Power and Empire

Ryan turned to watch the brunette disappear into the darkness at the other end of the block, then turned back to Midas, both hands up, as if to say What gives?

Midas knew exactly what he meant. “You can’t hear me, can you?”

Ryan shook his head.

Midas raised his eyebrows. “Then my radio’s tits-up. I tried to tell you we were coming. Took me a half a block to realize I wasn’t hearing my own voice.”

Chavez came across the net, unaware of this new development.

“We’re walking toward you on south side of the cemetery,” he said. “We’re trying to find a way in that won’t get our asses handed to us.”

“Copy,” Ryan said. “Midas is with me, but his comms are down. I’ve lost sight of the brunette. We’re having a talk with our Japanese friend.”

Chavez’s dismay was apparent. “You made contact?”

Ryan rubbed his aching ribs, injured for a second time by a female hurtling through space. We sure did, he thought. He said, “I’ll explain later.”

He relayed Chavez’s situation and location to Midas.

The Japanese woman reached for the shattered phone, but Midas wrenched her arm back with the hand that wasn’t holding her neck. She was shorter than Jack by seven or eight inches, fit, built like a runner. Even restrained, her chin tilted upward slightly — a match to the defiant glint in her eyes.

She tried to jerk away and, when she found that was impossible, turned her glare on Jack. “You are wasting time.”

“I’ll take care of this,” Jack said, scooping up the broken phone. Close enough to study now, the scratches down the left side of her face looked like they were maybe a week old. Healing, but still pink and quite deep, probably caused by a very determined set of fingernails. “Who are you?”

She scoffed, then mocked his tone. “Who are you?”

Ryan feigned an unconcerned shrug. The truth was this woman was beginning to piss him off. He needed to get this done and catch up with the brunette. “You might reconsider that attitude since we just saw you shoot someone in the head.”

The Japanese woman’s eyes went momentarily wide, but she regained her composure quickly.

“Have it your way,” Midas said, increasing his grip on her arm until she winced. “I guess you’d rather talk to the police.”

“Bakayaro!” she spat. “You fools! I am the police.”

43

President Ryan sat in the Oval Office, waiting, mulling over what he was about to say. An eight-by-ten color photograph of a smiling sailor with rosy cheeks looked up at him. The twenty-year-old sailor sat in front of an American flag, wearing enlisted “crackerjack” blues and a white Dixie cup hat. It was one of those boot-camp graduation portraits that proud grandpas and nervous parents keep on the mantel. Petty Officer 3rd Class Stephen Ridgeway had helped save a life — a woman under attack from pirates, no less. Parents would want to know that. Wouldn’t they? Ryan would want to know, if something happened to one of his children. That was the thing about death. It was always personal. Somebody else’s kid died and you immediately thought of your own, how fickle life was, how incredibly easy it was to snuff out the spark that made someone alive — no matter how brightly it burned.

Betty Martin’s sure voice came over the intercom.

“Mr. President, the White House operator has Randy and Lois Ridgeway on the line.”

“Thank you, Betty.” Ryan took a deep breath, attempting to settle himself. Best not to think about things like this for too long. It made the speeches sound canned. Truth was, he thought about it all the time. He couldn’t help it.

“Mr. and Mrs. Ridgeway,” he said, “this is Jack Ryan. I am so very sorry for your loss…”

• • •

The condolence call lasted four minutes. There was not much he could say, at least nothing worthwhile. The Ridgeways already knew what sort of man their son was. They didn’t need the President of the United States to remind them to be proud of him. Ryan looked at Stephen Ridgeway’s portrait for another full minute while he thought over his next course of action. At length, he moved it reverently to the side and centered a yellow notepad on his desk.

He pushed the intercom button.

“It’s a Saturday night, Betty,” he said. “You shouldn’t even be here. Go ahead, take off.”

“Right away, Mr. President.” It was what Betty Martin said when she wouldn’t commit to leaving. Her husband probably sat at home sticking pins in a Jack Ryan doll for all the time she spent at the White House.

“Seriously,” Ryan pressed. “I just have one more call to make.”

“I’ll get the party on the line for you.”

“Go home,” Ryan said. “That’s an order from your commander in chief. I’ll make the call myself.”

“There are protocols, Mr. President,” Betty said.

“Very well.” He read back the number written on his notepad and then said, “Now will you go home?”

“Right away, Mr. President,” she said.

• • •