Oath of Office

“Nope,” Chadwick said. “I just don’t like you. You smell bad to me. Your arrogance rubs me the wrong way. I’m smart enough to know it doesn’t play well with the media if I refuse a sit-down with the President, but that doesn’t mean we have to be friends. So let’s get whatever this is over with. I’ve got a lunch meeting with the chairman of Ways and Means.”

“I see,” Ryan said. He chose his next words carefully. “You and I both know that thick skins are a requirement in this business. I’m used to people not liking me. But I have to tell you, this incendiary dialogue about the flu vaccine is doing some real damage—”

“Good,” Chadwick said. “I hope it cuts your political legs out from under you. If it leaves you unable to handpick your heir apparent when the time comes, then I’ve done my job. The last thing the country needs is another Jack Ryan at the helm when you finally lay down your scepter.”

Ryan took a deep breath. “I was going to say this talk about hoarding vaccine is damaging the American people. False narratives and doctored videos very nearly caused a war in Cameroon.”

“Well,” Chadwick said, “you’re the expert when it comes to causing wars.”

Ryan waited a beat. He was human and didn’t want to say something he would later regret. “What is it you’re looking for?”

“I already told you,” she said. “I want the American people to see you for what you are.”

Ryan nodded at that. “I’m pretty sure they do,” he said. “Warts and all.”

“Oh, they will, eventually, if I have anything to say about it.”

Ryan couldn’t help but laugh at this woman’s audacity. “I suppose we’ll just have to plead our cases to the law of the land.”

“That’s perfectly fine with me,” Chadwick said. “I feel sure the courts will—”

Betty Martin’s voice came across the intercom, a blessed interruption.

“Mr. President. DNI Foley is here.”

Betty didn’t say it was urgent, but Ryan knew it was, or she wouldn’t have interrupted him mid-meeting unless he’d told her to — which he stupidly had not.

Chadwick took her cue and stood. “Well, this has been real. But it sounds like you have another war to start.”

* * *

Mary Pat stepped back and gave Senator Chadwick a wide berth as the two women passed each other at the doorway. A member of Ryan’s “war council,” as Chadwick called it, the director of national security was every bit as culpable as he was.

“I sure as hell hope you bring good news,” Ryan said. “I could use some about now.”

Foley, who was rarely at a loss for words, took a deep breath. “It’s a lot better news than I had ten minutes ago, Jack. But it’s still pretty shitty.”

The side door opened and Arnie came in, uncharacteristically taciturn. He glanced at Foley and gave her a distinct Have you told him yet? look.

“Okay,” Ryan said five minutes later when Mary Pat had given him a thumbnail sketch. “Let’s get the NSC spooled up again, but I’d like State and Defense in here ASAP.”

“They’re on their way, Mr. President,” Foley said. “I took the liberty of asking them to come to the White House right away. Burgess has someone putting together an executive summary, but I wanted to let you know what I know as soon as practical.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, obviously having more to say.

“Go ahead, then,” he said. “Tell me.” Ryan’s stomach churned with worry — which was nothing new. No matter how much he trusted Jack and Clark and the others, the world in which they operated was a cold and deadly place. Ryan had made enough calls to surviving parents and spouses to see it firsthand. Bullets didn’t care who your father was. People died because they stepped left instead of right.

“He’s okay,” Mary Pat said, as if reading Ryan’s mind. “But we do need to talk.”

Burgess all but exploded into the Oval. “Mr. President,” he said, breathless, as if he’d sprinted into the West Wing. “Major Poteet is across the hall in the Roosevelt Room at this moment, putting the finishing touches on some slides for you. He’ll be in momentarily.”

“Major Poteet?” Ryan said.

“He’s our foremost expert on the state of Iran’s defense capability at present. I find listening to him is like reading a year’s worth of Jane’s Defence Weekly, but I’ve warned him to turn down the firehose for this presentation.”

Ryan stood up and walked across the office to his desk phone, asking Betty to order a coffee service. He had a feeling this was going to be a late night. “We might need a firehose,” he said. “This whole thing is a convoluted mess. The Russians love their maskirovka, but this…”

Scott Adler came in next, followed by a middle-aged man in a white button-down and a pair of starched Wrangler jeans with razor-sharp creases up the front. He carried a closed notebook computer in callused hands.

“Please forgive Major Poteet,” Burgess said. “He’s on leave, but I happened to catch him stopping by his office after I got the call from the DNI. He worked on his presentation on the ride over.”

“Major,” Ryan said, shaking the man’s hand.