by Chris Hauty
Thoughts like these continue to tumble inside his head, a free-for-all of contradictory ideas and paralyzing uncertainty. What if Monroe and his agenda really are bad for the country? Perhaps James Odom and his mysterious cabal are patriots willing to sacrifice everything for the nation’s sake. Has he abandoned the effort just in its eleventh hour? Daniel ghosted him, but does that necessarily mean everything they discussed about the Monroe White House is to be rejected as well? In that case, no atonement needed. Maybe a degree from Harvard with the goal of a career in environmental law is the most productive course of action.
Oh, God, the eternal back-and-forth! As he drives north, toward the comfort and familiarity of his parents’ home, Asher falls deeper and deeper into despair. The bland interstate pavement unspools beneath the tires of his car. In the abnormal silence of the vehicle’s cabin, he falls prey to the master of torture that is his hyper-educated mind. Who will dispose of his many beautiful objects in the condo at 3303 Water Street? Who will ever love him? Who is Hayley Chill? And, finally, the question he keeps asking himself over and over again, who is Asher Danes?
* * *
IN THE OVAL Office, the two world leaders strike a pose for the clutch of press pool photographers. Sitting in twin armchairs before the fireplace, Malkin and Monroe reach toward each other, clasp hands, smile widely, and make self-deprecating jokes to their respective aides backstopping the photographers. The mood in the room is lighthearted. Friendly relations between former adversaries are a win for planet Earth and its eight billion inhabitants.
The photo opportunity continues for an awkward duration. The two world leaders would release their grasps on each other’s hand, but senior aides from both countries encourage their bosses to continue. The visit is going well, despite the unfortunate incident yesterday outside the embassy and the thousands of protestors massed outside in Lafayette Square. If only the press and hostile pundits could be convinced to embrace the concept of an allied Russia and United States.
A reporter standing to one side of the room calls out loud enough to be heard over the clatter of camera shutters. “Mr. President, did you and President Malkin discuss Russia’s threatening stance toward Estonia and possible US intervention in the crisis?”
Monroe and Malkin let go of each other’s hand so the US president may address the reporter directly. He looks magnificent in his blue suit and red tie, a profile that instantly commands respect and awe. The unfortunate Russian president, with a diminishing chin, receding hairline, slumping shoulders, and too short legs, seems not quite the same species in comparison. He looks to Monroe with keen attention and what seems like real affection as the US president thoughtfully considers the question.
“We did discuss the situation in Eastern Europe, and President Malkin was most helpful in clarifying Russia’s case and intentions. These are long-standing disagreements by two sovereign countries with a history that goes back centuries and that, by simple geographical measure alone, don’t involve the interests of the United States.”
A chorus of questions erupts from the pool of reporters corralled by the southeast door leading directly out to the West Wing corridor. Monroe gestures for quiet and immediately receives it from the respectful White House correspondents.
“NATO is more than seventy years old, formed in a different time when the partner countries had just emerged from the horrors of the Second World War. Today, we witness a new Europe, a new Russia, and a new and vital United States, one that welcomes innovative and powerful alliances in its fight against terrorism and, even more importantly, in confrontation with an emergent Chinese threat.”
The reporters have a dozen follow-up questions, but White House aides brusquely show them out the door as the two world leaders stand up from their armchairs and stretch their legs. Malkin leans in close to whisper in Monroe’s ear. No one hears what the two world leaders say to one another, but the US president grins in response to the Russian president’s jovial aside.
* * *
NO ONE IS more surprised that Richard Monroe sits in the Oval Office swapping jokes with the Russian president than Richard Monroe. The book that launched his candidacy wasn’t even his idea, but his wife’s. From the beginning, the plan had been to end his military career with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, culminating with elevation to chairman or vice chairman. He could not have imagined a finer way to cap his long service career.
