Cameron, Marc - Tom Clancy's Shadow of the Dragon

Jack Ryan found himself mesmerized by this gorgeous, rock-solid oasis of sanity in an insane world. Blond hair askew over her forehead, eyes half closed, she balanced an astonishingly bright cobalt-blue Paul Green pump on the toe of her astonishingly beautiful foot.

A world-renowned ophthalmic surgeon, Dr. Cathy Ryan had performed three retinal surgeries that morning. Dealing with vessels and nerves smaller than a human hair, there was zero room for error. Not particularly physical, but heavy lifting nonetheless.

Ryan stretched out on the well-worn cushions of the leather sofa of his private study off the Oval Office, tie loose, shoes off. Hands folded across his chest, his head turned sideways so he could lie down and still look at his wife.

“Not sure if I’m good at it,” he said. “But a Chinese mole inside CIA is definitely a problem.”

“But that’s not the problem you were talking about.”

Ryan rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “We have some incredibly brave and devoted patriots of Asian heritage in our intelligence organizations, and we’re about to put the screws to the vast majority of them, basically tell them we’ve stopped trusting them because of who their grandparents are. But the fact remains, the PRC likes to utilize people who have ties to China, to appeal to their sense of what it means to be Chinese. It’s a hard reality.”

“Are you sure this mole is of Chinese descent?”

“Not at all,” Ryan said. “But we have to consider the possibility. It troubles me that we actively recruit intelligence officers who speak native Mandarin, and then turn on them like this for the same reason we hired them. If we move too far in one direction, I ruin dozens of careers. Don’t move far enough, and a mole continues to bleed us dry of critical intelligence, endangering lives. It would be all too easy to have a purge.”

“My dear,” Cathy said, sounding almost asleep. “The fact that you struggle with this at all puts you a hundred and eighty degrees off a purge.”

“Mary Pat and I have hashed this out ad nauseam,” Ryan said. “She and her team will do a thoughtful job, but the buck stops with me. Every piece of guidance and advice I give is scrutinized—and heeded.”

“I get it,” Cathy said. “You can’t unlaunch a missile once you say ‘fire.’”

“You can,” Ryan said, “but the analogy makes the point. The direction I give affects people’s lives.”

The corner of Cathy’s lip perked in a half-smile. “It might be good for the guy on the street to hear Jack Ryan struggle with all sides of an issue once in a great while.”

“That’s sausage nobody wants to see made,” Ryan said. “Sometimes I worry that my team is banking everything on me making the exact right move at exactly the right time.”

Cathy’s eye flicked open. “You mean like when I alone am utilizing a powerful laser to work around microscopic vessels and blast someone’s tissue to reattach the retina to the back of their eye? Yeah, I think I get what you’re talking about.”

“Sorry for whining.” Ryan groaned. “Of course you get it.”

“Maybe we should just sneak away,” she said. “Because I have to tell you, sometimes, I feel like sneaking away.”

Ryan gave a little shrug, chin to chest. The couch in his private study was his second-favorite thinking spot. “I thought this was sneaking away.”

Cathy looked up at him with a mock pout. “I guess so. At least we’re away from that little peephole in the Oval Office door. I trust Betty, but … it still weirds me out sometimes to think about you living under a glass bubble.”

“Weirds you out?” Ryan swung his legs to the floor, patting the cushion beside him.

“I’m too tired to move, Jack.”

“Presidential order?”

“Nice try.”

She hauled herself out of the chair anyway and plopped down beside Ryan. “Just so you know, I’m moving because I want to, not because you made me.”

“Of that, my dear,” Ryan said, “I have no doubt.”

They leaned back together, staring at the ceiling.

Cathy yawned. “This is a comfortable couch.” She closed her eyes. “You have good hands,” she said, out of the blue.

Ryan gave her a quizzical look. “I appreciate that …”

“Good hands are a gift, Jack.”

“Thanks?”

“By the time a would-be surgeon gets to me, they’ve been through four years of medical school, rotations, practical testing, and an internship … at least. Most of the residents who come my way are pretty good at what they do. They’ll make good surgeons who can do ninety-five percent of the procedures out there. Every couple of years, though, I get a would-be surgeon who can rattle off the textbook answer to any question I throw out or look at a patient and diagnose the problem with ease. But when it comes to surgery, they are clumsy and inept. We say they have wooden hands.”

“Okay …”

“I’m telling you, you don’t have wooden hands, Jack. You’re not one of the other ninety-five percent, either.” She rested her palms flat on her knees and heaved a long sigh. “I’m not sure what it’s like to be President, but I know what it’s like to be a surgeon. It takes a monumental amount of swagger. You have to know you’re good enough to step up when everyone is looking over your shoulder with a literal microscope. You are skilled and sure and self-aware enough that you will make the right decision about this. You have good hands …” She glanced up at him. “Very. Good. Hands.”

“Are we still talking about my dilemma?”

“That depends on—”

Ryan groaned inside when a knock at the door cut her off.

Ryan took a seat behind the Resolute desk, his back to the windows overlooking the Rose Garden. The lingering smell of Cathy’s shampoo filled him with suffused giddiness—even after all these decades—and it took every ounce of his energy to give his full attention to Dustin Fullmer, from Defense Mapping.

Arnie van Damm pulled one of the Chippendale side chairs around to the end of the desk.

Fullmer, a twentysomething analyst, stood rooted in place, as if there were yellow footprints painted on the carpet in front of the Resolute. Like virtually everyone who briefed at the White House, he had a fresh haircut and a new suit.

He’d been involved in a handful of briefings, but never as lead. Folio clutched at his waist with both hands, he stood and nodded, meeting Ryan’s eye but not saying a word.

“Let’s have it, Dustin,” Ryan said.

“Have what, Mr. President?”

Van Damm closed his eyes and shook his head. “You told me you needed to brief the President.”

“No, sir, Mr. van Damm,” Fullmer said. “I said the President needed to be briefed. Commander Forestall is on his way over. Perhaps we should wait for—”

Ryan raised an open hand. “Your bosses trust you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It wasn’t a question, Dustin,” Ryan said. “I know they trust you, or they wouldn’t have sent you over to brief me. I’ve been in your shoes, shoved out in front, so to speak. Believe me, I understand what it’s like to stand where you’re standing. So take a deep breath and give me what you’ve got. We can go over it again when Commander Forestall arrives.”

“Of course, Mr. President,” Fullmer said. “I was …” He caught van Damm’s gaze and opened the leather folio. “As you’re aware, China and Russia recently engaged in a military exercise they called Snow Dragon. Satellite imagery shows three Chinese submarines departed pens in Wuhan and Hainan approximately five months ago. Two Shang Type 093 nuclear fast-attacks, then later a Kilo diesel-electric. The Kilo surfaced to top off batteries every twenty-four hours. They made no attempt to hide. A week later, a Jin -class nuclear ballistic missile sub departed Huludao. We picked it up again when it transited the Bering Strait and monitored it during the war game. The Kilo peeled off from the pack near Anadyr, Russia, at which point a fifth Chinese submarine, a Yuan , we believe, hull number 771, appeared. Both these subs stayed in the littoral waters around Anadyr, participating with Chinese and Russian surface ships in what we assume was a different round of the same exercise.”