Between Shadow and Soul
White House Protection Force story
M. L. Buchman
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Chapter 1
I should have stayed in the Congo. Michael was careful not to make eye contact as he stood up from the briefing table and left the White House Situation Room. At least there they were just committing genocide—which could be stopped if enough pressure was applied. In here, they were committing politics.
He waited at the security desk while they tracked down his cell phone—none allowed inside the Situation Room. He glared at the mahogany-dark wall so that he didn’t put his hands around someone’s throat. Even his own at this point if it would get him out of here faster.
How he’d let Brigadier General Andhauer talk him into coming out of the field to take over command of Delta Force Michael would never know.
Actually, he knew exactly how.
“Nobody knows the shadow world of Delta the way you do, Michael. You want the hallowed name in this outfit? It isn’t mine. It’s Colonel Michael Gibson. Shit. If the truth ever got out about all the medals you’ve been awarded for black ops… Seriously, I can’t trust anyone else to keep Delta out at the tip of the spear.”
But Andhauer had always been the politician. Even back when they’d both been raw recruits fresh out of the six-month Operator Training Course, he’d been able to talk the instructors into looking the other way for all kinds of escapades. It was still a mystery quite how he’d kept the team out of trouble after blowing up a general’s Land Rover as part of a graduation test take-down demonstration. Yes, the general shouldn’t have had tinted windows and parked it in the front of the target building, but they’d all known it was his.
“Should have bought American,” Andhauer had joked privately after convincing the general to be actually impressed at how rapidly and thoroughly they’d destroyed the target vehicle and the “enemy nest” inside the building. They hadn’t just killed it; they’d blown the shit out of it so badly that the largest remaining piece was half of an engine block. The fireball had been a beauty. It also had been the ultimate distraction, covering their high-speed forced entry of the building.
All Michael had ever been was a Delta field operator.
And there wasn’t a single person in this room, perhaps in the entire White House, who remembered what it meant to be on the front line. The Joint Chiefs’ agendas weren’t exactly uninformed, but they sure didn’t factor the one-point-three million active-duty men and women into their planning. Or any other piece of reality that he could identify. The top-tier ones at the Pentagon weren’t much better.
That did it. He was never again going to trust someone wearing more than two stars.
For two years he’d been the sole voice of “The Field” in these meetings. At first he’d felt he was reawakening their memories of when they too had served—at least for those who had. Political appointees and intelligence agents turned agency directors he could almost forgive even if he didn’t understand them. They had never known the lessons that only war could teach.
But the effect had worn off soon enough. Now even the battle-bred generals barely looked at him except to ask if Delta could perform such-and-such.
“No. That’s more appropriate for regular forces.”
“No. That’s for the Green Beret negotiators. They do the civilian cooperation missions.”
“No, you goddamn idiots. Don’t you understand the mission profiles of your own elite counter-terrorism force? We’re the best shooters there are. We can go deeper undercover than your best CIA agents and come up shooting. You want hostages? Call out the Rangers. You want a mission where no one knows we were even there but the target gets obliterated? That’s us. You wanted bin Laden—without all the news coverage and tell-all book crap? You should have called goddamn Delta not the SEALs.” He probably shouldn’t have said the last with General Jefferson in the room as he’d been a DEVGRU—SEAL Team 6—commander before taking command of SOCOM. Whatever else was going on, General Jefferson ran Special Operations Command which still made him Michael’s boss.
He tried to remember the last time he’d lost his temper…and couldn’t. Not even all the way back in high school. Claudia had said this job was changing him, but he’d written that off to her hormones from pregnancy. He should have known better than to doubt Claudia’s judgement about anything.
Michael took his phone from the National Security Council watch officer and inspected the message queue carefully. Asshole—delete. Jerk—forward to his assistant. Narcissistic political climber? Sick of him, Michael set up an auto-forward on that number to go to the Naval Observatory time-of-day recording.
Finally! Claudia. Just a thumbs up. The only thing that mattered these days.
When had he become a maniac about her health? She was the most capable woman and pilot he’d ever met. She could survive for weeks in the desert starting out with nothing more than a sharp stick. But the day she’d told him of her pregnancy, he’d begun researching the consequences more thoroughly than a take-down mission deep in denied territory.
Thumbs up. Good. He ignored the rest of the message queue, jammed the phone in his pocket, and strode out the double door into the West Wing lobby. He wanted to be nowhere near this place by the time the next person came out.
Four steps outside the door, a dog sat at attention looking straight at him. It was so unexpected that he actually stumbled to a halt. Staffers and official visitors swirled around the seated dog as no one would dare displace this animal. If he curled up and slept there, security would quietly put up a sign post so that no one tripped over him.
“Hey, Zackie.” He’d always liked the First Dog—an immaculately groomed brown-and-white Sheltie. He showed that it was mutual with a happy tail wag as Michael bent down to pet him. “Where’s your master?” There was some question if that was the First Family or their dog handler and part-time First Nanny Dilya Stevenson.
