Executive orders - Tom Clancy [4]
Ain't gonna be pretty, sir.
IT WAS JUST after sundown in Hawaii. Rear Admiral Robert Jackson was landing at Barbers Point Naval Air Station. His peripheral vision took note of the well-lit hotels on Oahu's south shore, and a passing thought wondered what it cost to stay in one of them now. He hadn't done it since his early twenties, when two or three naval aviators would share accommodations in order to save money for hitting the bars and impressing the local women with their worldly panache. His Tomcat touched down gently, despite the lengthy ride and three aerial refuelings, because Robby still thought of himself as a fighter pilot, and therefore an artist of sorts. The fighter slowed down properly during its run-out, then turned right onto the taxiway.
Tomcat Five-Zero-Zero, continue down to the end-
I've been here before, miss, Jackson replied with a smile, breaking the rules. But he was an admiral, wasn't he? Fighter pilot and admiral. Who cared about rules?
Five-Zero-Zero, there's a car waiting.
Thank you. Robby could see it, there by the farthest hangar, along with a sailor waving the usual lighted wands.
Not bad for an old guy, the backseater noted as he folded up his maps and other unnecessary but gravely important papers.
Your vote of approval is noted. I was never this stiff before, Jackson admitted to himself. He shifted himself in the seat. His butt felt like painful lead. How could all feeling be gone, yet there still be pain? he asked himself with a rueful smile. Too old, was how his mind answered the question. Then his leg made its presence known. Arthritis, damn it. He'd had to make it an order to get Sanchez to release the fighter to him. It was too far for a COD to take him from USS John C. Stennis back to Pearl, and the orders had been specific enough: Expedite return. On that basis he'd borrowed a Tom whose fire-control system was down, and therefore was non-mission-capable anyway. The Air Force had supplied the tankers. So after seven hours of blessed silence, he'd flown half the Pacific in a fighter-doubtless for the last time. Jackson moved again as he turned the fighter toward the parking spot, and was rewarded with a back spasm.
Is that CINCPAC? Jackson asked, spotting the white-clad figure by the blue Navy car.
Admiral David Seaton it was, and not standing erect, but leaning against the car and flipping through messages as Robby cut the engines and opened the canopy. A sailor rolled up a stepladder, the sort used by mechanics, to make Robby's descent easier. Another enlisted man-woman, actually-extracted the arriving admiral's bag from the storage compartment underneath. Somebody was in a hurry.
Trouble, Seaton said the moment Robby had both boots on the ground.
I thought we won, Jackson replied, stopping dead still on the hot concrete of the ramp. His brain was tired, too. It would be a few minutes before his thinking ran at the customary speed, though his instincts were telling him that something unusual was afoot.
The President's dead-and we got a new one. Seaton handed over the clipboard. Friend of yours. We're back to DEFCON Three for the time being.
What the hell Admiral Jackson said, reading the first page of dispatches. Then he looked up. Jack's the new ?
Didn't you know about him becoming VP?
Jackson shook his head. I was tied up with other things before I got off the boat this morning. Holy God, Robby concluded with another shake of the head.
Seaton nodded. Ed Kealty resigned because of that sex scandal, the President persuaded Ryan to take the vice presidency until the elections next year, the Congress confirmed him, but before he could enter the chamber well, you can see what happened. Plane hit down center. The JCSs are all gone. The deputies are stepping in. Mickey Moore-Army General Michael Moore, the Deputy Chairman of the Joint Chiefs- has put in a call for all the CINCs to come into D.C.,