Chapter 2
The Ryan Home
Chesapeake Bay, Maryland
The low sun was muted by distant clouds, and wind swept in off the bay with its customary autumn chill. From the broad front porch of his home, Jack Ryan embraced it all with a profound sense of calm.
This place had long been his haven, his refuge from the intractable chaos of the White House—the place where all the world’s problems seemed to land with a thud. That contrast, the tranquility of this place versus the turmoil of Pennsylvania Avenue, seemed to deepen with the passing of time.
Ryan had a theory about that. The memories of raising a family here with Cathy were indelible, although the earliest of them were beginning to fade.
He supposed it was only natural. His kids still gathered here when they were in town, but it was an increasingly rare occasion for all of them to visit at the same time.
Everyone was moving, onward and upward, tackling the world in their own way.
Ryan would forever enjoy spending time with his family; the good-natured bantering during meals, the football on the lawn, the games of Battleship.
Yet more than ever, he found himself drawn to these rare moments of solitude, notwithstanding the heavy Secret Service contingent guarding the perimeter.
“Here you go.”
He felt a familiar hand brush his shoulder.
Cathy set a steaming cup of decaf on the table that split their Adirondack chairs.
For reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, she looked more stunning than ever.
Her mid-length hair was nicely cut, accented by a few blond highlights, and she was as trim as ever.
Yet nothing captivated him more than his wife’s smile.
It was open and honest, reflecting a woman who was deeply at peace.
On good days, Ryan imagined he had something to do with that.
On the others, he was glad she managed it in spite of him, or more accurately, in spite of his job.
Either way, he felt more smitten with his wife every day.
He looked down and noticed she hadn’t chosen a mug sporting the presidential seal, of which he had dozens. This one had pictures of his kids as infants—the classic “What do I get Dad for Christmas?” bailout.
“Thanks,” he said.
Cathy took the other chair and cradled a cup of herbal tea.
“I got a text from Katie,” she said. “She wants to bring Commander Knepper with her for Thanksgiving.”
Ryan shot his wife a guarded look. His daughter had been seeing a submariner, the XO of the USS Washington. “This is starting to sound serious.”
“If it’s Katie…it’s serious.”
He smiled. “Yeah, she does rarely change her mind once it’s made up.”
“True. But thankfully, she seems to have made a good choice.”
“The commander is welcome anytime.”
Cathy was about to take her first sip when she abruptly looked up.
“What is it?” he asked, noticing her sudden alertness.
“Inbound.”
Her hearing had always been sharper than his, and a life spent around the machines of war and enduring jarring explosions had only widened the gap. But soon he heard it, too. The resonating whump, whump of an approaching helicopter.
He looked to the right and saw a VH-92A from Marine Helicopter Squadron One, its red beacon blinking in the dusk.
The aircraft swept out in a wide arc and settled on the outer lawn.
Ryan looked right a second time and spotted two identical birds circling in the distance.
This suggested he wasn’t looking at a simple visit from one of his senior staff.
He himself was about to go for a ride—or at the very least, have the option of doing so.
“Was this on your calendar?” Cathy asked warily. She was reading the situation precisely as he had.
“No. I wasn’t set to go back to the White House until tomorrow morning.” He checked his secure comm device and saw no urgent messages.
Ryan stood and walked to the broad steps that led down to the lawn. The entry door of the chopper opened and a familiar figure descended. Director of National Intelligence Mary Pat Foley. She walked across the lawn with her signature stride, compact and direct.
Ryan stepped down to the grass, but stopped there, letting Mary Pat come to him—the sound of the helo, even at idle, would be difficult to talk over.
“Good evening, Jack,” she said, addressing him in the familiar, as she typically did in private.
“I’m thinking maybe not,” the President replied.
“There’s been an accident, an air crash in Turkey.”
“Turk—” The word snagged like a docked boat jerking on its mooring line. “A jet from the 89th?” he ventured.
