The Threat

Dan started to ask what requirement, the “military side” of what, but before he got a word out. Gelzinis said, “You won’t be there long. They’ll move the guy’s replacement up. All you need to do is fill the hole a month or two. Then you’ll be on your way.”

A tap at the jamb. Sebold came in, apologizing for being late. He nodded to the little guy. “Charlie. How you doing?”

A piece fell into place. Charles Ringalls, “Charlie Wrinkles,” one of De Bari’s aw-shucks cronies from the oil business he’d started, after the firefighting but before the governorship. A special assistant, one of the expediters and behind-the-scenes fund-raisers. Ringalls had moved up to director of the White House Military Office, the uniformed support group that ran comms and other operations around the Eighteen Acres, on the strength of a few years as a National Guard noncom. The word was he’d smile, then rip your balls off.

“Good enough. How’re you, podner?”

“We were bringing your lad here up to date. On his transfer.” Gelzinis ran his fingers through his hair. “If you want him, that is,” he added to the gnome.

“His clearance good?”

“Oh, his clearance — you won’t find any problems with that,” the deputy said, with one of the most finely crafted smirks Dan had ever seen.

“How about uniforms? He got all that ready to go?”

“Dan’s an Annapolis man,” Sebold said with proprietary pride. “A thousand percent performer. Meticulous attention to detail. You’ll be very happy with him.”

With that, Dan understood. Leaving the West Wing in the evenings, he’d seen the uniformed aides greeting the glamorous, the famous, and the powerful. They took their wraps and escorted the guests through the endless marathon of formal dinners, parties, teas, receptions, and entertainments that took up so much of the Residence permanent staff’s time. They greeted arriving heads of state on the South Lawn. Guarded catafalques at state funerals. They were tall, good-looking young officers in full dress and white gloves, selected for poise, resourcefulness, and charm. No doubt it was important, and more onerous than it might seem … but. “Sorry. I don’t dance,” he told them. “Back problems. And I’m not so good at small talk.”

Sebold chuckled. “Those are the social aides. No, I don’t think you’d fit in there either, Dan.”

“Then what are we talking about?”

“We’re talkin’ about the military aide position,” the little westerner said, cowpoke-astonished, as if it had been evident the moment he walked in.

Dan sucked in his breath.

Whenever you saw the commander in chief in public, one instantly recognizable figure was never far away. He carried a black briefcase, his expression giving no clue what was in it. Dan dropped his head, trying to organize his objections. He had not the slightest desire to follow the man he hated around with Doomsday handcuffed to his wrist. “I didn’t screen for that,” he told them.

“You screened for White House duty.”

“It’s a high-visibility position,” said Gelzinis, sounding as if that were above all what counted on this earth.

“I don’t want to work on the Eighteen Acres any longer,” Dan said, finally losing patience. “And I definitely don’t want to serve in that capacity.”

“Can I have a word with him?” Sebold said. Gelzinis waved his hand in annoyance, fanning them out of his office. The little guy smiled again, and Dan saw where the “Wrinkles” nickname came from.

In the corridor the general pulled him close. “I had a tough time getting them to consider you for this. Two agency heads called Tony direct about that crap you pulled in the Sit Room.”

“If you mean Louisville, I’d do it again. Gelzinis keeps talking about how us staff pissants mustn’t poke a toe outside the chop chain. If Jenny Roald and I had followed the flow diagrams, a lot of people would be dead.”

“So you’re exempt from those rules?”

“That’s not what I was saying.”

“Then what were you saying? Exactly?”

“That occupying a position of responsibility means knowing when to bend those rules.”

“I’ve noticed that before about you Navy people,” the general said, pursing his lips in disapproval. “And I want you to know just how far out on a limb I’ve gone covering your ass around here. You owe me. And you’re still in the military, Commander.”

Dan said, feeling his lips draw back from his teeth, “I realize that, sir.”

“And you’re going to take this position and do an outstanding job until we can organize somebody else.”

And once again, as so often since he’d put on a uniform, he said, against his desire and better judgment, but that was what taking orders meant: “Aye aye, sir.”

* * *

He’d heard of the Presidential Emergency Operations Center. Rumor said it was so deep beneath the East Wing you had to ride down on an elevator. It was much less well known than the Sit Room. In fact, few outside the Eighteen Acres knew of it, and Dan hadn’t heard it or the agency responsible for it, the Contingency Operations Office, discussed much even in the West Wing.