Jack Ryan 11 - Bear And The Dragon (147 page)

Captain Blandy was in his in-port cabin when the growler phone went off. “Captain speaking...go to general quarters, Mr. Gibson,” he ordered, far more calmly than he felt.

Throughout the ship, the electronic gonging started, followed by a human voice: “General Quarters -- General Quarters -- all hands man your battle stations.”

Gregory was in CIC, running another simulation. “What's that mean?”

Senior Chief Leek shook his head. “Sir, that means something ain't no simulation no more.” Battle stations alongside the fucking pier? “Okay, people, let's start lighting it all up!” he ordered his sailors.

The regular presidential helicopter muttered down on the South Lawn, and the Secret Service agent at the door turned and yelled: “COME ON!”

Cathy turned. “Jack, you coming with us?”

“No, Cath, I have to go to Kneecap. Now, get along. I'll see you later tonight, okay?” He gave her a kiss, and all the kids got a hug, except for Kyle, whom the President took from Kelley's arms for a quick hold before giving him back. “Take care of him,” he told the agent.

“Yes, sir. Good luck.” Ryan watched his family run up the steps into the chopper, and the Sikorsky lurched off before they could have had a chance to sit and strap down.

Then another Marine helicopter appeared, this one with Colonel Dan Malloy at the controls. This one was a VH-60, whose doors slid open. Ryan walked quickly to it, with Andrea Price-O'Day at his side. They sat and strapped down before it lumbered back into the air.

“What about everybody else?” Ryan asked.

“There's a shelter under the East Wing for some...” she said. Then her voice trailed off and she shrugged.

“Oh, shit, what about everybody else?” Ryan demanded.

“Sir, I have to look after you.”

“But -- what -- ”

Then Special Agent Price-O'Day started retching. Ryan saw and pulled out a barf bag, one with a very nice Presidential logo printed on it, and handed it to her. They were over the Mall now, just passing the George Washington Monument. Off to the right was southwest Washington, filled with the working- and middle-class homes of regular people who drove cabs or cleaned up offices, tens of thousands of them...there were people visible in the Mall, on the grass, just enjoying a walk in the falling darkness, just being people...

And you just left behind a hundred or so. Maybe twenty will fit in the shelter under the East Wing...what about the rest, the ones who make your bed and fold your socks and shine your shoes and serve dinner and pick up after the kids -- what about them, Jack? A small voice asked. Who flies them off to safety?

He turned his head to see the Washington Monument, and beyond that the reflecting pool and the Lincoln Memorial. He was in the same line as those men, in the city named for one, and saved in time of war by another...and he was running away from danger...the Capital Building, home of the Congress. The light was on atop the dome. Congress was in session, doing the country's work, or trying to, as they did...but he was running away...eastern Washington, mainly black, working-class people who did the menial jobs for the most part, and had hopes to send their kids to college so that they could make out a little better than their parents had...eating their dinner, watching TV, maybe going out to a movie tonight or just sitting on their porches and shooting the bull with their neighbors --

-- Ryan's head turned again, and he saw the two gray shapes at the Navy Yard, one familiar, one not, because Tony Bretano had --

Ryan flipped the belt buckle in his lap and lurched forward, knocking into the Marine sergeant in the jump seat. Colonel Malloy was in the right-front seat, doing his job, flying the chopper. Ryan grabbed his left shoulder. The head came around.

“Yes, sir, what is it?”

“See that cruiser down there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Land on it.”

“Sir, I -- ”

“Land on it, that's an order!” Ryan shouted at him.

“Aye aye,” Malloy said like a good Marine.

The Blackhawk turned, arcing down the Anacostia River, and flaring as Malloy judged the wind. The Marine hesitated, looking back one more time. Ryan insistently jerked his hand at the ship.

The Blackhawk approached cautiously.

“What are you doing?” Andrea demanded.

“I'm getting off here. You're going to KNEECAP.”

“NO!” she shouted back. “I stay with you!”

“Not this time. Have your baby. If this doesn't work out, I hope the kid turns out like you and Pat.” Ryan moved to open the door. The Marine sergeant got there first. Andrea moved to follow.

“Keep her aboard, Marine!” Ryan told the crew chief. “She goes with you!”

“NO!” Price-O'Day screamed.

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant acknowledged, wrapping his arms around her.

