… more smoke trails. Ah, yes, they were surface-to-air missiles … could such things intercept a nuclear missile? Probably not, Zhang judged. He checked his watch. The sweep hand seemed determined to let the snail win this race, it jumped so slowly from one second to the next, and Zhang felt himself watching the display on the TV screen with anticipation he knew to be perverse. But America had been his country’s principal enemy for so many years, had thwarted two of his best and most skillfully laid plans—and now he’d see its destruction by means of one of its very own agencies, this cursed medium of television news, and though Tan Deshi claimed that it was not an organ of the American government, surely that could not be the case. The Ryan regime in Washington must have a very cordial relationship with those minstrels, they followed the party line of the Western governments so fawningly. . .
. . . two more smoke trails . . . the camera followed them and . . . what was that? Like a meteor, or the landing light of a commercial aircraft, a bright light, seemingly still in the sky—no, it was moving, unless that was the fear of the cameraman showing—oh, yes, that was it, because the smoke trails seemed to seek it out. . . but not quite closely enough, it would seem .. . and so, farewell, Washington, Zhang Han Sen thought. Perhaps there’d be adverse consequences for the People’s Republic, but he’d have the satisfaction of seeing the death of—
—what was that? Like a bursting firework in the sky, a shower of sparks, mainly heading down . . . what did that mean . . . ?
It was clear sixty seconds later. Washington had not been blotted from the map. Such a pity, Zhang thought. . . especially since there would be consequences . . . With that, he washed and dressed and left for the Council of Ministers Building.
Dear God,” Ryan breathed. The initial emotions of denial and elation were passing now. The feelings were not unlike those following an auto accident. First was disbelief, then remedial action that was more automatic than considered, then when the danger was past came the whiplash after-fear, when the psyche started to examine what had passed, and what had almost been, and fear after survival, fear after the danger was past, brought on the real shakes. Ryan remembered that Winston Churchill had remarked that there was nothing more elating than rifle fire that had missed—”to be shot at without result” was the exact quote the President remembered. If so, Winston Spencer Churchill must have had ice water in his cardiovascular system, or he enjoyed braggadocio more than this American President did.
“Well, I hope that was the only one,” Captain Blandy observed.
“Better be, Cap’n. We be out of missiles,” Chief Leek said, lighting up another smoke in accordance with the Presidential amnesty.
“Captain,” Jack said when he was able to, “every man on this ship gets promoted one step by Presidential Order, and USS Gettysburg gets a Presidential Unit Citation. That’s just for starters, of course. Where’s a radio? I need to talk to kneecap.”
“Here, sir.” A sailor handed him a phone receiver. “The line’s open,
“sir.”
“Robby?”
“Jack?”
“You’re still Vice President,” SWORDSMAN told TOMCAT.
“For now, I suppose. Christ, Jack, what the hell were you trying to do?”
“I’m not sure. It seemed like the right idea at the time.” Jack was seated now, both holding the phone in his hand and cradling it between cheek and shoulder, lest he drop it on the deck. “Is there anything else coming in?”
“NORAD says the sky is clear—only one bird got off. Targeted on us. Shit, the Russians still have dedicated ABM batteries all around Moscow. They probably could have handled it better than us.” Jackson paused. “We’re calling in the Nuclear Emergency Search Team from Rocky Mountain Arsenal to look for hot spots. DOD has people coordinating with the D.C. police . . . Jesus, Jack, that was just a little intense, y’know?”
“Yeah, it was that way here, too. Now what?” the President asked.
“You mean with China? Part of me says, load up the B-2 bombers on Guam with the B-61 gravity bombs and send them to Beijing, but I suppose that’s a little bit of an overreaction.”
“I think some kind of public statement—not sure what kind yet. What are you gonna be doing?”
“I asked. The drill is for us to stay up for four hours before we come back to Andrews. Same for Cathy and the kids. You might want to call them, too.”
“Roger. Okay, Robby, sit tight. See you in a few hours. I think I’m going to have a stiff one or two.”
“I hear that, buddy.”
“Okay, POTUS out.” Ryan handed the phone back. “Captain?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Your entire ship’s crew is invited to the White House, right now, for some drinks on the house. I think we all need it.”
“Sir, I will not disagree with that.”
“And those who stay aboard, if they feel the need to bend an elbow, as Commander in Chief, I waive Navy Regulations on that subject for twenty-four hours.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Chief?” Jack said next.
“Here, sir.” He handed his pack and lighter over. “I got more in my locker, sir.”
Just then two men in civilian clothes entered CIC. It was Hilton and Malone from the night crew.
“How’d you guys get here so fast?” Ryan asked.
“Andrea called us, sir—did what we think happened just happen?”
“Yep, and your President needs a bottle and a soft chair, gentlemen.
“We have a car on the pier, sir. You want to come with us?” “Okay—Captain, you get buses or something, and come to the White House right away. If it means locking the ship up and leaving her without anyone aboard, that’s just fine with me. Call the Marine Barracks at Eighth and I for security if you need to.”
“Aye, aye, Mr. President. We’ll be along shortly.”
I might be drunk before you get there, the President thought.
The car Hilton and Malone had brought down was one of the black armored Chevy Suburbans that followed the President everywhere he went. This one just drove back to the White House. The streets were suddenly filled with people simply standing and looking up—it struck Ryan as odd. The thing was no longer in the sky, and whatever pieces were on the ground were too dangerous to touch. In any case, the drive back to the White House was uneventful, and Ryan ended up in the Situation Room, strangely alone. The uniformed people from the White House Military Office—called Wham-O by the staff, which seemed particularly inappropriate at the moment—were all in a state somewhere between bemused and stunned. And the immediate consequence of the great effort to whisk senior government officials out of town—the scheme was officially called the Continuation of Government—had had the reverse effect. The government was at the moment still fragmented in twenty or so helicopters and one E-4B, and quite unable to coordinate itself. Ryan figured that the emergency was better designed to withstand a nuclear attack than to avoid one, and that, at the moment, seemed very strange.
Indeed, the big question for the moment was What the hell do we do now? And Ryan didn’t have much of a clue. But then a phone rang to help him.
“This is President Ryan.”
“Sir, this is General Dan Liggett at Strike Command in Omaha. Mr. President, I gather we just dodged a major bullet.”
“Yeah, I think you can say that, General.”
“Sir, do you have any orders for us?”
“Like what?”
“Well, sir, one option would be retaliation, and—”
“Oh, you mean because they blew a chance to nuke us, we should take the opportunity to nuke them for real?”
“Sir, it’s my job to present options, not to advocate any,” Liggett told his Commander-in-chief.
“General, do you know where I was during the attack?”
“Yes, sir. Gutsy call, Mr. President.”
“Well, I am now trying to deal with my own restored life, and I don’t have a clue what I ought to do about the big picture, whatever the hell that is. In another two hours or so, maybe we can think of something, but at the moment I have no idea at all. And you know, I’m not sure I want to have any such idea. So, for the moment, General, we do nothing at all. Are we clear on that?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Nothing at all happens with Strike Command.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
“Jack?” a familiar voice called from the door.
“Arnie, I hate drinking alone—except when there’s nobody else around. How about you and me drain a bottle of something? Tell the usher to bring down a bottle of Midleton, and, you know, have him bring a glass for himself.”