Tom Clancy's Jack Ryan Books 7-12 (137 page)

“I want to tell you the story of an American citizen, the son of a police officer, a former Marine officer crippled in a training accident, a teacher of history, a member of America’s financial community, a husband and father, a patriot and public servant, and a genuine American hero,” the President said on the TV. Ryan cringed to hear it all, especially when followed by applause. The cameras panned over Secretary of the Treasury Fiedler, who had leaked Jack’s role in the Wall Street recovery to a group of financial reporters. Even Brett Hanson was clapping, and rather graciously.

“It’s always embarrassing, Jack,” Trent said with a laugh.

“Many of you know him, many of you have worked with him. I have spoken today with the members of the Senate.” Durling motioned to the Majority and Minority leaders, both of whom smiled and nodded for the C-SPAN cameras. “And with your approval, I wish now to submit the name of John Patrick Ryan to fill the post of Vice President of the United States. I further request the members of the Senate to approve this nomination tonight by voice vote.”

“That’s pretty irregular,” a commentator observed while the two senators stood to walk down to the well.

“President Durling has done his homework well on this,” the political expert replied. “Jack Ryan is about as noncontroversial as people can be in this town, and the bipartisan—”

“Mr. President, Mr. Speaker, members of the Senate, and our friends and colleagues of the House,” the Majority Leader began. “It is with great satisfaction that the Minority Leader and I ...”

“Are we sure this is legal?” Jack wondered aloud.

“The Constitution says that the Senate has to approve you. It doesn’t say how,” Sam Fellows said.

“Baltimore Approach, this is Six-Five-Niner. I have a problem here.”

“Six-Five-Niner Heavy, what is the problem, sir?” the tower controller asked. He could already see part of it on his scope. The inbound 747 hadn’t turned to his most recent command as sharply as he had ordered a minute earlier. The controller wiped his hands together and wondered if they’d be able to get this one down.

“My controls are not responding well ... not sure I can ... Baltimore, I see runway lights at my one o’clock ... I don’t know this area well ... busy here ... losing power ...”

The controller checked the direction vector on his scope, extending it to—

“Six-Five-Niner Heavy, that is Andrews Air Force Base. They have two nice runways. Can you make the turn for Andrews?”

“Six-Five-Niner, I think so, I think so.”

“Stand by.” The controller had a hot line to the Air Force base. “Andrews, do you—”

“We’ve been following it,” the senior officer in that tower said. “Washington Center clued us in. Do you need help?”

“Can you take him?”

“Affirmative.”

“Six-Five-Niner Heavy, Baltimore. I am going to hand you off to Andrews Approach. Recommend turn right three-five-zero ... can you do that, sir?” the controller asked.

“I think I can, I think I can. The fire’s out, I think, but hydraulics are bottoming out on me, I think the engine must have ...”

“KLM-Six-Five-Niner Heavy, this is Andrews Approach Control. Radar Contact. Two-five miles out, heading three-four-zero at four thousand feet descending. Runway Zero-One-Left is clear, and our fire trucks are already moving,” the Air Force captain said. He’d already punched the base panic button, and his trained people were moving out smartly. “Recommend turn right zero-one-zero and continue descent.”

“Six-Five-Niner,” was the only acknowledgment.

The irony of the situation was something Sato would never learn. Though there were numerous fighter aircraft based at Andrews, at Langley Air Force Base, at Patuxent River Naval Air Test Center, and at Oceana NAS, all within a hundred miles of Washington, it had never occurred to anyone to have fighter aircraft aloft over the capital on any other night like this one. His elaborate lies and maneuvers were hardly necessary at all. Sato brought his aircraft around at a painfully slow rate to simulate a crippled jumbo, coached every degree of the way by a very concerned and professional American controller. And that, he thought, was too bad.

“Aye!”

“Opposed?” There was silence after that, followed a moment later by applause. Then the Speaker stood.

