by David Poyer
The rooms were actually bigger than West Wing standard. But he still felt oppressed, as if he weren’t just underground, but slowly being crushed. This whole side of the White House was military, hidden beneath the tourist-friendly infrastructure like some huge, deeply buried foundation. It felt secretive, menacing, like … the Bat Cave. The Skull Cave. The Death Star.
“We’ll come back later,” Gunning told him. “Ready for lunch?”
Climbing the stairs felt like ascending from the depths.
* * *
They picked up Jazak back at the aides’ office—upstairs in the East Wing, at the end of the hall on the Treasury side—for a quick sandwich. Then Jazak and Gunning showed him the secret underground tunnel that went under the Treasury to emerge at a screened exit on the far side. Then they all went back down to the PEOC, to the classified-materials vault.
Dan recognized the alarm wiring and two-man entry procedures. The placarding inside, when the door at last swung open, was DoD standard for nuclear controlled material. Yeah, the codes and permissions to release hell on earth, that’d be worth locking up. But everything looked dated, faded, like things you’d find at a not-too-trendy antique store. The light fixtures and the exposed conduit wiring were 1960s. A torn poster headed REMEMBER—CONELRAD IS THE KEY looked even older. One wall was lined with binders and references. A table with its veneer separating at the corners stood in the middle of the vault.
Gunning flicked an overhead on, did something to the lock, then tugged on the door as Jazak flicked open folding chairs like switchblades and set them around the table. The door sealed with a reluctant thunk. The air instantly became stuffy, fusty, like a wet basement. Dan couldn’t hear anything that sounded like a fan.
Gunning said that since Dan already worked here, he could skip the basic orientation. But he’d still have to train on the comm side and database management. He’d need an IT security briefing. He’d have to touch base with “Carpet,” the White House Transportation Agency, out at the Anacostia Annex, since a lot of the presidential comms were managed from there. And he’d meet the other players the mil aides did business with: the social secretary, the first lady’s people, chief of protocol, press secretary, and so on.
“All right,” the colonel said, “let’s get to the meat. How up to speed are you on nuclear release procedures?”
“I’ve served on nuclear-capable ships,” Dan told him. “So I’m familiar with the authentication system. Past that, just what everybody knows. You carry the football. The go codes.”
“We do a lot more than stand around with that thing,” Jazak told him. “We coordinate what the president needs from our respective services. The White House mess and the valets—the Filipinos, the enlisted who help him get dressed and so forth—that’s always been a Navy responsibility. I hear the yacht was too, back when we had the Sequoia. Once he leaves town, we take on a lot of other responsibilities: comms, codes, transportation, though the advance party and so forth help. Speaking of advance parties, you’ll be on one of them—probably Adamant Black.”
Gunning said, “But the football’s what everybody thinks of first, right? So let’s open with that.” He pulled a binder off the shelf. “It’s all designed out in these pubs. You know what the SIOP is, right?”
Dan said, getting more tense by the moment and hoping it didn’t show, “The single integrated operational plan. What weapons are assigned to what targets.”
“Originally, yeah. But it’s a lot more complicated now. I expect you to know these cold,” Gunning said, giving him a close look. “I mean, till you can recite every page verbatim. Plus explain the underlying strategy for each option.”
Dan thought about explaining how he felt about the whole idea instead, but didn’t. A month or two, and he’d be out of here. “I understand.”
“Good. Mike’ll give you the once-over now, but once isn’t enough. Take a couple days. You can look at the binders out in the conference room, but they stay in the vault when you’re not working on them. When you’re ready, I’ll give you the quiz.”
Dan nodded, and Gunning looked at Jazak, who reached under the table.
“The Presidential Emergency Satchel. Or PES,” Jazak said.
It was bigger than a briefcase. More like a salesman’s sample case. It was made of some light metal, covered with black leather and set off with silver-toned hardware. Dialing numbers into a beefy combination lock, then popping the latches, Jazak said, “Item one: No one but you and the prez gets to look inside this. I don’t care if the SecDef wants a peek, he’s out of the loop. Chick reports direct to Charlie Wrinkles, but Little Big Man’s not allowed in either. There are actually two complete satchels. So if somebody ever steals one, or we lose it, we’ve got a backup. The vice president’s mil aide, he’s got one too, for obvious reasons. Total: three.”
