Oath of Office

He found Hardy six minutes later, standing beside one of the boxlike wind tunnels in the basement of Rickover Hall, holding a model of a hand with a piece of steel rod sticking through the palm, working with a group of four other midshipmen — who looked nearly identical in their short hair and summer whites. The project was for one of Van Orden’s physics classes — the effects of ejecting from a jet aircraft at various speeds and attitudes of flight. The sign on the wall behind them read: “Rocket Science: It Ain’t Brain Surgery.”

Van Orden plugged his ears, thankful for the scant moment to catch his breath. Hardy looked up when he saw movement and Van Orden waved him over.

Hardy removed his hearing protection. “What can I do for you, Doctor?”

Van Orden looked toward the hallway, mouth closed, shaking his head and indicating they should step out of earshot.

“You and I have been summoned to the White House,” he said. There was no time to beat around the bush.

“The White House?”

“Correct,” Van Orden said. “A car is picking us up in”—he looked at his watch—“less than fifteen minutes.”

“All right…” Hardy hesitated. “I mean, sir, I still have classes this afternoon.”

“Did you hear what I said?” Van Orden said, his deep voice booming down the hallway until he regained his composure. He began to walk and Hardy followed. “By White House, I mean the Commander in Chief. I believe that will count as an excused absence.”

Hardy trotted to keep up. “How do they even know who I am?”

“I told them,” Van Orden said. “Come. I’ll explain on the way.”

A man in a dark suit and sunglasses rounded the corner of Dahlgren Hall as Van Orden and Hardy passed the Submarine Monument on their way to the front gate. He gave a slight nod.

“Dr. Van Orden?”

“Yes.”

“Special Agent Marsh,” the man said. “I’m your ride.” He raised a wrist to his lips, then spoke into a mic on his sleeve. “Marsh to CROWN, I have them both.”

Hardy balked when they reached the statue of Billy the Goat. “That’s Lieutenant Commander Gill, my English lit professor,” he said, nodding to a naval officer walking toward them from Lejeune Hall. “He’s also my company officer.”

“Going somewhere, Mr. Hardy?” the officer asked.

“Yes, sir,” Hardy said.

“As a matter of fact, we both are,” Van Orden said.

“Funny,” Gill said. “I didn’t see a missed-class chit for you in my inbox.”

“I’ve not completed one, sir.”

“I suggest you make time,” the officer said, professional but unyielding.

The Secret Service agent stepped in. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to excuse us, sir. Midshipman Hardy is expected at an important meeting.”

Gill grimaced, unconvinced. “I have no idea who you are. And who’s so important as to rate a disruption of Academy SOP?”

“The President, sir,” Special Agent Marsh said.

“The president of what?”

“The United States, sir,” Marsh said.

“The President? What’s this all about, Hardy?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, sir,” Marsh said, displaying the five-pointed star on his credentials. “Now, if you will please excuse us. The superintendent has the information you are cleared for.”

“I kind of feel sorry for him,” Hardy said when he slid into the backseat of a black Crown Victoria parked in the No Parking area on Randall Street in front of the gate. “He was just doing his job.”

“That makes two of us.” Marsh shot him a glance in the rearview mirror, smiling. “But you have to admit, this will go down as Yard legend.”

Hardy was pressed backward into the leather seat as the agent activated his lights and sirens and punched the accelerator to get them to the White House. For the first time since getting the news, Van Orden saw him act like the excited twenty-year-old that he was instead of a stoic midshipman. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “This is dope.”

61

President Ryan sat at the end of the conference table in the Situation Room and took a sip of water — his stomach was too knotted over Jack Junior to drink any more coffee. As he waited, he went over what he was going to say when the Russian president picked up the phone.

The plan of action had been a hasty one — as plans always were in response to situations that came out of left field. There were no drills for anything remotely like this.

Two F-22 Raptors, each loaded with two thousand-pound JDAM GBU-32 guided bombs, had taken off from Bagram twenty minutes earlier and were presently topping off with fuel somewhere over Herat. The asset known as FLINT was on standby in Mashhad, ready to upload the malware at a moment’s notice. Finally, the Russian known as GP/VICAR was about to make a phone call of his own.