everything. At least I don’t,” he explained, looking up from the morning Early Bird. “And if you never noticed, the TVs in my office are tuned to CNN and the other news networks because they frequently tell me more than CIA does.”
“Really?” Sally observed. She watched too many movies. In Hollywood, CIA was a dangerous, lawbreaking, antidemocratic, fascist, and thoroughly evil government agency that nonetheless knew everything about everybody, and had really killed President Kennedy for its own purposes, whatever they were (Hollywood never quite got around to that). But it didn’t matter, because whoever the star was always managed to thwart the nasty old CIA before the credits, or the last commercial, depending on the format.
“Really, honey. CIA has some good people in it, but basically it’s just one more government agency.”
“What about the FBI and Secret Service?” she asked.
“They’re cops. Cops are different. My dad was a cop, remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” and then she went back to the “Style” section of The Washington Post, which had both the comics and the stories that interested her, mainly ones having to do with the sort of music that her father put quotation marks around.
Then there was a discreet knock at the door, and Andrea came in. At this time of day, she also acted as his private secretary, in this case delivering a dispatch from the State Department. Ryan took it, looked at it, and managed not to pound on the table, because his children were present.
“Thanks, Andrea,” he told her.
“Yes, Mr. President.” And Special Agent Price-O’Day went back out to the corridor.
Jack saw his wife looking at him. The kids couldn’t read all his facial expressions, but his wife could. To Cathy, Ryan couldn’t lie worth a damn, which was also why she didn’t worry about his fidelity. Jack had the dissimulation ability of a two-year-old, despite all the help and training he got from Arnie. Jack caught the look and nodded. Yeah, it was China again. Ten minutes later, breakfast was fully consumed and the TV was turned off, and the Ryan family headed downstairs to work, to school, or to the day-care center at Johns Hopkins, depending on age, with the requisite contingent of Secret Service bodyguards. Jack kissed them all in their turn, except for little Jack—SHORTSTOP to the Secret Service—because John Patrick Ryan, Jr., didn’t go in for that sissy stuff. There was something to be said for having daughters, Ryan thought, as he headed for the Oval Office. Ben Goodley was there, waiting with the President’s Daily Brief.
“You have the one from SecState?” CARDSHARP asked.
“Yeah, Andrea delivered it.” Ryan fell into his swivel chair and lifted the phone, punching the proper speed-dial button.
“Good morning, Jack,” SecState said in greeting, despite a short night’s sleep gotten on the convertible sofa in his own office. Fortunately, his private bathroom also had a shower.
“Approved. Bring them all back,” SWORDSMAN told EAGLE.
“Who handles the announcement?” Secretary Adler asked.
“You do it. We’ll try to low-key it,” the President said, with forlorn hope in his voice.
“Right,” Adler thought. “Anything else?”
“That’s it for now.”
“Okay, see ya, Scott.” Ryan replaced the phone. “What about China?” he asked Goodley. “Are they doing anything unusual?”
“No. Their military is active, but it’s routine training activity only. Their most active sectors are up in their northeast and opposite Taiwan. Lesser activity in their southwest, north of India.”
“With all the good luck the Russians are having with oil and gold, are the Chinese looking north with envy?”
“It’s not bad speculation, but we have no positive indications of that from any of our sources.” Everybody envied rich neighbors, after all. That’s what had encouraged Saddam Hussein to invade Kuwait, despite having lots of oil under his own sand.
“Any of our sources” includes SORGE, the President reminded himself. He pondered that for a second. “Tell Ed I want a SNIE on Russia and China.”
“Quick?” Goodley asked. A Special National Intelligence Estimate could take months to prepare.
“Three or four weeks. And I want to be able to hang my hat on it.”
“I’ll tell the DCI,” Goodley promised.
“Anything else?” Ryan asked.
“That’s it for now, sir.”
Jack nodded and checked his calendar. He had a fairly routine day, but the next one would largely be spent on Air Force One flying hither and yon across America, and he was overnighting in—he flipped the page on the printout—Seattle, before flying home to Washington and another full day. It was just as easy for him to use the VC-25A as a red-eye ... oh, yeah, he