“Thank you, Governor, for that introduction.” Ryan turned to gesture to the people on the dais with him, naming them from the list on the first page of his speech folder,
492
good friends whom he’d never see again after this first time, whose faces were illuminated by the simple fact that he spoke their names in the correct order.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve never been to Indiana before. This is my first visit to the Hoosier State, but after experiencing your welcome, I hope it won’t be the last–”
It was as though someone had held up the APPLAUSE sign on a TV show. He’d just spoken the truth, followed by something that might or might not have been a lie, and while they had to know it, they didn’t care a whit. And then Jack Ryan learned something important for the first time.
God, it’s like a narcotic, Jack thought, understanding just then why people entered politics. No man could stand here like this, hearing the noise, seeing the faces, and not love the moment. It came through.the stage fright, through the overwhelming sense of not belonging. Here he was, before four thousand people, fellow citizens each of them, equal to him before the law, but in their minds he was something else entirely. He was the United States of America. He was their President, but more than that, he was the embodiment of their hopes, their desires, the image of their own nation, and because of that they were willing to love someone they didn’t know, to cheer his every word, to hope that for a brief moment they could believe that he’d looked directly into each individual pair of eyes so that the moment would be forever special, never to be forgotten. It was power such as he had never known to exist. This crowd was his to command. This was why men devoted their lives to seeking the presidency, to bathe in this moment like a warm ocean wave, a moment of utter perfection.
But why did they think he was so different? What made him special in their minds? Ryan wondered. It was only chance in his case, and in every other instance, it was they who’d done the choosing, they who had elevated the man to the podium, they who by their act had changed the ordinary into something else–and perhaps not even that. It was only perception. Ryan was the same man he’d been a month or a year before. He’d acquired little in the way of
493
new knowledge and less in the way of wisdom. He was the same person with a different job, and while the trappings of the new post were all around him, the person within the protective ring of bodyguards, the person surrounded by a flood of love which he’d never sought, was merely the product of parents, a childhood, an education, and experiences, just as they all were. They thought him different and special and perhaps even great, but that was perception, not reality. The reality of the moment was sweaty hands on the armored podium, a speech written by someone else, and a man who knew that he was out of place, however pleasant the moment might be.
So, what do I do now? the President of the United States asked himself, his mind racing as the current wave of applause diminished. He’d never be what they thought he was. He was a good man, he thought, but not a great one, and the presidency was a job, a post, a government office that came with duties defined by James Madison, and, as with all things in life, a place of transition from one reality to another. The past was something you couldn’t change. The future was something you tried to see. The present was where you were, and that’s where you had to do your best–and if you were lucky, maybe you’d be worthy of the moment. It wasn’t enough to feel the love. He had to earn it, to make the looks on the assembled faces something other than a lie, for in giving power they also gave responsibility, and in giving love they demanded devotion in return. Chastened, Jack looked at the glass panel that reflected the text of his speech, took a deep breath, and started talking as he’d done as a history instructor in Annapolis.
“I come here today to speak to you about America…” Below the President were five Secret Service agents standing in line, their sunglasses shielding their eyes so that those in the audience could not always tell where they were looking, and also because people without eyes are intimidating at a visceral level. Their hands were clasped in front, and radio earpieces kept them in contact with one another as they scanned the crowd. In the rear of the field house were others, this group scanning with binoculars,
494
because they knew that the love in the building was not uniform, or even that there were some who sought to kill the things they loved. For that reason, the advance team had erected portable metal-detector arches at all the entrances. For that reason Belgian Malinois dogs had sniffed the building for explosives. For that reason they watched everything in the same way an infantryman in a combat zone was careful to examine every shadow.
“… and the strength of America lies not in Washington, but in Indiana, and New Mexico, and in every place Americans live and work, wherever it might be. We in Washington are not America. You are,” the President’s voice boomed through the PA system/–not a good system, the agents thought, but this event Jlad been laid on a little fast. “And we work for you. The audience cheered again anyway.
The TV cameras all fed into vans outside the building, and those had uplink dishes to relay the sound and pictures to satellites. The reporters were mainly in the back today, taking notes despite the fact that they had the full text, along with a written promise that the President really would deliver this one. “The President’s speech today,” all would say this evening, but it wasn’t really the President’s speech at all. They knew who’d written it. Gallic Weston had already talked to several of their number about it. They read the crowd, an easier task for them because they didn’t have the klieg lights in their faces.
“… is not an opportunity, but a responsibility which we all share, because if America belongs to us all, so then the duty for running our country starts here, not in Washington.” More applause.
“Good speech,” Tom Donner observed to his commentator/analyst, John Plumber.
“Pretty good delivery, too. I talked to the superintendent of the Naval Academy. They say he was an excellent teacher once,” Plumber replied.
“Good audience for him, mainly kids. And he’s not talking major policy issues.”
“Getting his feet wet,” John agreed. “You have a team working the other segment for tonight, right?”
495
Donner checked his watch and nodded. “Should be there now.”
“SO, DR. RYAN, how do you like being First Lady?” Krystin Matthews asked, with a warm smile.
“I’m still figuring it out.” They were talking in Cathy’s cubbyhole office overlooking central Baltimore. It had barely enough room for a desk and three chairs (a good one for the doctor, one for the patient, and the other for the spouse or mother of the patient), and with all the cameras and lights in the room, she felt trapped. “You know, I miss cooking for my family.”
“You’re a surgeon–and your husband expects you to cook, too?” the NEC co-anchor asked, in surprise bordering on outrage.
“I’ve always loved cooking. It’s a good way for me to relax when I get home.” Instead of watching TV, Professor Caroline Ryan didn’t add. She was wearing a new starched lab coat. She’d had to take fifteen minutes with her hair and makeup, and she had patients waiting. “Besides, I’m pretty good at it.”
An, well, that was different. A cloying smile: “What’s the President’s favorite meal?”
A smile returned. “That’s easy. Steak, baked potato, fresh corn on the cob, and my spinach salad–and I know, the physician in me tells him that it’s a little heavy on the cholesterol. Jack’s pretty good with a grill. In fact, he’s a pretty handy man to have around the house. He doesn’t even mind cutting the grass.”
“Let me take you back to the night your son was born, that awful night when the terrorists–”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Cathy said in a quieter voice.
“Your husband has killed people. You’re a doctor. How does that make you feel?”
“Jack and Robby–he’s Admiral Jackson now– Robby and Sissy are our closest friends,” Cathy explained. “Anyway, they did what they had to do, or we would not have survived that night. I don’t like violence. I’m a surgeon. Last week I had a trauma case, a man lost his eye as a result of a fistfight in a bar a few blocks from here.