Jack Ryan 8 - Debt of Honor (122 page)

“Thank you.” He look it. “Yes?”

“John. Mary Pat. Your mission is over. Come on home.”

“Maintain cover?”

“Affirmative, good job, John. Tell Ding the same thing.” The line went dead. The DDO had already violated security in a major way, but the call had taken only few seconds, and using the civilian line made it even more official than the covert sort could.

“What gives?” Portagee asked,

“We've just been ordered home.”

“No shit?” Ding asked Clark handed the phone over.

“Call the airport. Tell them that we're accredited newsies and we might just get a priority.” Clark turned “Portagee, could you do me a favor and forget you ever saw me?”

The signal was welcome though surprising. Tennessee immediately turned due east and increased speed to fifteen knots for the moment, staying deep. In the wardroom, the gathered officers were still joshing their Army guest, as was also happening with the enlisted men.

“We need a broom,” the engineering officer said after some deep thought.

“Do we have one aboard?” Lieutenant Shaw asked.

“Every submarine is issued a broom, Mr. Shaw. You've been around long enough to know that,” Commander Claggett observed with a wink.

“What are you guys talking about?” the Army officer asked. Were they jerking him around again?

“We took two shots and both were kills,” the engineer explained. “That's a clean sweep, and that means when we enter Pearl, we have a broom tied to the number-one periscope. Tradition.”

“You squids do the weirdest things,” the lone man in green fatigues observed.

“Do we claim the helos?” Shaw asked his CO.

“We shot them down,” the ground-pounder objected.

“But they flew off our deck!” the Lieutenant pointed out.

“Jesus!” All this over breakfast. What would the squids do for lunch?

The dinner was informal, up on the bedroom level of the White House, with what passed for a light buffet, albeit one cooked by a staff good enough to upgrade the rating of any restaurant in America.

“I understand congratulations are in order,” Roger Durling said.

“Huh?” The National Security Advisor hadn't heard yet.

“Jack, I, uh, got the Lasker,” Cathy said from her seat across the table.

“Well, that's two in your family who're the best around,” Al Trent observed, saluting with his wineglass.

“And this one's for you. Jack,” the President said, lifting his glass. “After all the grief I've gotten on foreign affairs, you've saved me, and you've saved a lot of other things. Well done, Mister Dr. Ryan.”

Jack nodded at the toast, but this time he knew. He'd been around Washington long enough, finally, to hear the falling sandbag. The trouble was that he didn't know exactly why it was falling toward his head.

“Mr. President, the satisfaction comes from—well, from service, I guess. Thanks for trusting me. and thanks for putting up with me when I—”

“Jack, people like you, well, where would our country be?” Durling turned.

“Cathy, do you know everything Jack has done over the years?”

“Jack? Tell me secrets?” She had a good laugh at that.

“Al?”

“Well, Cathy, it's time you learned,” Trent observed, much to Jack's discomfort.

“There is one thing I've always wondered about,” she said at once. “I mean, you two are so friendly, but the first time you two met several years ago, I—”

“The dinner, the one before Jack flew off to Moscow?” Trent took a sip of the California chardonnay. “That was when he set up the defection of the head of the old KGB.”

“What?'”

“Tell the story, Al, we have lots of nine,” Durling urged. His wife, Anne, leaned in to hear this one, too. Trent ended up speaking for twenty minutes, telling more than one old tale in the process despite the look on Jack's face.

“That's the sort of husband you have, Dr. Ryan,” the President said when the stories were ended.

Jack looked over at Trent now, a rather intense stare. What was at the end of this?

“Jack, your country needs you for one last thing, and then we'll let you go,” the Congressman said.

“What's that?” Please, not an ambassadorship, he thought, the usual kiss-off for a senior official.

Durling set his glass down. “Jack, my main job for the next nine months is to get reelected. It might be a tough campaign, and it's going to absorb a lot of my time under the best of circumstances. I need you on the team.”