In answer Zackie popped to his feet and began trotting deeper into the West Wing rather than out of it.
“No way, Zackie.” Never Zack, because that was the President’s first name. The First Lady had revealed her sense of humor by naming their dog after her husband so that they both responded every time either was called. “I’m headed out of here.”
The dog stopped and gave him a puzzled look when he didn’t follow. A tilt of his head asking what was wrong with him. As if Michael had any idea.
He pointed at his own chest and then toward the beckoning exit.
Still watching Michael over his shoulder as he took another step toward the stairs, Zackie almost took out an intern loaded down with an armful of files.
“She’s got him trained up a treat now,” a woman’s voice spoke close beside him. It’s owner was a slender brunette. US Secret Service emblazoned across her chest and a scruffy mutt in a service vest at her side.
At Michael’s glance, the woman grinned.
“Have to admit a lot of that’s my and Thor’s fault. Colby and Rex started working with Dilya before they went to NASA to take over security there, but we’re the ones who kept working with her. Dilya’s really hard to say no to when she starts asking all of those questions. I must say, that girl is a bottomless pit of questions.”
Michael glanced down at the woman’s Secret Service dog. The dust mop of mutt looked as proud as the USSS dog handler. As they’d saved the President’s life in his first week or so on the job, Michael suppose
d the look was deserved.
Zackie remained poised in the middle of the hallway, one foot still in the air.
“Don’t make him wait too long,” the woman winked. “He’s still only a Sheltie. If he gets excited he tends to forget things.”
She headed off toward the Secret Service Ready Room.
Dilya. That girl could make a man’s head hurt. Ten-year-old Uzbekistani orphans were not supposed to be as smart as that girl had been. Had been, because now at seventeen she was several times smarter. Growing up first on a Night Stalkers forward operating base where he’d been stationed and then in the White House as nanny to two administrations had also given her the resources to hone those observational skills that had kept her alive in a war zone.
Michael heard voices sounding loudly behind him. The others exiting from the latest meeting, complaining about him—probably plotting against him as if he was the enemy. All their noise was cut off abruptly by his unexpected presence still in the West Wing lobby, as if they thought that wouldn’t prove that he was the topic they were discussing. He double-checked his critics by glancing at the shiny brass “Men’s Room” plaque across the hall. It indeed reflected an array of green and blue uniforms that most of those men no longer deserved to wear.
Fine. He turned smartly and followed the dog. Most of them would be unable to follow. Michael still held a White House “All Areas” security badge—a holdover from the prior administration that the current administration had renewed. The other military personnel in the meeting hadn’t had such clearance except for the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. He was the only rational one left in the room but Michael didn’t want to talk to him either, even though it was easy to respect him.
Without once turning to acknowledge the men who had streamed out of the Situation Room behind him, Michael strode over to the waiting Zackie.
“Dilya?” he asked the dog. At least he hoped that’s where the dog was headed. Hell, if it got him out of here, he’d follow the dog straight to the President.
He’d take the tongue loll and Zackie setting off again as a good sign.
Chapter 2
The dog led him up one flight, out the doors to the West Colonnade, and into the Residence via the Palm Room.
As he stepped past one of the palm trees, Dilyana Stevenson slipped up beside him, then tossed Zackie a treat. He’d seen her of course: the room’s only occupant other than a Secret Service agent. She’d been out of his sightlines, but not the agent’s—who had been watching her hiding place. Michael considered pointing out what gave her away, but decided to let her have the win.
“How do you hide dressed like that?”
At seventeen, the girl had probably topped out just a few inches under his own five-ten. She’d kept her black, curly hair long and was dressed like what he supposed was standard attire for an American teen at the White House. Forest green leggings that matched her sneakers and one of the three color swathes of her blouse. The skirt’s dark blue somehow making the outfit cohesive. Nothing could hide those searching green eyes offset against her dark complexion.
“People see what they expect.”
A glance at Dilya would reveal a lovely teen going about her life. She even wore white headphone wires that traced down into one of her pockets that he wagered were never actually turned on when something of interest could be happening. The girl probably had dark-wired headphones to stand out when she wore light-colored outfits. Modern camouflage. That startled him enough to look at her askance.
“What?”
“Just realized that if Claudia has a girl—”
“—and she was anything like me, then you’re in for a load of trouble, Dad.”
Michael’s throat went drier than the Libyan desert. Dad? He was always fully prepped for a mission before he deployed. This time? How was he supposed to prepare for a mission of Dad? He was in serious trouble.
Dilya grinned happily. Mindreading was one of her many uncanny skills. “Don’t worry. Claudia’s freaking too.”
He resisted asking how she knew that. Then he remembered a note on Claudia’s calendar of sea glass photos from last week, “10 am archery.” Claudia had trained Dilya to shoot a bow and arrow when they were still all overseas and he knew they still got together on occasion for that. “Who shot best?”