Gunning tapped Dan’s wrist to emphasize the point. “About losing it: It’s never happened yet. Don’t let it on your watch.”
Partitions divided the satchel’s interior into compartments. Dealing each object out on the tabletop, Jazak showed him a security wristlet, a black-bound custody log, an inch-thick handbook with red plastic covers labeled SIOP DECISION HANDBOOK 7D, two other booklets with black plastic covers, and a flat card, sealed in metal foil: the autheticator itself. A sturdy-looking transceiver with flip-up antenna and handset was the bulkiest item. Last came a nylon-holstered nine-millimeter Beretta service automatic, with two loaded magazines.
“This handbook’s the big deal,” Jazak told him, flicking the one with the red cover. “Everything else we could replace. If the bad guys get their hands on this book, though, they’d know exactly what we know about them, and how we’d respond to an attack. That’s what the pistol’s for.”
“You’d better tell me exactly what you mean by that,” Dan said.
Gunning said, “He means, your printed orders—we’ll get you a copy to sign—authorize you to use deadly force to protect these codes.”
“Licensed to kill,” said Jazak, smiling.
“But only if somebody makes a grab for it,” Gunning cautioned. “The Secret Service didn’t like us carrying. But it is what it is.”
“Who’s this transmitter connect me to?”
“Secure UHF voice, uplinks to Defense Sat Com. You have to be within fifteen miles of the uplink, which will be in the Roadrunner van most of the time.” He showed Dan how to punch in numbers from the comm handbook. “There’s a recharger in our office, another in the van. Let’s say the daily schedule shows Mustang in the District that day. Before you go on duty you pick up two fully charged batteries, showing the green light here. When you go off duty, plug the old sets back in the charger. If you go overseas, there’s adapters for foreign outlets. Do a comm check each time you relieve.
“If we ever get word an attack’s on the way, it’ll give you a warbling alarm. That notifies you to get next to the president, open the case, and go on the air. All the call signs and procedures are in 7D, the red book. Select your options and get the word out before their strike lands. Launch on warning’s been doctrine for a long time now. It doesn’t say that in print anywhere, but it’s no secret.
“Okay, the book.” Jazak flipped through plastic-coated pages. Dan saw they were printed in red. There were drawings, almost cartoons. Large print. It was designed to be used by terrified men in the moments before they died.
The colonel said, “Going through this you’ll see the first part is who has the capacity to hit us—how many delivery vehicles, where based, times of flight. Then there’s the info on our own forces. How many, where, and what countries they’d have to overfly to hit a specific target. That’s important because they might think we’re attacking them if they see our missiles on the way.”
Jazak flipped over more glossy cardstock. “The heart of the Decision Handbook is the options section—here. The president gets to choose. Like from a Chinese menu. There’s LAOs, limited attack options. MAOs, major attack options. Regional
options, against North Korea and China. Special options: launch on warning, launch under attack, preemptive strike.”
“Give him the book, Mike, so he can see,” Gunning said.
Jazek shoved it over, but Dan didn’t want to touch it. He said slowly, just to say something, “What happens if he can’t make up his mind?”
“You’d think nothing, but actually it cascades to the next decision level. The whole thing used to be just greased to go, but it’s gotten a little less so—I think.”
“How up to speed on this is De Bari?”
“Who? Blow-dry Bob? That dumb son of a bitch doesn’t know jack about any of this,” Jazak said witheringly. “Or care. He got a fifteen-minute briefing the day he moved in and hasn’t said word one about it since. He’s supposed to get refreshers, but he’s never had time for that. We issue him a new authenticator card—the one you have to match with the one in the case—every month. Half the time, when Chick gives him the new biscuit, he doesn’t know where the old one went. We have to go to the dry cleaner’s and get it.”