That plan unraveled in a single afternoon, with the visit of a freelance journalist to Fort Shafter, headquarters for US Army Pacific Command. Doing a story on the oldest military base on Oahu, the journalist was given relatively free access. She happened to be within earshot when Monroe, shooting the shit with some of his junior officers, was overheard criticizing the current administration’s appeasement of the Chinese juggernaut. This being private confines on a US military base, all in attendance, including General Monroe, used salty language. Later that night, the journalist wrote a story that was picked up by the Los Angeles Times and, within a few hours, by every other news organization in the country. When army officials questioned the veracity of her reporting, tapes were made available that confirmed everything in her article.
Monroe was immediately summoned to Washington. After a brief meeting with the president in the Oval Office, during which he reiterated a “clean” version of his taped allegations, the much-decorated general submitted his resignation and thereby ended a forty-year career with the US Army. The popularity of America’s Warrior wasn’t diminished in the slightest by his defiance of his commander in chief. In fact, many of his fans thought more highly of him for it. But Monroe downplayed this acclaim, anticipating nothing but a quiet retirement with his loving wife in their beautiful home on Poipu Drive overlooking Maunalua Bay. He had worked hard his entire life, seen men die and witnessed human suffering beyond imagining. He deserved the idyllic retirement Hawaii offered. Richard Monroe was at peace with himself.
But there are only so many times one can stare out over the magnificence of Maunalua Bay and the green sawtooth hills beyond before iridescent beauty morphs into nagging boredom. Especially for a man like Monroe, with his history of conquest and adventure, the need for fresh challenges and tests of will never really ever diminishes. Monroe said nothing, not to his closest friends or family. He simply held it in, reliving memories of tank charges and clearing enemy fighters from urban strongholds. He could almost smell the stink of war and hear its unmistakable racket as he stared at dark nimbus clouds that belched rain across the bay. In truth, Monroe was stoically miserable in retirement, not yet three months in duration.
His wife of thirty years suggested he get his recollections down on paper in the form of a military memoir. Initially, Monroe rejected the idea. Though he was a good writer, unlike most of his fellow officers and commanders, the very notion of revealing his inner thoughts and personal memories was distasteful. What changed his mind was Cindy’s suggestion that such a book would be the perfect platform from which he could argue his broader points, the same ones that had cost him his career. The final chapter could detail in full his geopolitical beliefs and serve as clarion call of the real threats facing the United States. Motivated in this way, Monroe threw himself into the task of writing his memoirs with the same dedication, diligence, and hard work that defined his years in the military.
His book, A Life in the Army, was a mammoth best-seller, with almost nine hundred thousand copies sold. More importantly, the memoir and its reception drew the attention of a number of influential people in the party, a kind of unofficial nominating committee, that met with the general and convinced him to undertake a few exploratory visits to early primary states, where his speeches, written by Monroe himself, were met with wildly enthusiastic receptions. A groundswell emerged around the idea of a President Richard Monroe. Faster than anyone could have predicted, including Monroe himself, the retired general led a field of more conventional party candidates. Sensing an unstoppable bandwagon, several of his strongest opponents
dropped out of the race, and Monroe cruised to an easy nomination in Philadelphia less than two years after being ignominiously sacked by the sitting president.
At every campaign stop during the general election, Monroe made the same pitch: left unchecked, China would be the number one superpower in the world and capable of dominating the US militarily. His stance regarding NATO and Russia were rarely requested by reporters and, consequently, rarely offered. Jobs and military security were the positions on which General Monroe staked his candidacy for president, and they were the positions that won him that office in an electoral landslide. His inauguration was greeted with great hope and a sense that US values had been reaffirmed. After a long period of chaos and upheaval in the nation’s capital, the majority of voters believed that normalcy had returned to Washington. America had elected a decent, honest man to be their leader.
