Jack Ryan 11 - Bear And The Dragon Read Online Free PDF Page A

the same sort of rush that a controlled substance might. With it came a desire to be perfect for them, to deliver his lines properly, to seem sincere -- as indeed he was, but it would have been far easier doing it once or twice instead of three hundred and eleven times, as the final count had been reckoned.
    The news media in every place asked the same questions, written down or taped the same answers, and printed them as new news in every local paper. In every city and town, the editorials had praised Ryan, and worried loudly that this election wasn't really an election at all, except on the congressional level, and there Ryan had stirred the pot by giving his blessing to people of both major parties, the better to retain his independent status, and therefore to risk offending everyone.
    The love hadn't quite been universal, of course. There were those who'd protested, who got their heads on the nightly commentary shows, citing his professional background, criticizing his drastic actions to stop the terrorist-caused Ebola plague that had threatened the nation so desperately in those dark days -- “Yes, it worked in this particular case, but...!” -- and especially to criticize his politics, which, Jack said in his speeches, weren't politics at all, but plain common sense.
    During all of this, Arnie had been a godsend, preselecting a response to every single objection. Ryan was wealthy, some said. “My father was a police officer” had been the answer. “I've earned every penny I have -- and besides [going on with an engaging smile], now my wife makes a lot more money than I do.”
    Ryan knew nothing about politics: “Politics is one of those fields in which everybody knows what it is, but nobody can make it work. Well, maybe I don't know what it is, but I am going to make it work!”
    Ryan had packed the Supreme Court: “I'm not a lawyer, either, sorry” he'd said to the annual meeting of the American Bar Association. “But I know the difference between right and wrong, and so do the justices.”
    Between the strategic advice of Arnie and the preplanned words of Callie Weston, he'd managed to parry every serious blow, and strike back with what was usually a soft and humorous reply of his own -- leavened with strong words delivered with the fierce but quiet conviction of someone who had little left to prove. Mainly, with proper coaching and endless hours of preparation, he'd managed to present himself as Jack Ryan, regular guy.
    Remarkably, his most politically astute move had been made entirely without outside expertise.
     
    “Morning, Jack,” the Vice President said, opening the door unannounced.
    “Hey, Robby.” Ryan looked up from his desk with a smile. He still looked a little awkward in suits, Jack saw. Some people were born to wear uniforms, and Robert Jefferson Jackson was one of them, though the lapel of every suit jacket he owned sported a miniature of his Navy Wings of Gold.
    “There's some trouble in Moscow,” Ryan said, explaining on for a few seconds.
    “That's a little worrisome,” Robby observed.
    “Get Ben to give you a complete brief-in on this. What's your day look like?” the President asked.
    “Sierra-square, Delta-square.” It was their personal code: SSDD -- same shit, different day. “I have a meeting of the Space Council across the street in twenty minutes. Then tonight I have to fly down to Mississippi for a speech tomorrow morning at Ole Miss.”
    “You taking the wheel?” Ryan asked.
    “Hey, Jack, the one good thing about this damned job is that I get to fly again.” Jackson had insisted on getting rated on the VC-20B that he most often flew around the country on official trips under the code name “Air Force Two.” It looked very good in the media, and it was also the best possible therapy for a fighter pilot who missed being in control of his aircraft, though it must have annoyed the Air Force flight crew. “But it's always to shit details you don't want,” he added