President Ryan jumped to the nonskid decking of the cruiser's landing area and ducked as the chopper pulled back into the sky. Andrea's face was the last thing he saw. The rotor wash nearly knocked him down, but going to one knee prevented that. Then he stood up and looked around.

“What the hell is -- Jesus, sir!” the young petty officer blurted, recognizing him.

“Where's the captain?”

“Captains in CIC, sir.”

“Show me!”

The petty officer led him into a door, then a passageway that led forward. A few twists and turns later, he was in a darkened room that seemed to be set sideways in the body of the ship. It was cool in here. Ryan just walked in, figuring he was President of the United States, Commander-in-chief of the Army and Navy, and the ship belonged to him anyway. It took a stretch to make his limbs feel as though they were a real part of his body, and then he looked around, trying to orient himself. First he turned to the sailor who'd brought him here.

“Thanks, son. You can go back to your place now.”

“Aye, sir.” He turned away as though from a dream/nightmare and resumed his duties as a sailor.

Okay, Jack thought, now what? He could see the big radar displays set fore and aft, and the people sitting sideways to look at it. He headed that way, bumping into a cheap aluminum chair on the way, and looked down to see what looked like a Navy chief petty officer in a khaki shirt whose pocket -- well, damn -- Ryan exercised his command prerogative and reached down to steal the sailor's cigarette pack. He lifted one out, and lit it with a butane lighter. Then he walked to look at the radar display.

“Jesus, sir,” the chief said belatedly.

“Not quite. Thanks for the smoke.” Two more steps and he was behind a guy with silver EAGLEs on his collar. That would be the captain of USS Gettysburg. Ryan took a long and comforting drag on the smoke.

“God damn it! There's no smoking in my CIC!” the captain snarled.

“Good evening, Captain,” Ryan replied. “I think at this moment we have a ballistic warhead inbound on Washington, presumably with a thermonuclear device inside. Can we set aside your concerns about secondhand smoke for a moment?”

Captain Blandy turned around and looked up. His mouth opened as wide as a U.S. Navy ashtray. “How -- who -- what?”

“Captain, let's ride this one out together, shall we?”

“Captain Blandy, sir,” the man said, snapping to his feet.

“Jack Ryan, Captain.” Ryan shook his hand and bade him sit back down. “What's happening now?”

“Sir, the NMCC tells us that there's a ballistic inbound for the East Coast. I've got the ship at battle stations. Radar's up. Chip inserted?” he asked.

“The chip is in, sir,” Senior Chief Leek confirmed.

“Chip?”

“Just our term for it. It's really a software thing,” Blandy explained.

Cathy and the kids were pulled up the steps and hustled into the forward cabin. The colonel at the controls was in an understandable hurry. With Three and Four already turning, he started engines One and Two, and the VC-25 started rolling the instant the truck with the steps pulled away, making one right-angle turn, and then lumbering down Runway One-Nine Right into the southerly wind. Immediately below him, Secret Service and Air Force personnel got the First Family strapped in, and for the first time in fifteen minutes, the Secret Service people allowed themselves to breathe normally. Not thirty seconds later, Vice President Jackson's helicopter landed next to the E-4B National Emergency Airborne Command Post, whose pilot was as anxious to get off the ground as the driver of the VC-25. That was accomplished in less than ninety seconds. Jackson had never strapped in, and stood to look around. “Where's Jack?” the Vice President asked. Then he saw Andrea, who looked as though she just miscarried her pregnancy.

“He stayed, sir. He had the pilot drop him on the cruiser in the Navy Yard.”

“He did what?”

“You heard me, sir.”

“Get him on the radio -- right now!” Jackson ordered.

Ryan was actually feeling somewhat relaxed. No more rushing about, here he was, surrounded by people calmly and quietly going about their jobs-outwardly so, anyway. The captain looked a little tense, but captains were supposed to, Ryan figured, being responsible in this case for a billion dollars' worth of warship and computers.

“Okay, how are we doing?”

“Sir, the inbound, if it's aimed at us, is not on the scope yet.”

“Can you shoot it down?”

“That's the idea, Mr. President,” Blandy replied. “Is Dr. Gregory around?”

“Here, Captain,” a voice answered. A shape came closer. “Jesus!”

“That's not my name -- I know you!” Ryan said in considerable surprise “Major -- Major...”