Almost a full year into his presidency, one punctuated with significant legislative victories as well as rancorous clashes with the opposite party and members of the entrenched Washington establishment, President Monroe sometimes walks the corridors of the White House residence late at night, gazing into the faces of the presidential portraits hanging on the walls. Privately, he is bewildered to be among their company, the nation’s iconic founders. The Great Men. On these nocturnal strolls, observed by no one, Monroe longs to smell war again and hear the cacophony of battle. Who is he really, this specter on the silent second floor of the White House residence? Why him? How is it he came to live and work in this hallowed place? Of these musings and doubts, no one must know. Not Cindy. Not anyone. No one should know the truth. Not ever.
* * *
THE CIA OFFICE of deputy director, Intelligence Integration, is spacious and well-ordered. Framed photographs hang on the wall, images from James Odom’s life’s work in service to his country. Riding a camel in Saudi Arabia. Odom standing in the rubble of what was once the picturesque Old City of Mosul. Receiving an honor from Barack Obama. The office inhabitant’s prized possession is propped in a corner, a Charleville musket, Model 1770, that was reportedly fired by a colonist rebel at the Battle of Bunker Hill. Visitors invariably are drawn to the historic weapon and are encouraged by its proud owner to pick it up and handle it to better appreciate its weight (ten pounds) and impressive length (sixty inches). Every Fourth of July, the gun is discharged at one Independence Day celebration or another and as such is always a showstopper.
James Odom, seated behind his desk with landline phone pressed to his ear, stares at the musket as he waits for a call to be picked up by its recipient. He ponders the human race’s instinct for war, to settle all disagreements with violence and submission. These ruminations are not self-righteous or ethical judgments but rather simple observations of fact. All that he has achieved, his position with the agency and stature within the intelligence community at large, will not be taken from him without a fight. The undeniable fact that his needs dovetail with those of the nation renders his actions unassailable and pristine. His cause is virtuous.
The call goes through. A male’s voice comes across the line. “Yes?”
Odom is somber. History is made with phone calls like this one. He must not ever forget the moment. Two words suffice. “It’s time.” He replaces the phone receiver in its cradle, stands up from his seat, and turns toward a coatrack standing next to the office door.
A few minutes later, the deputy director exits the building through the main entrance and, wearing a navy-blue duffel coat and astrakhan cap, hurries toward the parking lot. Despite clear, blue skies, Odom hunches over as if carrying a heavy burden over his back. The air has gone cold and the wind blows steady.
* * *
HAYLEY IS DRAWN to the protest in Lafayette Square, a spectacle that cannot be ignored. Normal human behavior has seemingly been suspended, replaced by temporary insanity and rule of the mob. The city police, joined by units from federal agencies, attempt to tame the beast, but it is too large and unpredictable. Barricades have been trampled, and demonstrators pour into the streets like supercharged, hometown fans onto a football field after a come-from-behind victory.
More phalanxes of police march into the fray. Hayley stands on the sidelines, watching the police go about the business of establishing order with a frenzy that matches the mob’s fury. They swing their clubs and truncheons with crisp flicks of their wrist, relentless and methodical as seasoned farmworkers.
But the furious protestors, having submitted to their beatdowns at the hands of the Russian security personnel the day before, refuse to capitulate to the US authorities. They fight back with sticks, improvised weapons, and fists. Hayley watches, horrified by the violence. Somewhere a tear gas canister expels its noxious fumes. A mounted policeman swings his baton from high up in the saddle, clubbing heads. The screams of demonstrators who have been injured merge with the howls of their compatriots who avenge those injuries. Hayley shouts but cannot hear her own voice over the clang and blare of the riot.
It is a nightmare in daylight. The sight of a Park Police officer repeatedly striking a female protestor with his baton fixates Hayley. The woman has ceased all resistance. Though still conscious, she seems to have given up all willpower for self-preservation. Finally, the shock paralyzing Hayley becomes rage, and she moves forward with balled fists. “Stop! Stop hitting her! She’s not resisting! What’s wrong with you?” Drawing close, Hayley grips the policeman by the arm holding the baton.
