Oath of Office

“SWORDSMAN en route to the Oval,” the agent said into the mic clipped to the collar of his shirt as the President stepped into the hallway, leather briefcase in hand. The response from the USSS command center was transmitted through the agent’s earpiece and inaudible to Ryan.

“Good morning, Nick,” Ryan said. “How are the kids?”

“Just fine, Mr. President,” the agent said, stepping across the hall to enter the elevator. Ryan knew it was the only answer the agent could give, but it was important for him to know that the boss knew he had kids, and that his wife worked as a nurse. Kindness came naturally to Jack Ryan, and he sought nothing in return, but on a purely strategic note, it was a smart tactic to treat the folks who had his back as if they were something more than furniture.

He gave a polite nod to Andrea Young, the Secret Service Uniform Division officer posted outside the elevator on the ground floor. UD was everywhere inside the White House.

Officer Young had tipped off Rear Admiral Jason Bailey, the physician to the President, that Ryan was on his way down. Dr. Bailey stepped out of his office across from the elevator and adjacent to the Map Room. He was a jovial man, with dark hair, rosy cheeks, and deep lines around his eyes, as if he spent most of his day smiling. Bailey oversaw a staff of half a dozen other doctors and nurses that made up the White House Medical Unit, but he delegated little when it came to the President himself. If there was traveling to be done, Dr. Bailey was the one to go, staying near enough to Ryan that he could reach him quickly, but just far enough away that he would not be caught up in any catastrophic event that might render him unable to do his job. When Ryan was in the residence, Dr. Bailey braved the commuter traffic of Highway 50 from his own home in Annapolis so he could put eyes on his patient first thing in the morning when he stepped off the elevator.

“Good morning, Mr. President.” Bailey raised a mug of peppermint tea as if to offer a toast. He canted his head to one side, giving Ryan a narrow eye, probing like a CT scan. “A little extra bounce in your step this morning.”

“Is that so?” Ryan shrugged, trying to keep a straight face as he thought about Cathy. The presidency really was a fishbowl.

Ryan hung a right when he got off the elevator, stepping outside to continue his morning commute past the Rose Garden and along the colonnade to the Oval Office. He looked forward to the minute or two of fresh air and breeze. The Secret Service agent opened the door and stepped aside, posting outside the door.

Ryan’s principal secretary buzzed the intercom the moment he sat down at his desk.

“Good morning, Betty,” he said, waiting a beat. She usually gave him a minute or two to settle in, so something had to be up.

“SAIC Montgomery is here. He’d like a few minutes before your nine o’clock.”

“By all means,” Ryan said, scooting back from the Resolute desk and rising to his feet. Normally people stood when he came into the room, but Gary Montgomery was the Special Agent in Charge of the Secret Service Presidential Protection Division — the hundreds of men and women who kept Ryan and his family safe. If Ryan was going to defer to anyone, it would be Montgomery.

The SAIC of PPD came through the door. He was forty-eight years old, six-three, and built like a linebacker. His dark suit was on the expensive side, cut loose to allow for the SIG Sauer pistol and extra magazines on his belt. No desk-jockey boss, he had to be just as prepared as the most junior post-stander on the protective detail — maybe more so. Montgomery had boxed at the University of Michigan and, apart from any athletic competition involving Ohio State, was generally mild mannered. He possessed what Ryan’s father had called “quiet hands” and moved with the confident demeanor of a person whose abilities had been severely tested and found equal to the task. Competent. Calm. Unflappable.

And he wasn’t smiling.

Ryan motioned to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Morning, Gary.”

“Good morning, Mr. President,” Montgomery said, remaining on his feet and getting straight to the point. “As you know, Secret Service Protective Intelligence has search-engine alerts set up on you, your family, and key members of your administration.”

“That’s gotta be a load of fun to read,” Ryan said, shaking his head.

Montgomery glanced at his watch, the kind of glance that said he was in no mood for lighthearted banter. “A little over an hour ago, no fewer than seven different websites calling themselves news organizations put up what are essentially four slightly different versions of the exact same—”

Betty buzzed the intercom again. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. President, but DNI Foley just arrived, along with Secretaries Burgess and Dehart. The attorney general telephoned to say he is on his way.”