.
'FLYING AT NIGHT is a big deal?' Jack asked.
'Sure is, for them it is,' Robby replied. He liked briefing the President this way, late evening in the Oval Office, with a drink. 'They've always been more parsimonious with equipment than they are with people. Helicopters— French ones in this case, same model the Coast Guard has a bunch of—cost money, and we haven't seen much in the way of night operations. The operation they're running is heavy on ASW. So maybe they're thinking about dealing with all those Dutch subs the Republic of China bought last year. We're also seeing a lot of combined operations with their air force.'
'Conclusion?'
'They're training up for something.' The Pentagon's Director of Operations closed his briefing book. 'Sir, we —'
'Robby,' Ryan said, looking over the new reading glasses Cathy had just gotten him, 'if you don't start calling me 'Jack' when we're alone, I'm going to break you back to ensign by executive order.'
'We're not alone,' Admiral Jackson objected, nodding toward Agent Price.
'Andrea doesn't count—oh, shit, I mean—' Ryan blushed.
'He's right, Admiral, I don't count,' she said, with a barely contained laugh. 'Mr. President, I've been waiting weeks for you to say that.'
Jack looked down at the table and shook his head. 'This is no way for a man to live. Now my best friend calls me 'sir, and I'm being impolite to a lady.'
'Jack, you are my commander-in-chief,' Robby pointed out, with a relaxed grin at his friend's discomfort. 'And I'm just a poor sailor man.'
First things first, the President thought: 'Agent Price?'
'Yes, Mr. President?'
'Pour yourself a drink and sit down.'
'Sir, I'm on duty, and regulations—'
'Then make it a light one, but that's an order from your President. Do it!'
She actually hesitated, but then decided that POTUS was trying to make some sort of point. Price poured a large thimbleful of whiskey into the Old Fashioned glass and added a lot of ice and Evian to it. Then she sat next to the J-3. His wife, Sissy, was upstairs in the House with the Ryan family.
'As a practical matter, people, the President needs to relax, and it's easier for me to do that if I don't make ladies stand up, and my friend can call me by my name once in a while. Are we agreed on that?'
'Aye aye,' Robby said, still smiling but seeing the logic and desperation of the moment. 'Yes, Jack, we are all relaxed now, and we will enjoy it.' He looked over at Price. 'You're here to shoot me if I misbehave, right?'
'Right in the head,' she confirmed.
'I prefer missiles myself. Safer,' he added. 'You did okay with a shotgun one night, or so the Boss has told me. By the way, thanks.'
'Huh?'
'For keeping him alive. We actually like taking care of the Boss, even if he gets too familiar with the hired help.' Jack freshened his drink while they relaxed on the other sofa. Remarkable, he thought. For the first time, there was a genuinely relaxed atmosphere in the office, to the point that two people could joke about him, right in front of him, as though he were a human being instead of POTUS.
'I like this a lot better.' The President looked up. 'Robby, this gal has been around more crap than we have, listened in on all sorts of things. She has a master's degree, she's smart, but I'm supposed to treat her like she's a knuckle-dragger.'
'Well, hell, I'm just a fighter jock with a bad knee.'
'And I still don't know what the hell I'm supposed to be. Andrea?'
'Yes, Mr. President?' Getting her to call him by his name was an impossible goal, Jack knew.
'China, what do you think?'
