Power and Empire

6

Commander Robby Forrestal stepped into the Oval a moment later, standing by the door until the President motioned him the rest of the way in. Bald as an egg, he had an angular jaw and runner’s build that suited his Navy service dress whites — the summer uniform he’d wear through September. The placard of ribbons on his chest said he’d served in conflicts involving Afghanistan, Iran, and China. It never ceased to move Ryan how much time in action these young servicemen now faced before they were thirty-five. It was a sobering thought, since for too many years it had been a nod from him that sent them there.

Three minutes later Commander Forrestal finished his initial Bottom Line Up Front briefing regarding the explosion and eventual sinking of China Global Shipping Lines’ Orion. He took a step back, waiting for discussion and questions. As a former national security adviser himself, Ryan knew how to conduct a briefing, and Forrestal was one of the best.

“Casualties?” Ryan asked.

“Preliminary information reports four dead,” Forrestal said. “But the ship’s manifest says there were thirty-two souls on board — and only twenty-two of those are accounted for.”

Ryan took a long breath and gave a pensive shake of his head. “Six more…”

“Still missing, Mr. President,” Forrestal said. “Coast Guard has a Mandarin speaker from Seattle on scene at the command post now. I’ll have more information for you in short order.”

Ryan read the one-page executive summary Commander Forrestal had provided. “Forty-knot winds and sixteen-foot seas…”

“Yes, sir,” Forrestal said. “We’re fortunate they were able to save the twenty-two, considering the conditions. The search for the six missing crewmen is still ongoing. I have to admit, the Coasties are doing an incredible job here.”

“High praise from a Navy man.” Ryan smiled. “So they’re diverting traffic up through Canada?”

“Yes, sir,” Forrestal said. “The strait is twenty miles wide at some points, but given the weather, it’s impossible to tell how many containers are floating around beneath the surface. One of the Coast Guard 45s out of Port Angeles has already hit one. The crew is okay, but their vessel is in-op.”

Ryan checked his watch. “It’ll be getting light out there by now at this time of year. That’ll help, but I’d imagine it’s a circus. A ship that large, there’s bound to be a lot of oil and diesel floating around.”

“True enough, Mr. President,” Forrestal said. “The district captain has raised the MARSEC level and instituted a standoff zone. If there’s anything good about the weather, it’s that most of the looky-loos are staying off the water. EPA officials out of Seattle are on scene. We should have the preliminary environmental assessment anytime.”

“As bad as the weather is, it would be nothing for a modern container ship to negotiate.” Ryan tapped the paper with his forefinger to underscore his point. “What caused this ship to sink?”

“According to the Mandarin speaker, the crewmen are claiming a series of explosions.”

Burgess couldn’t contain himself. “In the engine room?”

“That’s unknown,” Forrestal said, before turning back to Ryan. “Nothing but WAGs so far, Mr. President.” Commander Forrestal had been around long enough to know that Ryan had enough information flying across his desk; he didn’t have time for Wild-Ass Guesses.

“Very well,” Ryan said. “Keep us informed.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.” Forrestal turned to go, but Ryan stopped him, calling him by his first name, to take the tone of the meeting down a notch.

“Thank you, Robby,” the president said. “Didn’t your son have a football game last weekend?”

The commander smiled. “He did, sir. Ran for a total of sixty-four yards.”

“Not bad for an eleven-year-old in Pop Warner,” Ryan said. “Be careful, the Patriot scouts will be looking at him before he knows it.”

“I’ll tell him you said that, sir,” Forrestal said, excusing himself with a broad grin. Not everyone got to pass on kudos to their kid from the President of the United States.

Ryan turned back to his advisers once the door was shut.

“A bomb?” Secretary Burgess said. “Diesel engines don’t usually explode.”

Scott Adler gave a slow shake of his head. “That’s one possibility,” he said. “The explosion could very easily have been a reaction of some chemicals in one of the containers. We’ll have to look at the manifest. In any case, this incident creates another problem that piles on to the issues I mentioned regarding the FONOP. I’m happy the Coast Guard was so quick to respond, but our rescue of twenty-two Chinese seamen is just another thing to make President Zhao look weak. His ships can’t even make it to Seattle without the evil capitalists lending a hand…”

“You know,” Mary Pat said, nodding, “it’s a poor state of affairs, but he’s right.”

“Maybe,” Ryan said. “All of you get into this and see what you can find out regarding terror threats toward Chinese shipping.”

“And specific threats toward us from the ChiComs,” Burgess added.

“That too, Bob,” Ryan said. “Although I sincerely hope any specific threats would have floated to the top already.”

Ryan stood to show the briefing was at an end. He was careful not to put any weight on his heel.

Ryan waited for everyone, including Arnie van Damm, to file out and their respective doors to close behind them before he hobbled toward his desk. He’d nearly made it when Mary Pat stuck her head back inside.

“I saw you limping, Jack,” she said, affecting the motherly voice she’d used on him when they were in the CIA together. MP was one of an extremely close cohort who still addressed him by his given name — but even she rarely did it in the Oval Office. She opened her hand to reveal a golf ball with the presidential seal in her open palm. “I got this from the stash of tchotchkes Betty gives out to visitors when they can’t get in to see you. Ed had a bout with plantar fasciitis a couple years ago. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Ryan leaned back in his chair, his eyebrows raised.

“Getting old isn’t for wusses,” he said.

“You’re not a wuss,” Mary Pat said. “You’re an invalid.”

Ryan sighed again. “Yeah, well, don’t spread that around. Press gets word I have a toothache and the markets drop fifty points.”

“I will treat your condition as highly classified,” Mary Pat said, and then tossed him the ball. “You’re supposed to take off your shoe and roll this around under the arch of your foot. It works wonders.”

