Oath of Office

The President of the United States set a white porcelain coffee cup on a wood coaster at the edge of the Resolute desk. There were those who thought Jack Ryan surely drank from the skulls of his defeated enemies, but in truth, the academic and former Marine much preferred his coffee from a chipped ceramic mug, the interior of which was richly stained from the many gallons of brew that had gone before. He’d make the switch to that mug later in the day, but the first meeting in the Oval Office with a newly minted Cabinet official necessitated the fancy White House china to go with the requisite photo op.

With the photographer gone now, Ryan had moved around to the front of his desk to sit in one of the two Chippendale chairs, across from Mark Dehart, the secretary of homeland security. The upholstered couches and chairs in the middle of the Oval were more comfortable, but they had a way of swallowing people up. Ryan had met with Dehart briefly once before, immediately following the last White House Correspondents’ Dinner. That off-the-cuff meeting had taken place in a tiny Washington Hilton anteroom not much larger than a phone booth. It was a bit of an ambush — as interviews with the Commander in Chief often were. Dehart hadn’t had the time or the space then to be nervous, but he appeared downright unflappable now. His eyes sparkled with intensity at this first official sit-down with his new boss. Ryan liked that. People who were comfortable in their own skin were more likely to offer honest critiques and advice. And honest critiques from within one’s own camp were in short supply when one was arguably the most powerful person on the planet.

This morning, Ryan had blocked out a full twenty minutes with his new DHS secretary. It was an eternity as Oval Office meetings went, especially when the purpose was just a friendly chat.

Ryan gave an approving nod. “I apologize for taking so long to have you in for a visit.”

“You’re a busy man, Mr. President,” Dehart said. He was a fit sixty-one years old, lean, with the hungry face of a triathlete and the crow’s-feet of a born smiler. A crisp white shirt accented a deep tan, as if he’d spent any vacation time from his previous job as a congressman plowing fields on his old John Deere tractor. Dehart was born of Pennsylvania Dutch stock; his father and grandfather before him had been dairymen. He had used the “milk money” he’d earned to pay his way through undergrad at Penn State and then for a master’s in biology from Carnegie Mellon. A scientist at heart, he was a deep, analytical thinker with a farmer’s work ethic. He was honest and well liked by most. In the Machiavellian world of D.C. politics, that meant there were plenty of people who wanted to see him crash and burn because he made them look bad.

Dehart shifted in his seat. He wasn’t nervous, he just preferred to be up and doing rather than sitting and thinking about doing. “Frankly, I was surprised the confirmation went through,” he said. “I don’t know why, but Senator Chadwick really has it in for me.”

Ryan gave a slow shake of his head. As chair of the Homeland Security Appropriations Subcommittee of the Senate, or “cardinal,” Michelle Chadwick wielded enormous clout.

“No, Mark,” Ryan said and sighed. “Her fight’s with me. She just happens to have a scorched-earth policy when it comes to battles, political or otherwise. Honestly, I think I could put her name forward for a nomination and she’d disclose some sordid affair just to make me look stupid for trying to appoint her.” Ryan took another sip of coffee to wash the taste of Michelle Chadwick’s name out of his mouth, and then set the cup down to wave away any lingering thoughts. “Anyway, you made it aboard. Are you ready to hit the ground running?”

Dehart smiled. “I am indeed, sir.”

“Had a chance to read your briefing books?”

As secretary of homeland security, Dehart was responsible for, among other things, Customs and Border Protection, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, FEMA, the Coast Guard, and the Secret Service.

“I’m about two and a half feet down the three-foot stack of folders,” Dehart said, completely serious.

“Take it from me,” Ryan said. “Briefers are like cows, they add more to the pile every day.”

Dehart grinned. “The manure simile occurred to me, Mr. President. But my mother called this morning to warn me to keep my flippant remarks to a minimum, first time in the Oval Office and all.”

“Sage advice,” Ryan said. “So you’ve read enough to get a feel for what’s ahead of you… ahead of us. Tell me what scares you.”

Dehart inhaled deeply, and then glanced over at the presidential seal in the middle of the Oval Office carpet. He measured his words carefully before looking Ryan in the eye. “Three things, Mr. President.”

Ryan raised an eyebrow. “Which three things?”

“Any three, sir,” Dehart said. “If they all happen at the same time.”

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