Without losing his rhythm, the policeman shakes Hayley’s hand off and strikes her across the temple with his riot stick. Hayley drops to her knees, stunned. The policeman pushes her facedown on the pavement, retrieves a plastic zip tie from his utility belt, and secures her hands behind her back. With the assistance of a second officer, the policeman lifts Hayley up by her armpits and drags her toward a waiting police van.
Hayley regains her senses. “Wait. I work in the White House. My credentials are in my pocket!” she tells the cops frantically.
The policemen are deaf to Hayley’s protestations, dragging her roughly across the street to the van, where more officers oversee loading of the arrested protestors. She is dumped into the back of the van, joining a dozen other bleeding and bruised citizens, the vehicle doors slammed shut after her. Struggling to sit up, her back against the cold sheet metal walls of the police van, Hayley fights to find emotional equilibrium, thinking back to the morning. Was it just a few hours ago she had enjoyed her usual predawn run?
* * *
MONROE PAUSES IN the doorway of the Cabinet Room, where the Russian president and his clutch of advisors have gathered, and takes in the scene. The Russians are on one side of the long table, facing the Rose Garden windows, while Deputy Chief of Staff Rodgers and other aides wait for him to join them on the opposite side. The US president enters; the room instantly becomes quiet and alert. This long-anticipated and controversial meeting between superpower leaders is moments from commencing. Nothing is more important than its success. No sound or racket of the riot in Lafayette Square permeates into the room.
The new intern, Charlotte, enters unnoticed. She carries the president’s all-important briefing book, significant in its leather binding and historic background. The young female intern scarcely breathes. Blood pounds through her vessels, head buzzing. Not in a million years would she have imagined this moment would be a reality. As instructed by Karen Rey, Charlotte has triple-checked the contents of the briefing book, compiled by the staff only within the last thirty minutes, and delivers it to the president’s seat at the table opposite the Russian president. “Neither seen nor heard” was Rey’s admonition an hour earlier and not difficult for Charlotte to obey. Her anxiety level is off the charts as she places the briefing book on the table.
“Who the hell is this?” Charlotte hears someone say, unsure who has said it and to whom it is in reference. She looks timidly in the direction of the president and is horrified to realize it was Monroe speaking about her! Karen Rey, standing next to POTUS, gapes at
her like Charlotte is on fire, or worse. What would be worse than being on fire? Bewildered and ashamed, Charlotte cannot begin to find the answer to that question.
* * *
KAREN REY IS defined by her position as a senior aide in the West Wing. When she wakes up in the morning, she is an assistant to the president, White House Operations. When she goes to bed at night, she is an assistant to the president, White House Operations. When Karen Rey dreams, she dreams as an assistant to the president, White House Operations. Six months ago, at the prodding of her colleagues, Rey composed a profile on Bumble, the dating app, and dutifully fielded dozens of suitors before settling on a modestly good-looking lobbyist with thinning hair and dad body. A dozen desultory “dates” followed their first coffee. Sexual intercourse was achieved on two occasions but even in those interludes, Karen Rey remained, essentially, an assistant to the president, White House Operations. The lobbyist, understandably, grew bored with Rey’s shoptalk and decamped for further, more productive swiping.
Job security is not a hallmark with any administration, but Peter Hall’s shocking death has raised Rey’s employment anxiety to a high pitch. A new chief of staff will want his or her own people for the most important West Wing positions. To shore up her defenses against this probable outcome, Rey has been waging a campaign to ingratiate herself with the president and make herself the “indispensable woman” in the West Wing. She has never gotten the sense the former general really likes her very much, and Rey frets she isn’t “female” enough for the traditional-minded president. His eyes always seem to soften in the presence of Suzy Powell, the assistant to the president for presidential personnel, who has curves going in just about every direction but down. If she had the time and, more critically, the money for breast implants, Rey unhesitatingly would purchase them.