“Gregory, sir. I ended up a half a colonel before I pulled the plug. SDIO. Secretary Bretano had me look into upgrading the missiles for the Aegis system,” the physicist explained. “I guess we're going to see if it works or not.”

“What do you think?” Ryan asked.

“It worked fine on the simulations” was the best answer available.

“Radar contact. We got us a bogie,” a petty officer said. “Bearing three-four-niner, range nine hundred miles, speed -- that's the one, sir. Speed is one thousand four hundred knots -- I mean fourteen thousand knots, sir.” Damn, he didn't have to add.

“Four and a half minutes out,” Gregory said.

“Do the math in your head?” Ryan asked.

“Sir, I've been in the business since I got out of West Point.”

Ryan finished his cigarette and looked around for --

“Here, sir.” It was the friendly chief with an ashtray that had magically appeared in CIC. “Want another one?”

“Why not?” the President reasoned. He took a second one, and the senior chief lit it up for him. “Thanks.”

“Gee, Captain Blandy, maybe you're declaring a blanket amnesty?”

“If he isn't, I am,” Ryan said.

“Smoking lamp is lit, people,” Senior Chief Leek announced, an odd satisfaction in his voice.

The captain looked around in annoyance, but dismissed it.

“Four minutes, it might not matter a whole lot,” Ryan observed as coolly as the cigarette allowed. Health hazard or not, they had their uses.

“Captain, I have a radio call for the President, sir.”

“Where do I take it?” Jack asked.

“Right here, sir,” yet another chief said, lifting a phone-type receiver and pushing a button.

“Ryan.”

“Jack, it's Robby.”

“My family get off okay?”

“Yeah, Jack, they're fine. Hey, what the hell are you doing down there?”

“Riding it out. Robby, I can't run away, pal. I just can't.”

“Jack if this thing goes off -- ”

“Then you get promoted,” Ryan cut him off.

“You know what I'll have to do?” the Vice President demanded.

“Yeah, Robby, you'll have to play catch-up. God help you if you do.” But it won't be my problem, Ryan thought. There was some consolation in that. Killing some guy with a gun was one thing. Killing a million with a nuke...no, he just couldn't do that without eating a gun afterward. You're just too Catholic, Jack, my boy.

“Jesus, Jack,” his old friend said over the digital, encrypted radio link. Clearly thinking about what horrors he'd have to commit, son of a preacher-man or not...

“Robby, you're the best friend any man could hope to have. If this doesn't work out, look after Cathy and the kids for me, will ya?”

“You know it.”

“We'll know in about three minutes, Rob. Get back to me then, okay?”

“Roger,” the former TOMCAT driver replied. “Out.”

“Dr. Gregory, what can you tell me?”

“Sir, the inbound is probably their equivalent of one of our old W-51s. Five megatons, thereabouts. It'll do Washington, and everything within ten miles -- hell, it'll break windows in Baltimore.”

“What about us, here?”

“No chance. Figure it'll be targeted inside a triangle defined by the White House, the Capitol Building, and the Pentagon. The ship's keel might survive, only because it's under water. No people. Oh, maybe some really lucky folks in the D.C. subway. That's pretty far underground. But the fires will suck all the air out of the tunnels, probably.” He shrugged. “This sort of thing's never happened before. You can't say for sure until it does.”

“What chances that it'll be a dud?”

“The Pakistanis have had some failed detonations. We had fizzles once, mainly from helium contamination in the secondary. That's why the terrorist bomb at Denver fizzled-”

“I remember.”

“Okay,” Gregory said. “It's over Buffalo now. Now it's reentering the atmosphere. That'll slow it down a little.”

“Sir, the track is definitely on us, the NMCC says,” a voice said.

“Agreed,” Captain Blandy said.

“Is there a civilian alert?” Ryan asked.

“It's on the radio, sir,” a sailor said. “It's on CNN, too.”

“People will be panicking out there,” Ryan murmured, taking another drag.

Probably not. Most people don't really know what the sirens mean, and the rest won't believe the radio, Gregory thought. “Captain, we're getting close.” The track crossed over the Pennsylvania/New York border --

“System up?” Blandy asked.

“We are fully on line, sir,” the Weapons Officer answered. “We are ready to fire from the forward magazine. Firing order is selected, all Block IVs.”

“Very well.” The captain leaned forward and turned his key in the lock. “System is fully enabled. Special-Auto.” He turned. “Sir, that means the computer will handle it from here.”