“Sir, I already am—”

“I want you to be my Vice President,” Durling said calmly. The room got very quiet then. “The post is vacant as of today, as you know. I'm not sure yet who I want for my second term, and I am not suggesting that you fill the post for more than—what? Not even eleven months. Like Rockefeller did for Gerry Ford. I want somebody whom the public respects, somebody who can run the shop for me when I'm away. I need somebody heavy in foreign affairs. I need somebody who can help me put my foreign-policy team together. And,” he added, “I know you want out. You've done enough. And so, after this, you can't be called back for a permanent post.”

“Wait a minute. I'm not even in your party,” Jack managed to say.

“As the Constitution was originally drafted, the Vice President was supposed to be the loser in the general election. James Madison and the others assumed that patriotism would triumph over partisanship. Well, they were wrong,” Durling allowed. “But in this case—Jack, I know you. I will not use you in a political sense. No speeches and baby-kissing.”

“Never pick up a baby to kiss it,” Trent said. “They always puke on you, and somebody always gets a picture. Always kiss the baby in the mom's arms.” The good political advice was sufficient to lighten the atmosphere a little.

“Your job will be to get the White House organized, to manage national-security affairs, really to help me strengthen my foreign-policy team. And then I'll let you go and nobody will ever call you back. You'll be a free man, Jack,” Durling promised. “Once and for all.”

“My God,” Cathy said.

“It's what you wanted, too, isn't it?”

Caroline nodded. “Yes, it is. But—but, I don't know anything about politics. I—”

“Lucky you,” Anne Durling observed. “You won't have to get stuck with it.”

“I have my work and—”

“And you'll still do it. A nice house comes along with the job,” the President went on. “And it's temporary.” He turned his head. “Well, Jack?”

“What makes you think that I can be confirmed—”

“Leave that to us,” Trent said in a way that announced quite clearly that it had already been settled.

“You won't ask me to—”

“My word on it,” the President promised. “Your obligation ends next January.”

“What about—I mean, that makes me President of the Senate, and in the event of a close vote—”

“I suppose I ought to say that I'll tell you how I want you to vote, and I will, and I hope you'll listen, but I know you'll vote your conscience. I can live with that. As a matter of fact, if you were any other way, I wouldn't be making this offer.”

“Besides, nothing on the schedule will be that close,” Trent assured him. They'd talked that one over, too, the night before.

“I think we should pay more attention to the military,” Jack said.

“If you make your recommendations, I'll incorporate them in the budget. You've taught me a lesson on that, and I may need you to help me hammer it through Congress. Maybe that will be your valedictory.”

“They'll listen to you. Jack,” Trent assured him.

Jesus, Ryan thought, wishing that he'd gone easier on the wine. Predictably he looked over to his wife. Their eyes met, and she nodded. You sure? his eyes asked. She nodded again.

“Mr. President, under the terms of your offer, and just to the end of your term, yes, I will do it.”

Roger Durling motioned to a Secret Service agent, letting her know that Tish Brown could make the press release in time for the morning papers.

Oreza allowed himself to board his boat for the first time since Burroughs had landed his albacore. They left the pier at dawn, and by nightfall the engineer was able to conclude his fishing vacation with another sizable game fish before catching a Continental flight to Honolulu. His return to work would include more than a fish story, but he wouldn't mention the gear that the boat's skipper had dumped over the side as soon as they were out of sight of land. It was a shame to dump the cameras and the expensive lights, but he supposed there was some reason for it.

•     •     •

Clark and Chavez, still covered as Russians, managed to bully their way onto it JAL flight to Narita. On the way aboard they saw a well-dressed man in handcuffs with a military escort, and from twenty feet away, as they moved the man into the first-class cabin, Ding Chavez looked into the eyes of the man who had ordered the death of Kimberly Norton. He briefly wished for his light or a gun, or maybe even a knife, but that was not in the cards. The flight to Japan took just over two boring hours, and both men walked their carry-ons across the international terminal. They had first-class reservations on another JAL flight to Vancouver, and from there they would fly to Washington on an American carrier.

“Good evening,” the Captain said first in Japanese, then in English.

