a couple of Sony Vaio VGNs—eight-inch screen with Ubuntu OS and a one-point-three—”
“English, Jack,” said Rounds.
“Tiny laptop. It’ll have all the data on it in Flash format. You can change and review the PLOWSHARE overlays on the fly. We’ll give you a walk-through when we’re done here.”
Hendley said, “Nicely done, Jack . . . Gavin. Any questions, guys?”
Brian and Dominic shook their heads.
“Okay, safe travels.”
61
JACK RYAN SENIOR knotted his tie and looked in the mirror. He decided he looked good enough. His lucky suit, a plain white button-down shirt, a red tie. He got a haircut the previous day, and his hair showed enough gray to make certain he wasn’t exactly a kid anymore, but he looked youthful enough for a man in his early fifties. A test smile showed that he’d brushed his teeth properly. Game time.
It would start in an hour, in front of twenty or so TV cameras and the hundreds of reporter/commentators behind them, few of whom had any real affection for him. But they didn’t have to. Their job was to report the facts as they saw them, fairly and honestly. Most, or at least some, of them would, God willing. But Ryan had to deliver his lines properly, not throw up or fall down in front of the cameras, however entertaining that would be to Jay Leno later this day.
There was a knock on the door. Ryan walked to answer it. He didn’t have to be overly careful. His Secret Service detail had this whole floor guarded like an Air Force nuke locker.
“Hey, Arnie, Callie,” he said in greeting.
Arnie van Damm looked him over. “Well, Mr. President, good to see you still know how to dress.”
“Got a different tie?” Callie Weston asked.
“What’s wrong with red?” Ryan asked in reply.
“Too in-your-face.”
“What would you prefer?”
“Sky-blue is better.”
“Callie, I love your work, but, please, let me dress myself, okay?”
Callie Weston growled but let it slide.
“All ready?” Arnie asked.
“Too late to run away,” Ryan answered. And it was. From now on he was a willing, fire-in-the-belly candidate. Blood in his eyes and steel in his spine.
Van Damm said, “Sure I can’t talk you into—”
“No.” He and Arnie and Callie had batted around Georgetown—whether or not to include the assassination attempt in his announcement speech. Predictably, they’d argued for inclusion, but Ryan would have none of it. The incident would be raised during the campaign, but not by him. Nor would he avoid it.
“How’s the audience?” Ryan asked, closing the subject.
“All wired up,” Arnie replied. “It is otherwise a slow news day out there, and so they’ll be glad to see you. It gives them almost five minutes of airtime to fill. You will sell a lot of toothpaste for them, Jack. Hell, some of them actually like you.”
“Really? Since when?” Ryan asked.
“They’re not the enemy. They’re the press. They’re neutral observers. You ought to hang out with them, off-the-record talks. Have a beer with them. Let them come to like you. You’re a likable guy. Let it work for you.”
“I’ll think about it. Coffee?”
“They do it good here?”
“No complaints from me,” Jack told them. He wandered over to the room-service tray and sat down to pour another cup. His third. That would be his limit, lest the caffeine make him jumpy. At the White House, presidential coffee was all Jamaican Blue Mountain, from the former British colony, widely regarded as the best in all the world. That was a cup of coffee. Maybe it was the bauxite in the beans, Jack thought.
Again Ryan’s mind came back to the central question: If he won, how to put the country back on course? Governing so complex a country as the United States of America was an effective impossibility. Too many interests, each of them matters of life and death to somebody, and that somebody would be on TV or in the papers to make sure that his/her views got their proper—preferably loud—attention. The President might or might not pay attention. He/she had a staff to make sure that only the important stuff made it to his/her desk. But that made the President a hostage to the staff, and even a good man could be misdirected by the people that he or she had chosen for the job—and as a practical matter, selection of the staff was delegated to more senior staffers, all of whom had a sense of self-importance about them, as though a desk in the White House West Wing or the Old Executive Office Building was a personal