Executive orders - Tom Clancy [516]
And unconstitutional, the legal correspondent added. There's no doubt of that. The President has panicked, and that's not good for the country in medical or legal terms.
Thanks a bunch, fellas, Ryan said, muting the set.
We have to work on this, Arnie said.
How?
You fight bad information with good information.
Super, Arnie, except that proving I did the right thing means people have to die.
We have a panic to prevent, Mr. President.
So far that hadn't happened, which was remarkable. Timing had helped. The news had mainly hit people in the evening. For the most part, they'd gone home, they had enough food in the pantry to see them through a few days, and the news had shocked enough that there had not been a nationwide raid on supermarkets. Those things would change today, however. In a few hours people would be protesting. The news media would cover that, and some sort of public opinion would form. Arnie was right. He had to do something about it. But what?
How, Arnie?
Jack, I thought you'd never ask.
THE NEXT STOP was the airport. There it was confirmed that, yes, a privately owned, Swiss-registered G-IV business jet had indeed lifted off with a flight plan taking it to Paris via Libya, for refueling. The chief controller had a Xerox copy of the airport records and the aircraft's manifest ready for the visiting Americans. It was a remarkably comprehensive document, since it had to allow for customs control as well. Even the names for the flight crew were on it.
Well? Chavez asked.
Clark looked at the officials. Thank you for your valuable assistance. Then he and Ding headed for the car that would take them to their aircraft.
Well? Ding repeated.
Cool it, partner. The five-minute ride passed in silence. Clark looked out the window. Thunderheads were building. He hated flying in the things.
No way. We wait a few minutes. The backup pilot was a lieutenant colonel. We have rules.
Clark tapped the eagles on his epaulets and leaned right into his face. Me colonel. Me say go, air scout. Right the fuck now!
Look, Mr. Clark, I know who you are and-
Sir, Chavez said, I'm only an artificial major, but this mission's more important than your rules. Steer around the worst parts, will ya? We have barf bags if we need 'em. The pilot glared at them, but moved back into the front office. Chavez turned. Temper, John.
Clark handed over the paper. Check the names for the flight crew. They ain't Swiss, and the registration of the aircraft is.
Chavez looked for that. HX-NJA was the registration code. And the names for the flight crew weren't Germanic, Gallic, or Italian.
Sergeant? Clark called as the engines started up.
Yes, sir! The NCO had seen this man tear the driver a new asshole.
Fax this to Langley, please. You have the right number to use. Quick as you can, ma'am, he added, since she was a lady, and not just a sergeant. The NCO didn't get it, but didn't mind, either.
Cinch those belts in tight, the pilot called over the intercom as the VC-20B started to taxi.
IT TOOK THREE tries because of electrical interference from the storm, but the facsimile transmission went through the satellite, downlinked to Fort Belvoir, Virginia, and reappeared in Mercury, the Agency's communications nexus. The senior watch officer had his deputy run it to the seventh floor. By that time, Clark was on the phone to him.
Getting some interference, the watch officer said. Digital satellite radio and all, a thunderstorm was still a thunderstorm.
It's a little bumpy at the moment. Run the registration number and the names on that manifest. Everything you can get on them.
Say again.
Clark did. It got through this time.
Will do. Somebody's got a file on this. Anything else?
Back to you later. Out, he heard.
SO? DING ASKED, reefing his belt in tighter as the G took a ten-foot drop.
Those names are in Farsi, Ding-oh, shit. Another major bump. He looked