Oath of Office

“We could move any or all of ours, Mr. President,” Van Orden said. “But it’s a risk moving all that metal at once. It will take some time to do calculations so we don’t cause a collision ourselves. And we might move the wrong ones first.”

“Okay, gentlemen,” Ryan said. “I’m thinking you have about ninety seconds to pick me the correct satellite.”

Hardy sat at the conference table, hunched over a laptop computer with access to satellite information that was not available outside those with a specific need to know. His voice was calm and cool though he was surrounded by men and women who outranked him by factors of ten. “A launch actually helps us,” he said. “These Russian missiles travel at 5,328 miles per hour, while satellites orbit the earth at around 17,500 miles per hour. The 51T6 as we know it has max altitude of five hundred miles. Even if this is some new variant and we give it an extra hundred miles… To score a head-on kinetic kill, they’d have to account for”—he drummed his fingers on the table—“eight hundred forty miles of movement from the time the missile launched until it reaches…” He scanned the computer screen. “That leaves only five satellites within range.”

“Anytime now,” Ryan prodded.

“Two of them are Chinese, one Russian, one from Thailand, but none of them are big enough but this one — an ISR bird that I’ve never heard of.” Hardy looked up. He turned the computer toward the chairman. “This is it, General Paul. It has to be.”

“Let’s get it done,” Ryan said.

The chairman of the joint chiefs relayed the message to AFSCN at 12:09:12 Iran time, two minutes and forty seconds after missile launch.

“We don’t have long to wait,” van Damm said, stating the obvious.

Midshipman Hardy closed the laptop and then his eyes. His lips moved slightly, whispering a quiet prayer. Dr. Van Orden gave him a paternal pat on the shoulder. No one spoke. Few breathed. Everyone in the room, including Ryan, mumbled prayers of their own. All eyes eventually fell to General Paul. Fifty-four seconds later, the general leaned back in his chair and held up a thumb.

“Looks like we’re good, Mr. President,” he said. “AFSCN tracked an unidentified missile launched from Iran as it passed within a quarter of a mile from our ISR bird. Satellite signals are still being received five by five.”

Ryan got to his feet, prompting everyone else in the Situation Room to stand. “Midshipman Hardy,” he said. “Dr. Van Orden. I know it’s kind of a letdown after all this, but how about you come to my place for dinner?” He grinned. “It’s not far.”

66

Two days later, Senator Michelle Chadwick was in her kitchen, filling two bowls with butter-pecan ice cream. She wore a fawn-colored negligée and a pair of fuzzy slippers. “L’état c’est moi,” she said, licking the scoop before she dropped it in the sink. “No, Jack Ryan, you are not the state.” Her run-in with the President had left her feeling celebratory. Sure, he’d somehow convinced Yermilov to pull his troops back from the Ukrainian border, but the public still didn’t trust him. His smarmy ass thought he was so much smarter than everyone else. No, that wasn’t it. He thought he was better. More honest. Less corruptible. Less prone to the temptations mere mortals fell prey to. There was no one thing that Michelle Chadwick didn’t like about Jack Ryan — there were a million of them.

“Hey!” Corey yelled from the bedroom.

“Hold your horses,” she yelled. “I’m just getting the ice cream.”

“Forget the ice cream,” Corey said. “You’re going to want to see this.”

“What?” Chadwick said a moment later, flopping down on the bed beside her boy toy and handing him the bowl with the lesser amount of butter pecan.

When she looked up at the television, she nearly bit off the end of her spoon.

When Jack Ryan said he’d take their case to the highest court in the land, he’d not been talking about the Supreme Court. That son of a bitch meant the American people.

“…the danger of lies, telling them, believing in the echo chamber of social media,” Ryan said, from behind his desk in the Oval Office. “We could, as some nations have done, curtail free speech or criminalize sensationalism that is masked as satire. Congress could pass legislation that called for heavy fines or even prison terms for spreading lies — even when these lies are done with a wink and a nod toward entertainment. There is no question that many lies damage real people. And if real people are hurt, should not the government step in?