Tom Clancy - Locked On

Cathy considered herself supremely qualified for the role. No one in the world knew Jack Ryan better than she did. She could look into his eyes or listen to the sound of his voice and know everything about his mood, his energy, even whether or not he’d snuck an afternoon cup of coffee that she did not permit when they were traveling together.

Normally Jack did great in front of a camera. He was natural, not stiff at all; he came off just like the man he was. A decent, intelligent guy who was, at the same time, strong-willed and motivated.

But occasionally Cathy saw things that she did not think helped him get his point across. Of particular concern to her was the fact that, in her opinion, whenever he talked about one of Kealty’s policies or comments that he did not agree with — which was essentially everything that came out of Kealty’s White House — Jack’s face had a tendency to turn dark.

Cathy had recently sat in bed with her husband on one of the almost nonexistent nights that found him taking a quick break at home from the campaign trail. For nearly an hour she held the remote control for td t and on he flat-screen TV on the wall. That would have been hell enough for Jack Ryan, even if his mug was not on all the programs that she had recorded and flipped through. That was murderous for a guy who never liked seeing his face or hearing his voice on television. But Cathy was unrelenting; she used their TiVo, cycled from one press conference to the next, from lofty sit-down interviews with major network anchors all the way to impromptu exchanges with high school reporters while walking through shopping malls.

In each clip she showed him, every time a Kealty policy was brought up, Jack Ryan’s face changed. It wasn’t a sneer, and for that Jack felt he should get a damn medal, as incensed as he was by, literally, every last decision of importance by the Kealty administration. But Cathy was right, Jack could not deny it. Whenever an interviewer brought up a Kealty policy, Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw tightened just perceptibly, and often his head shook back and forth, just once, as if to say “No!”

Cathy had tracked back for a moment to show Jack at a barbecue in Fort Worth, with a paper plate of brisket and corn on the cob in one hand and an iced tea in the other. A C-SPAN camera crew following him picked up an exchange where a middle-aged woman mentioned Kealty’s recent push for more regulation on the oil and gas industries.

While the woman relayed the hardships her family was enduring, Jack’s jaw tightened and he shook his head. There was empathy relayed in his body language, but only after his initial recoil of anger. His first reaction, that first flash of rage, locked into a still frame when Cathy pressed the pause button, was unmistakable.

As they sat in bed together Jack Ryan tried to lighten the moment. “I think I deserve partial credit on that one for not tossing up the baked beans I’d just eaten. I mean, we were talking about increasing red tape and bureaucracy on business in this economy.”

Cathy smiled, shook her head. “Partial credit isn’t going to get you the highest office in the land this time, Jack. You are winning, but you haven’t won yet.”

Jack nodded. Chastened. “I know. I’ll work on it, I promise.”

And now, in the locker room at Case Western Reserve, Jack worked on it. He tried out his happy face on the empty room, while thinking back to that poor woman’s family unable to find work in an environment that stifled the entire industry in which she sought employment.

Chin up, a slight nod, eyes relaxed, no squinting.

Ugh, Jack thought. Feels unnatural.

He sighed. He realized, not for the first time, that if it feels unnatural, then that means Cathy was right, and he had been making faces ever since he’d thrown his hat into the ring.

He worried now that debating foreign policy in person with Ed Kealty would be a tremendous challenge to his self-control.

Jack spent one more moment practicing the happy face. Thought about Cathy watching this debate from the audience.

He smiled unnaturally at the mirror. Did it again. A third time.

The fourth smile on his lips was real. He almost laughed. He couldn’t help it. A grown man making faces into a mirror.

He snorted out a laugh now. Politics, when you drilled right down into it, was ultimately so goddamn ridiculous.

Jack Ryan Sr. shook his head and stepped to the door. One more lor. to ng sigh, one more affirmation to himself that he could pull off the happy face, and then he turned the knob.

Outside in the hall, his people began moving. Andrea Price-O’Day stepped up to his shoulder. The rest of his security team formed in a diamond around him for the walk to the stage.

“Swordsman is moving,” Price-O’Day said into her cuff mike.

Ed Kealty and Jack Ryan stepped out from opposite wings onto a stage awash in television lighting. There was polite applause from a crowd of students, media, and Clevelanders who’d managed to secure tickets. They met in the middle. Jack had a quick mental image of the men touching gloves, but instead they just shook hands. Ryan smiled and nodded, said “Mr. President,” and Kealty himself nodded, reached behind Ryan and patted him on the back with his right hand as both men stepped forward to the round table.

Ryan knew that Ed Kealty wished he had a switchblade in that hand.

The two men sat at the small conference table. In front of them sat CBS Evening News anchor Joshua Ramirez, a young-looking fifty-year-old who wore his hair slicked back and stylish glasses that, with the glare of the stage lighting, created a distracting shine in Ryan’s eyes. Jack liked Ramirez overall; he was smart and affable enough when the camera was off and professional enough when the camera was on. CBS had been no friend to Ryan’s first presidency, and they certainly seemed to be continuing the pro-Kealty slant through this campaign, but Josh Ramirez was just a foot soldier in their army, a working stiff, and Ryan didn’t blame him.

Ryan had been kicked around in the media long enough not to take it personally. Some of the things the media said and wrote about him, virtually accusing him of everything from stealing money from the elderly to taking lunches from school kids’ mouths, were nothing if not incredibly personal.

Jack Ryan, you are a vile human being… nothing personal.

Right.

Still, Ramirez wasn’t as bad as some of the others. The general media’s collusion in Kealty’s reelection campaign was prevalent. A few weeks back, a guy at a Kealty Q&A in Denver had the temerity to ask the President of the United States when he thought gas prices would drop back down to where he could afford a road trip with his family. Kealty, in a moment that must have made his minders groan, shook his head at the question from the working stiff and suggested that the man see this as an opportunity to go out and buy a hybrid vehicle.

Not one of the major media outlets or wire services ran the quote. Ryan himself brought it up the next morning at an electric motor plant in Allegheny, Pennsylvania, making the obvious point, seemingly lost on Kealty, that a family having trouble filling their tank might have trouble purchasing a new car.

Five minutes after making the quip, as Jack climbed back into his SUV to leave the motor plant, Arnie van Damm just shook his head. “Jack, you just delivered a great line that no one but those people on that factory floor will ever hear.”

Arnie was right. None of the big media outlets ran it. Van Damm promised Ryan he could not count on any “gotcha moments” by the mainstream media against Ed Kealty. No, all the “gotcha moments” would go against Jack Ryan.