“The Doorkeeper of the House will escort the Vice President into the chamber so that he can be properly sworn.”

“That’s your cue. Break a leg,” Trent said, standing and heading for the door. The Secret Service agents fanned out along the corridor, leading the procession to the tunnel connecting this building with the Capitol. Entering it, Ryan looked along the curving structure, painted an awful off-yellow and lined, oddly enough, mostly with pictures done by schoolchildren.

“I don’t see any obvious problem, no smoke or fire.” The tower controller had his binoculars on the incoming aircraft. It was only a mile out now. “No gear, no gear!”

“Six-Five-Niner, your gear is up, say again your gear is up!”

Sato could have replied, but chose not to. It was really all decided now. He advanced his throttles, accelerating his aircraft up from approach speed of one-hundred-sixty knots, holding to his altitude of one thousand feet for the moment. The target was in view now, and all he had to do was turn forty degrees left. On reflection, he lit up his aircraft, displaying the red crane on the rudder fin.

“What the hell is he doing?”

“That’s not KLM! Look!” the junior officer pointed. Directly over the field, the 747 banked left, clearly under precise control, all four engines whining with increased power. Then the two looked at each other, knowing exactly what was going to happen, and knowing that there was literally nothing that could be done. Calling the base commander was just a formality that would not affect events at all. They did that anyway, then alerted the First Helicopter Squadron as well. With that, they ran out of options, and turned to watch the drama whose conclusion they’d already guessed. It would take a little over a minute to conclude.

Sato had been to Washington often and done all the usual tourist things, including visiting the Capitol Building more than once. It was a grotesque piece of architecture, he thought again, as it grew larger and larger, and he adjusted his flight path so that he was now roaring right up Pennsylvania Avenue, crossing the Anacostia River.

The sight was sufficiently stunning that it momentarily paralyzed the Secret Service agent standing atop the House Chamber, but it was only a moment, and ultimately meaningless. The man dropped to his knees and flipped the cover off the large plastic box.

“Get JUMPER moving! Now!”
the man screamed, taking out the Stinger.

“Let’s go!”
an agent shouted into his microphone, loudly enough to hurt the ears of the protective detail inside. A simple phrase, for the Secret Service it meant to get the President away from wherever he was. Instantly, agents as finely trained as any NFL backfield started moving even though they had no idea what the danger was. In the gallery over the chamber, the First Lady’s detail had a shorter distance to go, and though one of the agents tripped on the step, she was able to grab Anne Durling’s arm and start dragging her away.

“What?” Andrea Price was the only one to speak in the tunnel. The rest of the agents around the Ryan family instantly drew their weapons, pistols for the most part, though two of their number pulled out submachine guns. All of them brought their weapons up and scanned the yellow-white corridor for danger, but there was none to be seen.

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

“Clear!”

On the floor of the chamber, six men raced to the podium, also scanning about with drawn weapons in a moment that millions of television viewers would fix in their minds forever. President Durling looked at his chief agent in genuine puzzlement, only to hear a screamed entreaty to move at once.

The Stinger agent atop the building had his weapon shouldered in record time, and the beeping from the missile tracker told him that he had acquisition. Not a second later he loosed his shot, knowing even then that it didn’t matter a damn.

Ding Chavez was sitting on the couch, holding Patsy’s hand—the one with the ring now on it—until he saw the people with guns. The soldier he would always be leaned into the TV to look for danger, but seeing none, he knew that it was there even so.

The streak of light startled Sato, and he flinched somewhat from surprise rather than fear, then saw the missile heading for his left-inboard engine. The explosion was surprisingly loud, and alarms told him that the engine was totally destroyed, but he was a mere thousand meters away from the white building. The aircraft dipped and yawed slightly to the left. Sato compensated for it without a thought, adjusting trim and nosing down for the south side of the American house of government. They would all be there. The President, the parliamentarians, all of them. He selected his point of impact just as finely as any routine landing, and his last thought was that if they could kill his family and disgrace his country, then they would pay a very special price for that. His last voluntary act was to select the point of impact, two thirds of the way up the stone steps. That would be just about perfect, he knew ...

