“Jack, “Cathy said in alarm.
“Okay, Andrea.” The President turned. “Time to go, honey. Right now.”
“But—what’s happening?”
He got her to her feet first, and walked to the door. The corridor was full of agents. Trenton Kelly was holding Kyle Daniel—the lionesses were nowhere in sight—and the principal agents for all the other kids were there. In a moment, they saw that there was not enough room in the elevator. The Ryan family rode. The agents mainly ran down the wide, white marble steps to the ground level.
“Wait!” another agent called, holding his left hand up. His pistol was in his right hand, and none of them had seen that very often. They halted as commanded—even the President doesn’t often argue with a person holding a gun.
Ryan was thinking as fast as he knew how: “Andrea, where do I go?”
“You go to kneecap. Vice President Jackson will join you there. The family goes to Air Force One.”
At Andrews Air Force base, just outside Washington, the pilots of First Heli, the USAF 1st Helicopter Squadron, were sprinting to their Bell Hueys. Each had an assignment, and each knew where his Principal was, because the security detail of each was reporting in constantly. Their job was to collect the cabinet members and spirit them away from Washington to preselected places of supposed safety. Their choppers were off the ground in less than three minutes, scattering off to different preselected pickup points.
“Jack, what is this?” It took a lot to make his wife afraid, but this one had done it.
“Honey, we have a report that a ballistic missile is flying toward America, and the safest place for us to be is in the air. So, they’re getting you and the kids to Air Force One. Robby and I will be on kneecap. Okay?”
“Okay? Okay? What is this?” “It’s bad, but that’s all I know.”
On the Aleutian island of Shemya, the huge Cobra Dane radar scanned the sky to the north and west. It frequently detected satellites, which mainly fly lower than ICBM warheads, but the computer that analyzed the tracks of everything that came into the system’s view categorized this contact as exactly what it was, too high to be a low-orbit satellite, and too slow to be a launch vehicle.
“What’s the track?” a major asked a sergeant.
“Computer says East Coast of the United States. In a few minutes we’ll know more . . . for now, somewhere between Buffalo and Atlanta.” That information was relayed automatically to NORAD and the Pentagon.
The entire structure of the United States military went into hyper-drive, one segment at a time, as the information reached it. That included USS Gettysburg, alongside the pier in the Washington Navy Yard.
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.