“This is Captain Sato. We expect this to be a smooth flight, and the winds are good for us. With luck we should be in Vancouver at about seven in the morning, local time.” The voice sounded even more mechanical than the cheap ceiling speakers, but pilots liked talking like robots.

“Thank God,” Chavez observed quietly in English. He did the mental arithmetic and decided that they'd be in Virginia around nine or ten in the evening.

“About right,” Clark thought.

“I want to marry your daughter, Mr. C. I'm going to pop the question when I get back.” There, he'd finally said it. The look his offhand remark generated made him cringe.

“Someday you'll know what words like that do to a man, Ding.” My little baby? he thought, as vulnerable to the moment as any man, perhaps more so.

“Don't want a greaser in the family?”

“No, not that at all. It's more—oh, what the hell, Ding. Easier to spell Chavez than Wojohowitz. If it's okay with her, then I suppose it's okay with me.”

That easy? “I expected you to bite my head off.”

Clark allowed himself a chuckle. “No, I prefer guns for that sort of thing. I thought you knew that.”

“The President could not have made a better selection,” Sam Fellows said on “Good Morning, America.” “I've known Jack Ryan for nearly eight years. He's one of the brightest people in government service. I can tell you now that he is one of the men most responsible for the rapid conclusion of hostilities with Japan, and was also instrumental in the recovery of the financial markets.”

“There have been reports that his work at CIA—”

“You know that I am not free to reveal classified information.” Those leaks would be handled by others, and the proper senators on both sides of the aisle were being briefed in this morning as well. “I can say that Dr. Ryan has served our country with the utmost personal honor. I cannot think of another intelligence official who has earned the trust and respect that Jack Ryan has.”

“But ten years ago—the incident with the terrorists. Have we ever had a Vice President who actually—”

“Killed people?” Fellows shook his head at the reporter. “A lot of Presidents and Vice Presidents have been soldiers. Jack defended his family against a vicious and direct attack, like any American would. I can tell you that out where I live in Arizona, nobody would fault the man for that.”

“Thanks, Sam,” Ryan said, watching his office TV. The first wave of reporters was scheduled to assault him in thirty minutes, and he had to read over briefing materials, plus a sheet of instructions from Tish Brown. Don't speak too fast. Don't give a direct answer to any substantive political question.

“I'm just glad to be here,” Ryan said to himself. “I just play them one game at a time. Isn't that what they tell rookie ballplayers to say?” he wondered aloud.

The 747 touched down even earlier than the pilot had promised, which was fine but wouldn't help on the connecting flight. The good news for the moment was that the first-class passengers got off first, and better still, a U.S. consular official met Clark and Chavez at the gate, whisking them through customs. Both men had slept on the flight, but their bodies were still out of synch with the

local time. An aging Delta L-1011 lifted off two hours later, bound for Dulles International.

Captain Sato remained in his command seat. One problem with international air travel was the sameness of it all. This terminal could have been almost anywhere, except that all of the faces were gaijin. There would be a day-long layover before he flew back, doubtless full again of Japanese executives running away.

And this was the remainder of his life, ferrying people he didn't know to places he didn't care about. If only he'd stayed in the Self-Defense Forces maybe he would have done better, maybe it would have made a difference. He was the best pilot in one of the world's best airlines, and those skills might have… but he'd never know, would he, and he'd never make a difference, just one more captain of one more aircraft, flying people to and from a nation that had forfeited its honor. Well. He climbed out of his scat, collected his flight charts and other necessary papers, tucked them in his carry-bag and headed out of the aircraft. The gate was empty now, and he was able to walk down the bustling but anonymous terminal. He saw a copy of USA Today at a shop and picked it up, scanning the front page, seeing the pictures there. Tonight at nine o'clock? It all came together at that moment, really just an equation of speed and distance.

Sato looked around once more, then headed off to the airport administrative office. He needed a weather map. He already knew the timing.

“One thing I'd like to fix,” Jack said, more at ease than ever in the Oval Office.