They told him stories that sounded like they’d been passed down through many hands and improved along the way. About Haig locking Nixon’s codes away during the Watergate hearings. JFK’s mil aide carrying condoms in the case as emergency reserves. Lyndon Johnson pissing on his aide’s shoes. Another aide who’d ridden around Reagan’s ranch with the PES in a saddle bag, and had to shoot a rabid coyote with the pistol.
Until Colonel Gunning cleared his throat. “Let’s finish with the release procedures, Mike.” And to Dan, “Funny stories aside, you’re gonna be the ball carrier. That’s what we call this thing: the Pigskin. The Ball. Or, the Ball and Chain. Don’t kid yourself. There are still missiles pointed at this country, no matter what anybody says. You’re the guy who’s going to have to explain this to De Bari, if he ever has to use it.
“Once he makes up his mind, you write down the code for that option here, with this pen. Next you both break your biscuits. You pick up the phone.”
The colonel laid his pianist’s fingers on Dan’s wrist again. “Meanwhile, there’s going to be a major monkeyfuck. Everyone’s going to be screaming. The protective detail’s going to be trying to get him on Marine One. You have to make sure this gets done, no matter how bugshit everybody else goes. Just say your call sign. Then the option number, and say, ‘Presidential execute authorization.’ Follow that with the codes. Your card first, then his. His card’s gold colored, which is why they call that the Gold Code.”
Jazak chanted, as if he’d droned it for years in a Tibetan monastery, “Flash flash, all stations this net, this is Prehistoric Corona. Authorization to follow. Option number. Presidential execute authorization. His authenticator. My authenticator. Prehistoric Corona, over.”
Gunning said, “They’ll read it back. Confirm, and you’re good to go. They have emergency action messages prewritten that trigger the launches. After that, just stay with him when they take him to Mount Weather or wherever.”
Dan tried to imagine it. The confusion, the panic, while he tried for a rational conversation with Robert De Bari about the end of the world. “Monkeyfuck” struck him as an understatement.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.”
“Yeah, there’s some emotion tied to this thing,” Jazak said, apparently assuming he’d been smiling so he wouldn’t do anything else. Which was not far from the truth. The irony weighed. The guy who hadn’t wanted to work on nuclear weapons, who’d lost men and women to a nuclear blast, would be carrying the detonator for the Armageddon the world had dreaded for half a century.
“Just do the best you can and don’t lose the fucking thing. Use the security strap. Eat with it, jog with it, pee with it. But whatever you do it doesn’t get out of grabbing range until your relief signs for it.”
Dan said he understood.
“Okay, here’s some tips we pass down. If you don’t want to miss the ride, stand between the president and his transport. You lag behind, you get left behind,” Gunning said.
“And don’t ever get between Bad Bob and a camera,” Jazak said.
Dan said, “What about personal services?”
This struck a sore spot; they exchanged grimaces. Gunning said yeah, sometimes the aides got tasked to carry luggage or do other personal tasks. The president and first lady both had personal assistants, but when they weren’t immediately available or had too much to do, the aides would be expected to step in.
“When he’s in the Residence, the duty dog can take things a little easier,” Gunning said. “Just keep your eye on the daily schedule, and track his whereabouts on the monitors. And kind of respond to his staff—you’ll get to know them. Now, there’s different gangs. There’s Holt’s people—you know them already. And our boss, Charlie Wrinkles, the guy who’s always got a lollipop stuck in his jaw—”
“Yeah, I met him.”
“Charlie’s getting bigger every year. Director of the military office, the guy who controls all the perks for the staff—that swings weight on the Acres. Then there’s Varghese’s gang, the original Nevada Mafia. Steer clear of them. And the first lady’s people, keep them at arm’s length too if you can. We pull twenty-four-hour duty days. I showed you the bedroom. Or use the sofa in the office. You can work your collateral duties—like Mike said, the mess, or the valets, or the planning for the next overseas trip, whatever.
“When he has an event outside the compound, say Kennedy Center or the Gridiron, most of the planning for that, the pol staff and the Secret Service take care of. We just hop in the motorcade and go along.
“It’s when he travels it really picks up for us. We schedule seating on Air Force One and do the transport and comm liaison. There’s binders on that, too.”
