Executive orders - Tom Clancy [3]
So, who's in charge? Jack asked Agent Price. For the first time he noticed how bitterly cold the night was.
I guess one of the firemen.
Let's find him. Jack started walking toward a collection of pumpers. He was already starting to shiver in his light wool suit. The chiefs would be the ones with the white hats, right? And the regular cars, he remembered from his youth in Baltimore. Chiefs didn't ride in trucks. He spotted three red-painted sedans and angled that way.
Damn it, Mr. President! Andrea Price fairly screamed at him. Other agents ran to get in front, and the Marines couldn't decide whether to lead the group or to follow. There wasn't an entry in anyone's manual for this, and what rules the Secret Service had, their Boss had just invalidated. Then one of them had a thought and sprinted off to the nearest ladder truck. He returned with a rubberized turnout coat.
This'll keep you warm, sir, Special Agent Raman promised, helping Ryan into it, and disguising him as one of the several hundred firefighters roaming around. Special Agent Price gave him an approving wink and nod, the first moment of almost-levity since the 747 had arrived at Capitol Hill. All the better that President Ryan didn't grasp the real reason for the heavy coat, she thought. This moment would be remembered by the protective Detail as the beginning of the management race, the Secret Service vs. the President of the United States, generally a contest of ego against cajolery.
The first chief that Ryan found was talking into a handheld radio and trying to direct his firefighters closer into the flames. A person in civilian clothes was close by, holding a large paper roll flat on the car's hood. Probably plans of the building, Jack thought. Ryan waited a few feet away, while the two men moved hands left and right over the plans and the chief spoke staccato instructions into his radio.
And, for Christ's sake, be careful with all those loose stones, Chief Paul Magill finished his last command. Then he turned around and rubbed his eyes. Who the hell are you?
This is the President, Price informed him.
Magill's eyes blinked. He took a quick look at the people with guns, then back at Ryan. This is pretty damned bad, the chief said first.
Anyone get out?
Magill shook his head. Not from this side. Three people on the other side, all beat up. We think they were in the Speaker's cloak room, someplace around there, probably the explosion just shot them through the windows. Two pages and a Secret Service guy, all burned and busted up. We're conducting a search-well, we're trying to, but so far even the people who weren't roasted-they had the oxygen sucked right out of them, asphyxia, you're just as dead. Paul Magill was Ryan's height, but a barrel-chested black man. His hands were mottled with large pale areas that gave testament to a very intimate battle with fire sometime in his professional past. His rugged face showed only sadness now, for fire wasn't a human enemy, just a mindless thing that scarred the fortunate and killed the rest. We might get lucky. Some people in small rooms, doors closed, like that, sir. There's a million damned rooms in this place, 'cording to these here plans. We might get a couple people out alive. I seen it happen before. But most of 'em Magill just shook his head for a moment. The line's holding, ought not to spread much more.
Nobody from the chamber? Agent Raman asked. He really wanted to know the name of the agent who'd been blown clear, but it would not have been professional to ask. Magill just shook his head in any case.
No. He stared off at the diminishing glow, and added, It would have been real quick. Magill shook his head again.
I want to see, Jack said impulsively.
No, Magill replied at once. Too dangerous. Sir, it's my fire, and my rules, okay?
I have to see, Ryan said, more quietly. The two pairs of eyes met and communicated. Magill still didn't like it. He