Dilya sounded a loud raspberry as they walked beneath the broad marble arches of the Ground Floor’s Central Hall. “Emily was in town. Neither of us stood a chance.”
Michael wished he’d seen that. Emily Beale, Dilya, and his own Claudia proving just how lethal women could be. But he’d been in yet another meeting of the endless meetings that had become his life. Andhauer hadn’t been kidding about needing someone to hold the line for Delta—he’d never fought a harder battle.
“I’m sorry I missed her.” It was partly Emily’s doing that he’d finally accepted the promotion to command Delta. Perhaps she could help him figure out how to fix what was going on now. He should’ve of thought of that.
“She is pretty awesome, isn’t she?”
She was. Emily had been the first woman to break into the Special Operations Night Stalkers helicopter 160th regiment. She’d since had two kids and retired to her in-law’s horse ranch in Montana. Mostly retired. He made a mental note to talk to her soon.
Michael almost tripped over Zackie himself when Dilya and the dog took an unexpected turn into the North Hall, swung around the back of the Curator’s Office, and down a flight of stairs. He’d never been in the White House Residence’s basement before.
He considered asking where she was leading him, and why. But with each step away from the Situation Room, he became more himself. Knowing those questions would be answered when they’d arrived wherever Dilya was leading, there was no need to ask. There were plenty of objects about if a weapon was needed on short notice—an unlikely scenario inside the White House: a line of folding chairs, a heavy-bottomed stanchion with a retractable belt in the top, and the slight catch in the swing of Dilya’s skirt that said she had a knife strapped to her thigh under there.
“Are you still carrying the Cold Steel Recon?”
Dilya nodded. “I’ve been taking lessons with one of the Secret Service agents. I’m getting pretty good with it.”
Michael made another mental note to teach his own child knifework as soon as they were old enough. “Huh.”
“What?”
He hadn’t realized he’d come to a halt. “I think it finally just sunk in that I’m going to have a kid of my own soon. I know nothing about kids.”
“You know me.”
“Your mom rescued you when you were ten, and you were never a kid, kid.” And now she was a very striking young woman and heaven help anyone who underestimated her as being “merely” a teen.
Dilya smiled at him. “Not a lot of people know that about me. You, the old Night Stalkers team, and a few others. Everyone else thinks I’m just the First Nanny.”
“Not Zackie.” Michael surprised himself with a tease.
“No. He thinks I’m the Goddess of the Dog Treats.” Dilya continued leading them downward into the subbasement.
He considered the spaces that he’d cataloged during their descent.
The kitchens and the chocolate and carpentry shops had been on the ground floor. He’d seen those before.
The subbasement mezzanine had included mostly storage areas and electrical service. There’d been two distinct sounds on this level, the massive air conditioning system had sent low frequency vibrations through the well-insulated wall. The distant echoes of the dishwashers had come from the far end of the corridor, distorted enough to have turned at least two corners. The rest of the floor remained relatively quiet.
The lowest subbasement repeated the air conditioning—a two-story installation—and at the far end of the main corridor he spotted evidence of the White House laundry services. An usher, immaculate in her dark blue skirt and blazer stepped out of some waiting room and hurried up stairs at the far en
d of the corridor. This end was strictly mechanical services. A sudden hum identified elevator machinery as it engaged to move someone between the Residence’s upper stories. It was a whole other world from the Residence that most people saw with its elegance and grand staterooms.
Dilya stopped at Mechanical Room 043 and, after carefully checking that they were alone, knocked. He raised an eyebrow at her and she looked a little sheepish when nothing happened.
“Sometimes we have to wait.”
If Delta had taught him anything, it was how to wait. Patience was one of the most essential skills that Delta taught.
Zackie, however, had other ideas and scratched at the door a few times impatiently.
After a long minute, the door opened.
Chapter 3
“Mechanical Room 043,” was all he could think to say to the woman seated at a desk with knitting spread across her lap. She was almost invisible in the apparently well-lit room. A small lamp shone upon her bright green yarn. Subtle track lighting lit the bookcases that covered every wall. Yet no light at all fell upon the woman seated behind the desk. If it had ever been a Mechanical Room, it was far in 043’s past.
The woman was seated in the only shadow in the room, clearly marking her as the most important object in the space. Little showed other than a hint of brilliant blue eyes.
“Ah, Colonel Gibson. A unique pleasure indeed. Welcome.” Her voice, deeply husky, was also slightly thinned with age. The lightness of her long hair in the shadows might be gray rather than blonde. “Please, take a seat.” The hands holding the knitting were lightly spotted with age, confirming the hypothesis.
He waited without moving, though Dilya sat easily in one of the two small chairs facing the desk. The space wasn’t large enough to accommodate a third. She did it with an ease of long familiarity. Zackie also went over to greet the woman and received a head pat for his troubles.
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