“I’m afraid so.” She paused a moment, as if preparing him for more.
“Survivors?” he asked.
Mary Pat shook her head. “There don’t appear to be any.”
The President held steady. It was an agonizingly familiar reaction for Ryan, honed by a lifetime of shock and disaster. He knew many of the 89th’s personnel. Yet the vivid image of one face came unshakably to mind. “John Moore.”
She stepped closer and put a comforting hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, Jack. I know the two of you were close.”
He nodded somberly. He had met Moore in college, and although they’d gone their separate ways immediately after—John to law school and Jack serving in the Marines—they had stayed in close touch over the years.
“He was one of those larger-than-life people. When I considered who might be effective running Commerce, John came straight to mind. He was so good at…” The gears in his head seemed to disengage. “Monica?”
“She was with him, like always.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah, she was one of the good ones.”
“Is there any hint of…you know.”
“This happened only a few hours ago. The initial reports are just coming in from first responders. The State Department is sending down a team from the embassy in Istanbul. So far there’s no suggestion that this was an attack of any kind, but our information is extremely limited.
And we also have to consider the other complication. ”
“Fulcrum.”
“It does seem like an incredible coincidence. Given the circumstances, I thought you’d want to head into the office.”
Ryan didn’t even feign surprise. Mary Pat had distilled the situation faultlessly. She had weighed the event, the consequences, his reaction, and come up with a course of action.
“Yeah, you’re right. Let me go throw on some better clothes. I’ll be ready in five.”
Mary Pat looked up at Cathy, who was still on the porch. The somber look on her face was clear. “I guess you overheard?” Mary Pat said.
“Enough. That’s terrible news. Elaine wasn’t with him, was she?” Cathy asked, referring to Moore’s wife.
“No, she didn’t go on this trip. I guess there’s always something to be thankful for. Someone from Commerce is on the way to their house to make the notification.”
“Can you let me know when that’s been done? I’d like to reach out to her afterward.”
“Absolutely. I’m sure she’d appreciate that.
” Mary Pat didn’t ask Cathy if she was going to join them for the trip to the White House.
The First Lady had been spending most of her time here lately, coming into D.C.
only for special events. The Ryan family had gone through a lot over the years, and its matriarch had been at the epicenter.
Cathy was a practicing physician, but in recent months, when she wasn’t seeing patients or performing surgery, she increasingly seemed to end up here.
Mary Pat walked back to the helo and disappeared inside.
Minutes later, Jack returned to the porch. He shrugged on his best tweed blazer.
“I’m sorry about John,” she said.
“Not as sorry as I am. This could be on me.”
Her expression turned doubtful. “What are you talking about?”
He looked at his wife plaintively, desperately. As was too often the case, he had to rely on their unspoken contract. The one that bridged the awkward divide between their strong marriage and his unfathomably demanding job. Sometimes silence had to suffice.
She pulled him close and held him for a moment. “It’s okay,” she whispered in his ear. “We’ll talk about it later. But whatever happened, this was not your fault.”
He pulled back, and the look in his eyes said otherwise.
Jack Ryan gave the love of his life a failed smile and trotted across the lawn. He slowed at the helicopter’s boarding stairs to return the salute of the waiting enlisted Marine. “Semper fi, Marine,” Ryan said.
“Semper fi, Mr. President,” the young man replied enthusiastically.
For all his years in office, even in the most dire and distracting moments, President Jack Ryan did not waver on customs and courtesies.
He took no private pleasure when people saluted him and addressed him as Mr. President.
But he expected it. It had nothing to do with ego.
It was about traditions, about respecting the chain of command.
Ryan had learned that as a lieutenant in the Marine Corps, and it would carry on long after he was gone.
He stepped up into the VH-92A, and at that moment it became Marine One. Seconds later, the engine noise rose to a crescendo and the pilot hauled up on the controls. The grass rippled in waves, and soon the big chopper was thundering northward up the bay.