Executive orders - Tom Clancy [83]
We had a short meeting with the acting chiefs a couple of days ago. There'll be a working session tomorrow. Jack'll be okay, the J-3 decided he would say. He put some conviction behind it. He had to. Jack was now NCA-National Command Authority-and Jackson's loyalty to him was a matter of law and honor, not mere humanity.
And your wife? He looked over to where Sissy Jackson was talking with Sally Ryan.
Still number two piano for the National Symphony.
Who's the lead?
Miklos Dimitri. Bigger hands, Jackson explained. He decided it would be impolitic to ask any family questions of his own.
You did well in the Pacific.
Yeah, well, fortunately we didn't have to kill all that many people. Jackson looked his almost-friend in the eye. That really stopped being fun, y'know?
Can he handle the job, Robby? You know him better than I do.
Captain, he has to handle the job, Jackson answered, looking over at his Commander-in-Chief-friend, and knowing how much Jack detested formal occasions. Watching his new President endure the circulating line, it was impossible to avoid thinking back. Long way from teaching history at the Trade School, Your Highness, the admiral observed in a whisper.
For Cathy Ryan, it was more than anything else an exercise in protecting her hand. Oddly she knew the formal occasion drill better than her husband. As a senior physician at Johns Hopkins's Wilmer Ophthalmological Institute, she'd had to deal with numerous formal fund-raisers over the years, essentially a high-class version of begging-most of which occasions Jack had missed, often to her displeasure. So, here she was, again, meeting people she didn't know, would never have the chance to like, and not one of whom would support her research programs.
The Prime Minister of India, her protocol officer said quietly.
Hello. The First Lady smiled her greeting, shook the hand, which was blessedly light.
You must be very proud of your husband.
I've always been proud of Jack. They were of the same height. The Prime Minister's skin was swarthy, and she squinted her eyes behind her glasses, Cathy saw. She probably needed a prescription change, and she probably got headaches from her out-of-date one. Strange. They had some pretty good doctors in India. Not all of them came to America.
And such lovely children, she added.
How nice of you to say that. Cathy smiled again, in an automatic sort of way, to an observation that was as perfunctory as a comment on the clouds in the sky. A closer look at the woman's eyes told Cathy something she didn't like. She thinks she's better than me. But why? Because she was a politician and Caroline Ryan a mere surgeon? Would it be different had she chosen to become a lawyer? No, probably not, her mind went on, racing as it sometimes did when a surgical procedure went bad unexpectedly. No, it wasn't that at all. Cathy remembered a night right here in the East Room, facing off with Elizabeth Elliot. It was the same supercilious mind-set: I'm better than you because of who I am and what I do. SURGEON-that was her Secret Service code name, which had not displeased her at all, really-looked more deeply into the dark eyes before hers. There was even more to it than that. Cathy let go of her hand as the next big shot came through the mill.
The Prime Minister departed the line and headed for a circulating waiter, from whom she took a glass of juice. It would have been too obvious to do what she really wanted to do. That would come the next day, in New York. For now she looked at one of her fellow Prime Ministers, this one representing the People's Republic of China. She raised her glass a centimeter or so, and nodded without smiling.