Strike Force

“If you’re looking for a sure way to make enemies, change something.”

— PRESIDENT WOODROW WILSON

THE WHITE HOUSE,

WASHINGTON, D.C.

A SHORT TIME LATER

“Is this how you usually get into the White House, sir?” Captain Hunter Noble asked as they turned into a guarded underground parking structure a couple blocks from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

“Only when I’m in a flight suit,” Lieutenant-General Patrick McLanahan responded. Both he and Noble still wore the plain black Dreamland-style flight suits they were wearing on their suborbital flight in the XR-A9 spaceplane less than two hours ago. “The boss thought we might attract too much attention going in the main entrance.”

“Doesn’t want to be seen with the line grunts, eh?”

“Doesn’t want to have to explain you, me, and the Stud to the world…yet,” Patrick corrected him. “Believe me, the President is on our side. Once the Stud goes public, I’m sure he’ll want to be the first sitting president to fly in space.”

In the very back part of the parking garage they came upon a nondescript locked steel door with a sign on it that read “DANGER HIGH VOLTAGE.” Patrick opened a hidden panel a few steps away, punched in a code into a keypad, returned to the steel door, and waited. Moments later Boomer heard a buzzing noise, and Patrick pulled the door open. They stepped inside a very small, dark room, and Patrick secured the steel door behind them. A few moments later they heard another buzzing sound, and Patrick pulled another door open. They entered a long, dark, concrete-floored hallway illuminated with bare lightbulbs wired up with surface conduit. Steel and PVC pipes snaked overhead, some leaking. The air was dank and it felt most definitely claustrophobic.

“Ooo. Secret hallway,” Noble murmured. “Very cloak-and-dagger. I suppose there are lots of these hidden hallways around the capital.”

“I suppose. I only know about two of them, and the one between the Pentagon and the White House isn’t that secret.”

“I didn’t know about that one.”

It was a very long walk, during which they passed several cameras in the ceiling. At the end of the seemingly endless hallway there was yet another steel security door. Patrick picked up a telephone on the wall and spoke briefly to someone inside, the door buzzed, and Patrick pulled it open. They entered another small room with a uniformed Secret Service guard sitting behind a thick bulletproof glass. Patrick and Boomer exchanged ID cards for ID necklaces, signed in, and were buzzed inside.

The hallway they entered was just barely nicer than the long tunnel they just crossed — it was carpeted and better lit, but it still had that musty, wet smell and feel to it. “Your usual entrance, sir?” Boomer asked.

“That was one of the Secret Service alternate entryways and emergency exits,” Patrick explained. “They let me use it when I need to. It’s closer to my office.”

They weaved around boxes of files stacked up in the hallway and old copy machines scattered here and there, then went down another flight of stairs to an even dirtier, mustier level. There were even fewer signs of life down here. Boomer had a peek into an open lavatory door, which looked like a fifties-era Army barracks latrine with a concrete floor complete with large drain in the middle, trough urinal, open showers, polished metal mirrors, metal shelves for towels and cleaning supplies, and very dated toilets and sinks, although it was clean enough.

The door they entered was a few down from the latrine, and unlike most of the other ones on this floor it was thick, new-looking, and well-maintained. Inside the feel was actually pretty comfortable — thick light-colored carpeting, plastered sheetrock walls with a few photographs and award plaques on them, a coffee pot and small refrigerator, computers, copy machines, a couple upholstered chairs, a convertible sofa, nice bookshelves, and a small but nice desk. “Nice office, General,” Boomer commented. “After seeing your latrine, I was expecting the modern version of the dungeons in the Tower of London.”

“That’s exactly what it was before I started working on it,” Patrick said. “I’m not much of a handyman, but I think I did okay. They don’t encourage self-help projects in the White House, but I think they took pity on me down here. Make yourself comfortable.” He picked up the phone and punched a button. “Hi, Miss Parks, General McLanahan here…Yes, just got in…Yes, he’s here too…Utilities OK, do you think? That’s all the captain has…OK, we’re on our way.” Boomer had just made his way over to the coffee machine and was just getting out supplies. “Sorry, no time,” he said as he replaced the receiver on its cradle. “We’ll get some coffee upstairs.”

“Upstairs? You mean…?”

“Yep. Let’s go.”