Nearly three hundred tons of aircraft and fuel struck the east face of the building at a speed of three hundred knots. The aircraft disintegrated on impact. No less fragile than a bird, its speed and mass had already fragmented the columns outside the walls. Next came the building itself. As soon as the wings broke up, the engines, the only really solid objects on the aircraft, shot forward, one of them actually smashing into and beyond the House Chamber. The Capitol has no structural steel within its stone walls, having been built in an age when stone piled on stone was deemed the most long-lasting form of construction. The entire east face of the building’s southern half was smashed to gravel, which shot westward—but the real damage took a second or two more, barely time for the roof to start falling down on the nine hundred people in the chamber: one hundred tons of jet fuel erupted from shredded fuel tanks, vaporizing from the passage through the stone blocks. A second later it ignited from some spark or other, and an immense fireball engulfed everything inside and outside of the building. The volcanic flames reached out, seeking air and corridors that held it, forcing a pressure wave throughout the building, even into the basement.

The initial impact was enough to drop them all to their knees, and now the Secret Service agents were on the edge of real panic. Ryan’s first instinctive move was to grab his youngest daughter, then to push the rest of the family to the floor and cover them with his body. He was barely down when something made him look back, north up the tunnel. The noise came from there, and a second later there was an advancing orange wall of flame. There was not even time to speak. He pushed his wife’s head down, and then two more bodies fell on top to cover them. There wasn’t time for anything else but to look back at the advancing flames—

—over their heads, the fireball had already exhausted the supply of oxygen. The mushrooming cloud leaped upwards, creating its own ministorm and sucking air and gas out of the building whose occupants it had already killed—

—it stopped, not a hundred feet away, then pulled away as rapidly as it had advanced, and there was an instant hurricane in the tunnel, going the other way. A door was wrenched off its hinges, sliding toward them but missing. His little Katie screamed with terror and pain at all the weight on her. Cathy’s eyes were wide, looking at her husband.

“Let’s go!”
Andrea Price screamed before anyone else, and with that, the agents lifted every member of the family, carrying-dragging them back to the Longworth Building, leaving the two House members to catch up on their own. That required less than a minute, and then Special Agent Price was the first again:

“Mr. President, are you okay?”

“What the hell ...” Ryan looked around, moving to his kids. Their clothing was disheveled but they seemed otherwise intact. “Cathy?”

“I’m okay, Jack.” She checked the children next, as she had once done for him in London. “They’re okay, Jack. You?” There was a thundering crash that made the ground shake, and again Katie Ryan screamed.

“Price to Walker,” the female agent said into her microphone. “Price to Walker—anybody, check in now!”

“Price, this is LONG RIFLE THREE, it’s all gone, man, the dome just went down, too. Is SWORDSMAN okay?”

“What the hell was that?” Sam Fellows gasped from his knees. Price didn’t have time even to hear the question.

“Affirmative, affirmative, SWORDSMAN, SURGEON, and—shit, we don’t have names for them yet. The kids are—everybody’s okay here.” Even she knew that was an exaggeration. Air was still racing past them into the tunnel to feed the flames in the Capitol building.

The agents were recovering their composure somewhat now. Their guns were still out, and had so much as a janitor appeared in the corridor right then, his life might have been forfeit, but one by one they breathed deeply and relaxed just a little, at the same time trying to focus in on what they had been trained to do.

“This way!” Price said, leading with her pistol in both hands. “RIFLE THREE, get a car to the southeast corner of Longworth—and do it now!”

“Roger.”

“Billy, Frank, take point!” Price commanded next. Jack hadn’t thought she was the senior agent on the detail, but the two male agents weren’t arguing. They sprinted ahead to the end of the corridor. Trent and Fellows just watched, waving the others on their way.