Patriot games - Tom Clancy [84]
"Are you and Sissy going anywhere for Christmas?"
"Not that I know of. I can't, really; most of the holidays I'm gonna be flying down at Pax."
"Okay, come on over to our place for dinner-three-ish."
"Cathy's family isn't-"
"No," Ryan said as he tucked everything back where it belonged. Robby shook his head.
"Some folks just don't catch on," the pilot observed.
"Well, you know how it is. I don't worship at the temple of the Almighty Dollar anymore."
"But you managed to do a job on the collection basket."
Jack grinned. "Yeah, you might say that."
"That reminds me. There's a little outfit outside Boston that's gonna hit it big."
"Oh?" Jack's ears perked up.
"It's called Holoware, Ltd., I think. They came up with new software for the computers on fighter planes-really good stuff, cuts a third off the processing time, generates intercept solutions like magic. It's set up on the simulator down at Pax, and the Navy's going to buy it real soon."
"Who knows?"
Jackson laughed as he got his things. "The company doesn't know yet. Captain Stevens down at Pax just got the word from the guys out at Topgun. Bill May out there-I used to fly with Bill-ran the stuff for the first time a month ago, and he liked it so much that he almost got the Pentagon boys to cut through all the bullshit and just buy the stuff. It got hung up, but DCNO-Air is on it now, and they say Admiral Rendall is really hot for it. Thirty more days, and that little company is going to get a Christmas present. A little late," Robby said, "but it'll fill one big stocking. Just for the hell of it, I checked the paper this morning, and sure enough, they're listed on the American Exchange. You might want to check it out."
"What about you?"
The pilot shook his head. "I don't play the market, but you still fool around there, right?"
"A little. Is this classified or anything?" Jack asked.
"Not that I know of. The classified part is how the software is written, and they got a real good classification system on that-nobody understands it. Maybe Skip Tyler could figure it out, but I never will. You have to be a nuc to think in ones and zeros. Pilots don't think digital. We're analog." Jackson chuckled. "Gotta run. Sissy's got a recital tonight."
" 'Night, Rob."
"Low and slow, Jack." Robby closed the door behind him. Jack leaned back in his chair for a moment. He smiled to himself, then rose and packed some papers into his briefcase.
"Yeah," he said to himself. "Just to show him that I still know how."
Ryan got his coat on and left the building, walking downhill past the Preble Memorial. His car was parked on Decatur Road. Jack drove a five-year-old VW Rabbit. It was a very practical car for the narrow streets of Annapolis, and he refused to have a Porsche like his wife used for commuting back and forth to Baltimore. It was dumb, he'd told Cathy about a thousand times, for two people to have three cars. A Rabbit for him, a 911 for her, and a station wagon for the family. Dumb. Cathy's suggestion that he should sell the Rabbit and drive the wagon was, of course, unacceptable. The little gas engine fired up at once. It sounded too noisy. He'd have to check the muffler. Jack pulled out, turning right, as always, onto Maryland Avenue through Gate Three in the grimly undecorous perimeter wall that surrounded the Academy. A Marine guard saluted him on the way out. Ryan was surprised by that-they'd never done it before.
Driving wasn't easy. When he shifted, Ryan twisted his left hand inside the sling to grab the wheel while his right hand worked the gearshift. The rush-hour traffic didn't help. Several thousand state workers were disgorging themselves from various government buildings, and the crowded streets gave Ryan plenty of opportunity to stop and restart from first gear. His Rabbit had five, plus reverse, and by the time he got to the Central Avenue light he was asking himself why he hadn't gotten the Rabbit with an automatic. Fuel efficiency was the answer-is this worth an extra two miles per gallon?". Ryan laughed at himself as he