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 Capitol 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?”
“Captain’s 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.
“Jesus, sir,” the chief said belatedly.
“Not quite. Thanks for the