Oath of Office

General Paul filled in the blanks as the Raptor pilots prepared to drop their ordnance. The assets in Iran — the general had no idea who they were — had provided GPS coordinates for the Russian missiles, giving the JDAMs a positive target to home in on once they were launched from thirty-five thousand feet. With a circular error probable of less than five meters, the four thousand-pound JDAMs would make short work of both Gorgons and anyone who happened to be standing within the blast radius. The Raptors would get close enough to video the attack from a safe altitude with sophisticated onboard sensors and cameras, allowing for a Bomb Damage Assessment, or BDA, in real time before they egressed back across the border to Afghanistan.

“Haymaker One, bombs away,” the flight lead said.

“Haymaker Two, bombs away.”

Eighty seconds ticked by and the flight leader spoke again.

“Only getting one secondary explosion,” he said. “I repeat. Only one secondary. We plastered the target. The second missile must be in a different location.”

General Paul looked at Ryan, who twirled his index finger in the air.

“Get them out of there,” Ryan said.

63

Midshipman Hardy went to Idaho State for two years before he followed through on a dream and gained acceptance to Annapolis. He was considerably older than most midshipmen in his class, but still, being driven up to the side entrance of the White House and ushered past security was enough to make him feel like an excited schoolkid on a field trip to the Smithsonian. Special Agent Marsh waited for the barricades at the northeast gate to the White House to come down. An officer with the Uniformed Division of the Secret Service was expecting them, and waved the Crown Victoria through when Marsh held up the credential card hanging from the lanyard around his neck. Marsh handed both Van Orden and Marsh lanyards of their own, each bearing a badge with a red A, signifying they had an appointment but had to be escorted.

Marsh kept going past the main entrance, parking the sedan at the east end of the circular drive, and led the way down a long walk along what Hardy guessed was the press briefing room. There were no guards on the outside, but they were met by two more officers from the Secret Service Uniformed Division, one standing, another seated at a desk. A sign-in book lay open in front of this one, but Marsh pointed down the hall and the African American officer nodded her head and waved him through. “Hey, Cody,” she said. “Busy day.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Marsh said.

Hardy had seen photographs of the White House, and plenty of movies and television shows like National Treasure and The West Wing—but he was most surprised at how low the ceilings were. Everyone from staffers to the Secret Service U.D. officers spoke in solemn tones. Rich carpeting and antique furniture gave it a reverent, museum quality, what seemed like a palace on film was much smaller, almost to the point of feeling cramped. Historic paintings by Terpning, Bierstadt, and Remington graced the walls. There were even some sketches by Norman Rockwell depicting a visit to the White House, but other than the official portraits of the President and the Vice President like the ones hanging in The Yard, there were none of the Commander in Chief himself.

Marsh turned left at the end of the hall, into a suite of offices crammed full of one too many desks where the President’s secretaries and body man sat. A severe-looking woman peered over the top of her glasses and then nodded at the Secret Service agent.

“Go on in, Cody,” she said. “He’s expecting you.”

“Thanks, Ms. Martin,” Marsh said. He stopped at the door and straightened his tie before leading the way into the Oval Office.

The President of the United States stood from his chair by the fireplace when Hardy and Van Orden stepped into the room. It too was smaller than Hardy imagined, but still big enough to bring more than a little awe. There were others in the room, the secretaries of defense and state, the director of the CIA, the chairman of the joint chiefs, and a couple of others Hardy did not recognize, including a woman who looked to be in her late fifties and sat nearest the President.

“Professor Van Orden,” Ryan said, stepping forward to extend his hand.

That is something, Hardy thought. The most powerful man on the planet and he crosses the room to shake our hands.

“And Midshipman Hardy,” Ryan said. “I’m sure you’re wondering what all this fuss is about.”

* * *