alerted, and literally hundreds of people were snatched away from TV sets.
“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 nnminulion l
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 satis-
faction 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. 1 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, 1 think so, I think so.”
“Stand by.” The controller had a hot line to the Air Force base. “An-
drews, do you-”
“We’ve been following it,” the senior officer in that tower said. “Wash-
ington 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 An-
drews Approach. Recommend turn right three-five-zero … can you do that,
sir?” the controller asked.
J
“I llniik I am. 1 think I cun. The tire’s out, I think, hut hydraulics arc
bottoming out on me, I think the engine must have …”
“MM Su Five-Miner Heavy, this is Andrews Approach Control. Radar
(‘outui I I wo live miles out, heading three-four-zero at four thousand feet
descending Runway /cro-One-Left is clear, and our fire trucks are already
moving,” ilic Air Force captain said. He’d already punched the base panic
hullon, and Ins inimcd people were moving out smartly. “Recommend turn
righl /cro one /cro and continue descent.”
“Six-Five-Nincr,” was the only acknowledgment.
The irony of the silinilion was something Sato would never learn. Though
there were numerous lighter aircraft based at Andrews, at Langley Air Force
Base, at Patuxcnl 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,
couched every degree of the way by a very concerned and professional
American controller. And that, he thought, was too bad.
“Aye!”
“Opposed?” ‘I’here was silence after that, followed a moment later by
applause. Then the Speaker stood.
“The Doorkeej>ei of the House will escort the Vice President into the
chamber so thai 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
i)i’. HI or H nix UK 701
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 noth-
ing 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, in-
cluding 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 Ser-
vice 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 drag-
ging 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!”
70J IOM ri.ANCY
On ihc floor ol the chamber, six men raced to the podium, also scanning
about will) drawn weapons in a moment thai millions of television viewers
would fix in their minds forever. President Durling looked at his chief agent
in genuine pu/./.lement, 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 acquisi-
tion. 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