"Good evening," the Captain said first in Japanese, then in English.
"This is Captain Sato. We expect this to be a smooth flight, and the winds
are good for us. With luck we should be in Vancouver at about seven in the morning, local time." The voice sounded even more mechanical than the cheap ceiling speakers, but pilots liked talking like robots.
"Thank God," Chavez observed quietly in English. He did the mental arithmetic and decided that they'd be in Virginia around nine or ten in the evening.
"About right," Clark thought.
"I want to marry your daughter, Mr. C. I'm going to pop the question when I get back." There, he'd finally said it. The look his offhand remark generated made him cringe.
"Someday you'll know what words like that do to a man, Ding." My little baby? he thought, as vulnerable to the moment as any man, perhaps more so.
"Don't want a greaser in the family?"
"No, not that at all. It's more—oh, what the hell, Ding. Easier to spell Chavez than Wojohowitz. If it's okay with her, then I suppose it's okay with me."
That easy? "I expected you to bite my head off."
Clark allowed himself a chuckle. "No, I prefer guns for that sort of thing. I thought you knew that."
"The President could not have made a better selection," Sam Fellows said on "Good Morning, America." "I've known Jack Ryan for nearly eight years. He's one of the brightest people in government service. I can tell you now that he is one of the men most responsible for the rapid conclusion of hostilities with Japan, and was also instrumental in the recovery of the financial markets."
"There have been reports that his work at CIA—"
"You know that I am not free to reveal classified information." Those leaks would be handled by others, and the proper senators on both sides of the aisle were being briefed in this morning as well. "I can say that Dr. Ryan has served our country with the utmost personal honor. I cannot think of another intelligence official who has earned the trust and respect that Jack Ryan has."
"But ten years ago—the incident with the terrorists. Have we ever had a Vice President who actually—"
"Killed people?" Fellows shook his head at the reporter. "A lot of Presidents and Vice Presidents have been soldiers. Jack defended his family against a vicious and direct attack, like any American would. I can tell you that out where I live in Arizona, nobody would fault the man for that."
"Thanks, Sam," Ryan said, watching his office TV. The first wave of reporters was scheduled to assault him in thirty minutes, and he had to read over briefing materials, plus a sheet of instructions from Tish Brown. Don't speak too fast. Don't give a direct answer to any substantive political question.
"I'm just glad to be here," Ryan said to himself. "I just play them one game at a time. Isn't that what they tell rookie ballplayers to say?" he wondered aloud.
The 747 touched down even earlier than the pilot had promised, which was fine but wouldn't help on the connecting flight. The good news for the moment was that the first-class passengers got off first, and better still, a U.S. consular official met Clark and Chavez at the gate, whisking them through customs. Both men had slept on the flight, but their bodies were still out of synch with the local time. An aging Delta L-1011 lifted off two hours later, bound for Dulles International.
Captain Sato remained in his command seat. One problem with international air travel was the sameness of it all. This terminal could have been almost anywhere, except that all of the faces were gaijin. There would be a day-long layover before he flew back, doubtless full again of Japanese executives running away.
And this was the remainder of his life, ferrying people he didn't know to places he didn't care about. If only he'd stayed in the Self-Defense Forces maybe he would have done better, maybe it would have made a difference. He was the best pilot in one of the world's best airlines, and those skills might have…but he'd never know, would he, and he'd never make a difference, just one more captain of one more aircraft, flying people to and from a nation that had forfeited its honor. Well. He climbed out of his scat, collected his flight charts and other necessary papers, tucked them in his carry-bag and headed out of the aircraft. The gate was empty now, and he was able to walk down the bustling but anonymous terminal. He saw a copy of USA Today at a shop and picked it up, scanning the front page, seeing the pictures there.
Tonight at nine o'clock? It all came together at that moment, really just an equation of speed and distance.
Sato looked around once more, then headed off to the airport administrative office. He needed a weather map. He already knew the timing.
"One thing I'd like to fix," Jack said, more at ease than ever in the Oval Office.
"What's that?"
"A CIA officer. He needs a pardon."
"What for?" Durling asked, wondering if a sandbag was descending toward his own head.
"Murder," Ryan replied honestly. "As luck would have it, my father worked the case back when I was in college. The people he killed had it coming—"
"Not a good way to look at things. Even if they did."
"They did." The Vice President-designate explained for two or three minutes. The magic word was "drugs," and soon enough the President nodded.
"And since then?"
"One of the best field officers we've ever had. He's the guy who bagged Qati and Ghosn in Mexico City."
"That's the guy?"
"Yes, sir. He deserves to get his name back."
"Okay. I'll call the Attorney General and see if we can do it quietly. Any other favors that you need taken care of?" the President asked. "You know, you're picking this political stuff up pretty fast for an amateur. Nice job with the media this morning, by the way."
Ryan nodded at the compliment. "Admiral Jackson. He did a nice job, too, but I suppose the Navy will take good care of him."
"A little presidential attention never hurt any officer's career. I want to meet him anyway. You're right, though. flying into the islands to meet with them was a very astute move."
"No losses," Chambers said, and a lot of kills. Why didn't he feel good about that?
"The subs that killed Charlotte and Asheville?" Jones asked.
"We'll ask when the time comes, but probably at least one of them." The judgment was statistical but likely.
"Ron, good job," Mancuso said.
Jones stubbed out his cigarette. Now he'd have to break the habit again. And now, also, he understood what war was, and thanked God that he'd never really had to fight in one. Perhaps it was just something for kids to do. But he'd done his part, and now he knew, and with luck he'd never have to see one happen again. There were always whales to track.
"Thanks. Skipper."
"One of our 747's has mechanical'd rather badly," Sato explained. "It will be out of service for three days. I have to fly to Heathrow to replace the aircraft. Another 747 will replace mine on the Pacific run." With that he turned over the flight plan.
The Canadian air-traffic official scanned it. "Pax?"
"No passengers, no, but I'll need a full load of fuel."
"I expect your airline will pay for that, Captain," the official observed with a smile. He scribbled his approval on the flight plan, keeping one copy for his records, and gave the other back to the pilot. He gave the form a last look. "Southern routing? It's five hundred miles longer."
"I don't like the wind forecast," Sato lied. It wasn't much of a lie. People like this rarely second-guessed pilots on weather calls. This one didn't either.