Jack Ryan 8 - Debt of Honor Read Free

possibility had always existed—distant but real—that the original application beckoned. It had become an institutional joke for the production people in the various corporations, something not to take seriously.
    But they'd take it seriously now, the engineer thought. He switched off the lights and pulled the door shut behind him. He had a deadline to meet, and he would start today, after only a few hours of sleep.
     
     
    Even as often as he'd been here, Ryan had never lost his mystical appreciation for the place, and today's manner of arrival hadn't been contrived to make him look for the ordinary. A discreet call to his hotel had arranged for the drive to the airport. The aircraft had been waiting, of course, a twin-prop harness bird sitting at the far end of the ramp, ordinary except for the USAF markings and the fact that the flight crew had been dressed in olive-green nomex. Friendly smiles, again of course, deferential. A sergeant to make sure he knew how to use the seat belt, and the perfunctory discussion of safety and emergency procedures. The look-back from the pilot who had a schedule to meet, and off they went, with Ryan wondering where the briefing papers were, and sipping a U.S. Air Force Coca-Cola. Wishing he'd changed into his good suit, and remembering that he had deliberately decided not to do so. Stupid, beneath himself. Flight time of forty-seven minutes, and a direct approach into Andrews. The only thing they left out was the helicopter ride in from Andrews, but that would only have attracted attention. Met by a deferential Air Force major who'd walked him over to a cheap official car and a quiet driver, Ryan settled back in his seat and closed his eyes while the major took the front seat. He tried to nap. He'd seen
    
    
     Suitland Parkway
    
    
     before, and knew the route by heart.
    
    
     Suitland Parkway
    
    
     to I-295, immediately off that and onto I-395, take the Maine Avenue Exit. The time of day, just after lunch, guaranteed rapid progress, and sure enough, the car stopped at the guard shack on
    
    
     West Executive Drive
    
    
    , where the guard, most unusually, just waved them through. The canopied entrance to the White House basement level beckoned, as did a familiar face.
    “Hi, Arnie.” Jack held his hand out to the President's chief of staff. Arnold van Damm was just too good, and Roger Durling had needed him to help with the transition. Soon enough President Durling had measured his senior staffer against Arnie, and found his own man wanting. He hadn't changed much, Ryan saw. The same L. L. Bean shirts, and the same rough honesty on his face, but Arnie was older and tireder than before. Well, who wasn't? “The last time we talked here, you were kicking me loose,” Jack said next, to get a quick read on the situation.
    “We all make mistakes, Jack.”
    Uh-oh. Ryan went instantly on guard, but the handshake pulled him through the door anyway. The Secret Service agents on post had a pass all ready for him, and things went smoothly until he set off the metal detector. Ryan handed over his hotel room key and tried again, hearing yet another ping. The only other metal on his body except for his watch turned out to be his divot tool.
    “When did you take up golf.'” van Damm asked with a chuckle that matched he expression of the nearest agent.
    “Nice to know you haven't been following me around. Two months, and I haven't broken one-ten yet.”
    The chief of staff waved Ryan to the hidden stairs to the left. “You know why they call it 'golf'?”
    “Yeah, because 'shit' was already taken.” Ryan stopped on the landing. “What gives, Arnie?”
    “I think you know,” was all the answer he got.
    “Hello, Dr. Ryan!” Special Agent Helen D'Agustino was as pretty as ever, and still part of the Presidential Detail. “Please come with me.”
    The presidency is not a job calculated to bring youth to a man. Roger Durling had once been a paratrooper who'd climbed hills in the