This place had long been his haven, his refuge from the intractable chaos of the White House—the place where all the world’s problems seemed to land with a thud. That contrast, the tranquility of this place versus the turmoil of Pennsylvania Avenue, seemed to deepen with the passing of time.
Ryan had a theory about that. The memories of raising a family here with Cathy were indelible, although the earliest of them were beginning to fade. He supposed it was only natural. His kids still gathered here when they were in town, but it was an increasingly rare occasion for all of them to visit at the same time. Everyone was moving, onward and upward, tackling the world in their own way. Ryan would forever enjoy spending time with his family; the good-natured bantering during meals, the football on thelawn, the games of Battleship. Yet more than ever, he found himself drawn to these rare moments of solitude, notwithstanding the heavy Secret Service contingent guarding the perimeter.
“Here you go.”
He felt a familiar hand brush his shoulder. Cathy set a steaming cup of decaf on the table that split their Adirondack chairs. For reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, she looked more stunning than ever. Her mid-length hair was nicely cut, accented by a few blond highlights, and she was as trim as ever. Yet nothing captivated him more than his wife’s smile. It was open and honest, reflecting a woman who was deeply at peace. On good days, Ryan imagined he had something to do with that. On the others, he was glad she managed it in spite of him, or more accurately, in spite of his job. Either way, he felt more smitten with his wife every day.
He looked down and noticed she hadn’t chosen a mug sporting the presidential seal, of which he had dozens. This one had pictures of his kids as infants—the classic “What do I get Dad for Christmas?” bailout.
“Thanks,” he said.
Cathy took the other chair and cradled a cup of herbal tea.
“I got a text from Katie,” she said. “She wants to bring Commander Knepper with her for Thanksgiving.”
Ryan shot his wife a guarded look. His daughter had been seeing a submariner, the XO of the USSWashington. “This is starting to sound serious.”
“If it’s Katie…it’s serious.”
He smiled. “Yeah, she does rarely change her mind once it’s made up.”
“True. But thankfully, she seems to have made a good choice.”
“The commander is welcome anytime.”
Cathy was about to take her first sip when she abruptly looked up.
“What is it?” he asked, noticing her sudden alertness.
“Inbound.”
Her hearing had always been sharper than his, and a life spent around the machines of war and enduring jarring explosions had only widened the gap. But soon he heard it, too. The resonatingwhump, whumpof an approaching helicopter.
He looked to the right and saw a VH-92A from Marine Helicopter Squadron One, its red beacon blinking in the dusk. The aircraft swept out in a wide arc and settled on the outer lawn. Ryan looked right a second time and spotted two identical birds circling in the distance. This suggested he wasn’t looking at a simple visit from one of his senior staff. He himself was about to go for a ride—or at the very least, have the option of doing so.
“Was this on your calendar?” Cathy asked warily. She was reading the situation precisely as he had.
“No. I wasn’t set to go back to the White House until tomorrow morning.” He checked his secure comm device and saw no urgent messages.
Ryan stood and walked to the broad steps that led down to the lawn. The entry door of the chopper opened and a familiar figure descended. Director of National Intelligence Mary Pat Foley. She walked across the lawn with her signature stride, compact and direct.
Ryan stepped down to the grass, but stopped there, letting Mary Pat come to him—the sound of the helo, even at idle, would be difficult to talk over.
“Good evening, Jack,” she said, addressing him in the familiar, as she typically did in private.
“I’m thinking maybe not,” the President replied.
“There’s been an accident, an air crash in Turkey.”
“Turk—” The word snagged like a docked boat jerking on its mooring line. “A jet from the 89th?” he ventured.
“I’m afraid so.” She paused a moment, as if preparing him for more.
“Survivors?” he asked.
Mary Pat shook her head. “There don’t appear to be any.”
The President held steady. It was an agonizingly familiar reaction for Ryan, honed by a lifetime of shock and disaster. He knew many of the 89th’s personnel. Yet the vivid image of one face came unshakably to mind. “John Moore.”
