Power and Empire

The PDB was a collection of highly classified executive summaries that the Office of the Director of National Intelligence deemed worthy of his review. It contained everything from hard intelligence to rumors that, while patently false, were likely to incite unrest or instability in parts of the world where the United States had strategic or humanitarian interests. Charged with the deconfliction and information sharing between the seventeen U.S. intelligence agencies, it was the responsibility of the ODNI to have a finger on the pulse of important world events — and to boil them down into the PDB.

Ryan preferred a BLUF report — Bottom Line Up Front. He wanted a simple executive summary of straight facts — even when those facts were about rumors — and would drill down on the specifics in face-to-face national security briefings. He’d cut his teeth in the intelligence community as an analyst, playing what-if games with world events, and could spend hours delving into the nuances of a single issue — and enjoying the hell out of it. But he wasn’t in the rank and file of the IC anymore. The problems facing the office of President came at near lightning speed from all points of the compass and at all hours of the day. Ryan was forced into the role of a generalist, relying on subject-matter experts to work through the in-depth analysis and strategy.

Theoretically, the PDB allowed him to stay a move or two ahead and decide where to put his pieces on the board. This morning’s brief was straightforward, with the same parts of the world devolving into their continued spiral toward chaos, while other parts — admittedly fewer than he wished for — continued to emerge into newer, more robust economies. According to the briefing folder in front of him, the world was just as safe — or every bit as dangerous — as it had been the day before.

At seven-forty a.m., Ryan snugged his red tie into a semiuniform single Windsor and stuffed the PDB into the same leather briefcase he’d been carrying for years. He downed the last of his delicious Navy coffee — a phrase that did not come easily to the mind of a former Marine — and walked out of the West Sitting Hall to meet an earnest young Secret Service agent who was posted there.

“Good morning, Tina,” he said.

Special Agent Tina Jordan gave him an exuberant smile, though she was coming to the end of her shift just as he was beginning his.

“Good morning, Mr. President.” Then, quietly, she raised her sleeve to her lips and whispered, “SWORDSMAN is on the elevator.”

She stepped into a small alcove and pushed the button on the elevator that would take them down to the ground floor, where they hung a right to begin on Ryan’s three-minute walking commute to the office.

Ryan entered the Oval from the Rose Garden, the door opened by the agent who knew how to overcome the security device in the handle. He found his daily calendar printed on a single sheet of paper that was centered perfectly on the middle of his desk where his lead secretary had placed it shortly after she’d arrived at seven-thirty.

Ryan pressed the intercom button on his phone. She already knew he was there, because she too had a light board indicating his location.

“Good morning, Betty.”

“Good morning, Mr. President,” his secretary said. “What can I do for you?”

“Director Foley and Secretary Adler should be here in a few minutes. Go ahead and send them in when they arrive.”

“DNI Foley is here now, sir,” Betty said.

A moment later, the director of national intelligence entered from the secretarial suite outside the Oval. Ryan had known Mary Pat and her husband, Ed, since their days at CIA together. They’d dodged innumerable crises, weathered the ones that were unavoidable, and together walked barefoot over the broken glass of some of the most tragic events in recent history. She was more than a member of his inner circle, she was a friend — and in Washington, friends were as rare as genuine statesmen.

They saw each other at least four times a week, but Ryan still stood when she entered. He winced when he put weight on his foot, tried to hide it — and failed. Mary Pat gave him a narrow look. She opened her mouth to say something, but Scott Adler, the secretary of state, came in, followed by Jay Canfield, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. Arnie van Damm, Ryan’s chief of staff, entered from the adjoining door to his own office — the only person in the White House able to enter the Oval unseen and unimpeded. Arnie had served as chief of staff to three presidents. Ryan was the polar opposite of a politician, leaving Arnie to handle the annoying — and, frankly, unfathomable — part of the job that allowed him to get elected so he could make the decisions the country needed him to make. Jack picked his clubs and hit the ball, but Arnie told him the lay of the course.