Mark Greaney - Full Force and Effect

“Can he speak to the press?”

“Due to the security situation at the airport, the press pool was either not able or not allowed to board the aircraft. I understand he will record an audio message, and as soon as I get that I will send it out to all the media contacts.”

A young male reporter from MSNBC called out now. “Why not a video message?”

Arnie said, “Honestly, we don’t have the time to set up a secure video conference with Air Force One.”

“Arnie, how can we confirm it’s really Ryan talking if we can’t even see him?”

Arnie looked at the man for a long time. “You just announced to your viewership that the Taliban has accepted responsibility. Did you confirm that, or did you just run with it?”

“Well, we—”

“I don’t care if you believe it’s Jack Ryan on the audio. Just run it. He’ll be back in Washington in a few hours, and I’m sure we’ll prove any skeptics wrong.”

Another question came from the front row. “Who is in charge?”

Van Damm said, “John Patrick Ryan is the President of the United States. That has not changed.”

In the office in Pyongyang, General Ri looked at the uniformed woman next to him now, not at the television. “He is alive and on his airplane?”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

Ri shook his head. Slowly at first, and then more quickly. “It’s a lie. His body is on the airplane. They are buying themselves a few hours. Once the plane lands in Washington, and they all have their stories straight, they will claim the President died in flight.”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

Ri stood and began pacing his office. Within seconds his phone rang, and he stormed over and snatched it up. “Yes?” He nodded. “ What? Zarif is alive? Damn you! Find him now, or your family will be in Chongjin by the end of the week!” He slammed the phone down so hard the translator cried out.

—

In New York City, the entire Campus team had just arrived to help Sam Driscoll with his surveillance on Veronika Martel. She had not left her apartment yet today, but the team expected movement soon because it was already early afternoon.

Clark had gone out to rent a second vehicle, but the rest of the men had been sitting in the living room on a conference call with Gavin Biery. Suddenly Clark came through the door, almost in a run. Ding, Dom, Sam, and Jack stood quickly, confused and concerned by his manner. He shut the door, then he looked at the television. When he saw it was turned off he headed straight through the living room toward the hall to the bedrooms. On the way he said, “Ryan, follow me.”

Ryan stood, looked around at the other guys. “What the hell did I do?” Clark had already stormed down the hall.

Ryan entered the bedroom seconds later. Clark moved close to him. Jack had been concerned he was in trouble, but he could see something else in Clark’s eyes, something that gave him even more reason to fear.

“What is it?”

“Son, your dad’s motorcade was attacked in Mexico City. It’s all over the news.”

Ryan’s mouth opened slightly, but he did not speak.

“Nobody knows anything yet. I called Gerry and he’s on it, but we’re going to learn more from the media that was down there.”

Clark didn’t mention that one of the cable outlets had already announced the assassination of the President. Instead, he said, “You need to call your mom.”

Just then Ryan’s phone rang in the living room. He raced back in and stared at it for a moment, then he picked it up and looked at the number.

It was his mother.

His hand shook. “Is he dead?”

“He’s hurt, but Maura says he’ll be okay.”

Jack felt his knees weaken, and he gave in to it, dropping onto the couch and leaning forward. Quickly he held a thumbs-up for Clark, but the other men still had no idea what had happened.

Clark grabbed the TV remote.

“Who did it?” Jack asked.

“He doesn’t know.”

“If it was in Mexico it had to be Santiago Maldonado and those psychos under him.”

“Can you come to George Washington Hospital this afternoon? I know he’ll want to see you when he gets home.”

Ryan turned his head away from the phone when an ambulance siren raced up the street, and when the ambulance stopped in front of the small apartment building directly across from them, he walked to the window. The other Campus operators followed.

“Jack?” his mother said. “Are you there?”

“I have to call you back.”

“Are you coming to the hospital?”

“I’ll be there.” He hung up the phone as two paramedics ran up the steps to the building and were let in by one of the residents.

Clark looked to Sam, and Sam moved without being asked. He ran down the stairs and crossed the street. Already two neighbors walking their dogs had stopped by the ambulance. A woman came down from the apartment building a few seconds later, and they started chatting.

Sam stood back, but he was close enough to hear.

Five minutes later he was back in the apartment across the street.

“The super found the body of a woman in three-A. The tenant.”

Ryan was back on the couch. CNN was on TV, Arnie Van Damm had just spoken. He couldn’t take his eyes from the images on the screen, but he also couldn’t believe Veronika was dead, just one hundred feet from where he sat.

Sam Driscoll did not hesitate to place blame for Martel’s murder. “It wasn’t the North Koreans. If you go through the back door of that building you have to pass up the alley next to it, and you can see that from here. I’ve had cams running twenty-four-seven and the only person who came or left since the last time I saw Martel alive was Edward Riley.”

Chavez said, “Riley murdered his own agent? Why?”

No one knew.

Ryan sat alone with his face in his hands for a minute, suddenly tired and overwhelmed. Finally, he stood. “Sorry, guys, I’ve got to get back to D.C.”

Clark stood as well. “I’ll drive you to the airport.” He turned to the rest of the crew. “I want the rest of you guys looking for Riley. Sharps knows about us, so it’s going to be a challenge to operate back on these streets, but I don’t think Sharps was involved in this. He’s way too slick to be whacking his own people in New York. This, whatever it is, is something else.” He looked to the TV for a moment. He wished he was down in Mexico on the hunt for the perpetrators of the ambush, and he knew his crew was thinking the same thing. He needed to keep them on mission. “Stay focused. Ryan . . . let’s go.”

62

President Jack Ryan asked those around him in the presidential suite in the nose of the aircraft to help him up. Even though this recording would be audio only, he couldn’t give a speech lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. The import of the moment required him to, at the very least, sit upright. His doctor and the Air Force nurse first tried to talk him out of sitting, but they saw the determination in his eyes, and they quickly became his confederates in the endeavor, helping him up and into one of two chairs by a tiny desk.

Once Ryan was in the chair, his right arm cinched across his chest and his left arm wrapped with compresses, Dr. Handwerker and the Air Force nurse stepped back and sat down on the bed he had just vacated, and David Detmer, assistant to the chief of staff, entered the room. He had a small digital recorder he’d borrowed from a secretary, and he held it up to the President, kneeling in front of him.

At first Jack struggled to concentrate. Any adrenaline that had helped mute his pain had dissipated, the discomfort was increasing by the minute, and the intense dull ache in his shoulder and neck now felt like a million pins and needles, with intermittent quick jolts of sharper pain.