Executive orders - Tom Clancy [458]
Every time I drive through here
You bet. We got brothers buried out yonder at Little Big Horn. Always say a little prayer for 'em when I come through.
Shit. The two men shook hands again. Mike Fallen.
Tim Yeager.
The two Mountain Men had not just come into the room for breakfast. These were their kind of people. Supposed to be, anyway. Rugged individualists. Federal cops as heroes? What the hell was that all about?
Boy, we find out who bankrolled this job, I hope that Ryan fella knows what to do 'bout it, machine parts said.
Ex-Marine, cattle replied. He ain't one of them. He's one of us. Finally.
You may be right. Somebody's gotta pay for this one, and I hope we get the right people to do the collectin'.
Damn right. the milk hauler agreed from his spot on the counter.
Well. Ernie Brown stood. Time for us to boogie on down the road.
The others nearby took a cursory look, and that was all, as the truckers returned to their informal opinion poll.
IF YOU DON'T feel better by tomorrow, you're going to the doctor, and that's final! she said.
Oh, I'll be all right. But that protestation came out as a groan. He wondered if this was Hong Kong flu or something else. Not that he knew the difference. Few people did, and in a real sense that included docs-and he did know that. What would they tell him? Rest, liquids, aspirin, which he was already doing. He felt as though he'd been placed in a bag and beaten with baseball bats, and all the traveling didn't help. Nobody liked traveling. Everyone liked being somewhere else, but getting there was always a pain in the everywhere, he grumped. He allowed himself to fade back off to sleep, hoping his wife wouldn't worry too much. He'd feel better by tomorrow. These things always went away. He had a comfortable bed, and a TV controller. As long as he didn't move around it didn't hurt much. It couldn't get any worse. Then it would get better. It always did.
WHEN PEOPLE GOT to a certain point, their work never really stopped. They could go away, but then the work came to them, found them wherever they might be, and the only issue, really, was how expensive it was to bring the work to them. That was a problem for both Jack Ryan and Robby Jackson.
For Jack it was the speeches Callie Weston had prepared for him-he'd be flying tomorrow, to Tennessee, then to Kansas, then to Colorado, then to California, and finally back to Washington, arriving at three in the morning on what was going to be the biggest special-election day in American history. Just over a third of the House seats vacated by that Sato guy would be selected, with the remainder to be done over the following two weeks. Then he'd have a full Congress to work with, and maybe, just maybe, he could get some real work done. Pure politics loomed in his immediate future. This coming week he'd be going over the detailed plans to streamline two of the government's most powerful bureaucracies, Defense and Treasury. The rest were in the works, too.
Since he was here with the President, Admiral Jackson was also getting everything developed by the office of J-2, the Pentagon's chief of intelligence, so that he could conduct the daily around-the-world brief. It took him an hour just to go over the materials.
What's happening, Rob? Jack asked, and instead of a friendly inquiry into how a guy's week was going, the President was asking the state of the entire planet. The J-3's eyebrows jerked up.
Where do you want me to start?
Pick a spot, the President suggested.
Okay, Mike Dubro and the Ike group are still heading north to China, making good time. Good weather and calm seas, they're averaging twenty-five knots. That advances their ETA by a few hours. Exercises continue on the Formosa Strait, but both sides are hugging their coasts now. Looks like maybe the shoot-downs got everybody to calm down a bit. Secretary Adler is supposed to be in there right now, talking to them about things.
Middle East. We're watching the UIR military run exercises, too. Six heavy divisions, plus attachments