“What uniforms will I need?”
“Good question. Official events: class A’s, with the aide badge, and the aiguillette on the right shoulder. Unofficial events: sports coat and tie, usually. And this pin.” Gunning pushed a Secret Service pin across to him. Dan fingered the tiny gold star and blue shield. “There’s a walk-in closet where you can keep your uniforms and your civilian combinations, like for quick changes. There used be an enlisted guy to help out, but he’s long gone.
“Now, close up to POTUS and FLOTUS, in the personal entourage, it’s different from being over in the West Wing. Certain things you will hear, and not repeat. See, and not recall. Even after you leave here, or retire, you will never talk or write about them. Never.”
“FLOTUS?” Dan said.
“First lady of the United States,” Gunning said. “Code name Tinkerbell, but Pit Bull would fit better. Okay. Over the next few days, I’m setting you up with briefings from the other staff agencies. We’ll go over what to do in case there’s a transfer of command authority—like last year, remember when he had that gallbladder operation and the vice had the stick for eight hours when he was on the table. Then you’ll do hover tours, looking over the shoulder of the guy who’s on duty. Or gal—we got Francie Upshaw, too. Next week you can go out to Camp David with Mike. The rest, you pick up on the job.” He stretched, joints cracking, then heaved himself up. “Any more questions?”
“Hundreds.”
“Sure, but that’s enough for today. Zero-seven tomorrow, here. And we’ll start getting you read in.”
“One last thing,” Dan said. “Maybe I should have asked it before. It might be a dumb question—”
“No such thing,” the colonel said. “Shoot.”
“What if there’s an attack, and he freezes? The president can’t make up his mind?”
“And the missiles are coming in?” Gunning and Jazak looked at each other. The colonel glanced at the sealed door of the vault.
“We’ve discussed that,” the marine said, voice so soft that even if some electronic device had been listening, it wouldn’t have picked it up. “Considering the pussy-ass we’ve got in the driver’s seat right now.”
“And?”
&nbs
p; Gunning murmured, “In that case, Commander, you’re going to have to do what Blow-dry Bob isn’t man enough to. You grab that card out of his hand, before we’re all vaporized, and you send that fucking go message all by your fucking self.”
17
MARINE ONE
The satchel crouched at his feet like a black mastiff to which he was unwillingly leashed. Jazak was crammed in beside him. The sofa bench, upholstered in light blue cloth, ran along the starboard side of the compartment. Facing them, in comfortable-looking armchairs, were the president and the Distinguished Guest, and opposite Dan and Jazak, on another sofa bench, the secretary of state and the undersecretary for African affairs.
Dan couldn’t keep his eyes from going back to De Bari. Was she still seeing him? He couldn’t help imagining the president and Blair together. And when he did, it was hard to stay in his seat and pretend he didn’t know, or didn’t care.
What sort of man could do that to someone who worked for him?
Then they were aloft, to the muffled howl of twin turboshafts and five rotor blades. Marine One banked deliberately, so as not to cause its passengers to lose their breakfasts. The gentle hills of Maryland emerged from the roseate haze of a hundred thousand cars stalled on the Beltway.
* * *
The radios had snapped out “POTUS departing” at eight that morning. When Barney McKoy—head of the protective detail, the round-faced black agent Dan had noticed before, always next to the president—had nodded, he and Jazak had taken off jogging across a lightly snowed-over South Lawn, clutching their hats. And of course the satchel, which Jazak had security-wristleted to Dan’s wrist “to get you used to it.”
HMX-1 flew the Sikorsky VH-3D Sea King helicopter out of Naval Air Station Anacostia. Up close Marine One had loomed huge and loud and sparkling, auxiliary power unit whining, the glossy green-and-white finish waxed bright. Even the tires, which squatted so nearly flat on the blocks that Dan deduced internal armor, looked new. A marine in full dress stood at attention. The metal stairs were polished rhodium-bright. In contrast to naval tradition, where the highest-ranking boarded last, the aides boarded after the VIPs, along with the Secret Service. Other agents kept a cordon around it till the door thunked closed.
