was probably smooth air all the way to Andrews. There was as yet no instrument that detected turbulence, but up here at flight level three-niner-zero, that was a pretty rare occurrence, and Jackson wasn’t often susceptible to airsickness, and his hand was inches from the yoke in case something unexpected happened. Jackson occasionally hoped that something would happen, since it would allow him to show just how good an aviator he was ... but it never did. Flying had become too routine since his childhood in the F-4N Phantom and his emerging manhood in the F-14A Tomcat. And maybe it was better that way. Yeah, he thought, sure.
“Mr. Vice President?” It was the voice of the USAF communications sergeant aboard the VC-20. Robby turned to see her with a sheaf of papers.
“Yeah, Sarge?”
“Flash traffic just came in on the printer.” She extended her hand, and Robby took the paper.
“Colonel, your airplane for a while,” the VP told the lieutenant colonel in the left seat.
“Pilot’s airplane,” the colonel agreed, while Robby started reading.
It was always the same, even though it was also always different. The cover sheet had the usual classification formatting. It had once impressed Jackson that the act of showing a sheet of paper to the wrong person could land him in Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary—at the time, actually, the since-closed Portsmouth Naval Prison in New Hampshire—but now as a senior government official in Washington, D.C., he knew he could show damned near anything to a reporter from The Washington Post and not be touched for it. It wasn’t so much that he was above the law as he was one of the people who decided what the law meant. What was so damned secret and sensitive in this case was that CIA didn’t know shit about the possible attempt on the life of Russia’s chief spymaster ... which meant nobody else in Washington did, either....
CHAPTER 3
The Problems with Riches
The issue was trade, not exactly the President’s favorite, but then, at this level, every issue took on sufficient twists that even the ones you thought you knew about became strange at best, unknown and alien at worst.
“George?” Ryan said to his Secretary of the Treasury, George Winston.
“Mr. Pres—”
“Goddammit, George!” The President nearly spilled his coffee with the outburst.
“Okay.” SecTreas nodded submission. “It’s hard to make the adjustment ... Jack.” Ryan was getting tired of the Presidential trappings, and his rule was that here, in the Oval Office, his name was Jack, at least for his inner circle, of which Winston was one. After all, Ryan had joked a few times, after leaving this marble prison, he might be working for TRADER, as the Secret Service knew him, back in New York on The Street, instead of the other way ’round. After leaving the Presidency, something for which Jack prostrated himself before God every night—or so the stories went—he’d have to find gainful employment somewhere, and the trading business beckoned. Ryan had shown a rare gift for it, Winston reminded himself. His last such effort had been a California company called Silicon Alchemy, just one of many computer outfits, but the only one in which Ryan had taken an interest. So skillfully had he brought that firm to IPO that his own stock holdings in SALC—its symbol on the big board—were now valued at just over eighty million dollars, making Ryan by far the wealthiest American President in history. It was something his politically astute Chief of Staff, Arnold van Damm, did not advertise to the news media, who typically regarded every wealthy man as a robber baron, excepting, of course, the owners of the papers and TV stations themselves, who were, of course, the best of public-spirited citizens. None of this was widely known, even in the tight community of Wall Street big-hitters, which was remarkable enough. Should he ever return to The Street, Ryan’s prestige would be sufficient to earn money while he slept in his bed at home. And that, Winston freely admitted, was something well and truly earned, and be damned to whatever the media hounds thought of it.
“It’s China?” Jack asked.
“That’s right, Boss,” Winston confirmed with a nod. “Boss” was a term Ryan could stomach, as it was also the in-house term the Secret Service—which was part of Winston’s Department of the Treasury—used to identify the man they were sworn to protect. “They’re having a little cash-shortfall problem, and they’re looking to make it up with us.”
“How little?” POTUS asked.
“It looks as though it will annualize