Ryan looked back and forth from the golf ball to his aching foot.

“Well,” Mary Pat said, glancing at her watch, “my boss expects me to get some work done today. I’ll leave you to your rehab.”

Alone again, Ryan glanced at the paper copy of his schedule on the center of his desk. It was not uncommon for the document to be vague, as the President’s daily schedule was posted on the White House website. Betty or Arnie usually added a little handwritten commentary for him in the margins of his copy. This morning, his nine o’clock simply said: Meeting.

He’d just pressed his intercom when the door opened and his secretary stuck her head in. The woman’s prescience really did border on a superpower.

“What’s next, Betty?”

“Special Agent Montgomery, Mr. President, the new special agent in charge of your protection detail. He asked for five minutes to introduce himself.”

Grouchy from the pain in his heel, Ryan dropped the golf ball on the carpet and began to roll it around under his foot. “I liked Joe,” he muttered. “We got along well. He was good at his job. Why couldn’t they just leave me Joe?” Ryan glanced up at his secretary’s passive face. It was the closest she would ever come to chastising him — even when he deserved it.

“Lovely dress, Betty,” he said, by way of apology for his sulking.

“Thank you, Mr. President,” she said. “Special Agent O’Hearn will do a fine job as deputy director.” She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head like a mom, telling him to give the liver and onions a chance. “This Montgomery fellow seems like a very nice man.”

“Send him in,” Ryan said.

Betty placed a file folder in the center of Ryan’s desk and excused herself with a benign smile.

Prepared by the Secret Service, the folder contained the new agent’s photo, work history, and biography. Ryan had asked them to include his detail agents’ shooting scores and short bios of their families as well. It was the analyst in him. He’d already read Montgomery’s file but left his copy in the residence on the mile-high stack of briefs, budgets, and political ballyhoo he had to read every day along with the PDB.

Special Agent in Charge Gary Montgomery stepped in a moment later, wearing an expensive gray wool suit. His charcoal-colored hair was cut neat and short, just long enough to part. Ryan smiled. Everyone got a haircut and bought a new suit for their first meeting in this office — if they had the time. He remembered his first time in the Oval and shuddered a little.

Ryan guessed the agent at around six-three and well over two hundred pounds — with the ferocious look and thick neck of a guy you’d want protecting you when the shit hit the fan. People in the private sector — and even other countries — tended to hire their bodyguards by the pound, but the U.S. Secret Service was different. The agency understood that big didn’t necessarily mean competent.

Ryan had been around long enough to know that at some point in their careers, virtually all agents in the Secret Service had to punch their tickets by working on some kind of protection; the best were assigned to PPD — Presidential Protection Detail. But even those assignments could range from any one of a variety of positions — advance agent scouting locations prior to the President’s arrival, outer perimeter, countersurveillance, or lowly post-stander at any of dozens of doors at any given venue.

While Ryan respected the entire agency, the SAIC and the principal detail agents who worked within arm’s reach—“inside the bubble,” they called it — were the best of the best. PPD agents didn’t have to be large in stature — but they did have to be extremely good at their job. From all accounts, Gary Montgomery was both. It said something about the man that he now stood in Ryan’s office with a gun under his suitcoat. Not many people in the world got to do that. The file said his range scores were near perfect with both his SIG Sauer pistol and the MP5 SMG. There was a lightness to the way he stood, with his large hands hanging easily at his sides, as if he knew right where they were if he needed them. The bio said he’d boxed at the University of Michigan, so it made sense that he would be self-assured. Still, it would take months to develop the relationship Ryan had with Joe O’Hearn. And the level of understanding shared between him and Andrea Price-O’Day — forget about it.

“Welcome to the Big Show,” Ryan said, referring to what the agents themselves called PPD. His eyes narrowed as he studied the new addition to his detail. “We’ve met before…”

Montgomery possessed a disarming smile for such a ferocious-looking man. “I was warned you had an incredible memory, Mr. President.”

“So we have met?”

“Not officially,” Montgomery said. “I served as whip of the VP detail shortly after Special Agent Price-O’Day became SAIC on yours.”

Ryan sighed. Andrea Price-O’Day was one tough human being. She’d picked him up and dusted him off — both figuratively and literally — during his first moments as President. That was what? A million years ago? Not many agents in the Secret Service could say they’d gotten a field promotion from the President to lead PPD — but then, considering the carnage that had led up to that promotion, no one wanted that kind of bragging rights. The longtime agent in charge of his detail, Andrea had retired after injuries sustained protecting him in Mexico City. Ryan was sure Montgomery knew the story.

“The VP detail?” Ryan mused, instead of boring the agent with bloody memories. “The Little Show with free parking.” The Naval Observatory, home to the VPOTUS, offered agents a place to park — something not available to them at the White House.

“You know your Secret Service culture, sir,” Montgomery said.

“Just enough to get me in trouble.” Ryan closed the file folder. “Welcome aboard, Gary.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Montgomery said. “I thought I should stop by and introduce myself before I get started in case you had any questions.”

“You’re not handling the Tokyo advance for the G20?” Ryan asked.

“No, sir,” Montgomery said. “I’ve assigned Assistant Special Agent in Charge Flynn. I thought it more important I stay here and get my feet planted firmly in the detail. It allows me to get to know you and your idiosyncrasies so that I can better prot—”

Ryan’s head snapped up. “I have idiosyncrasies?”

“You do, sir,” Montgomery said.

“Name one.”

Montgomery’s hands hung still and relaxed. He cocked his head to one side. If he was nervous, he didn’t show it.

“For starters,” he said. “You test your agents.”

“This isn’t a test.”

“Of course not, Mr. President.”

Ryan smiled in spite of the pain in his foot. This guy was direct. Direct was good. “Well, maybe it is a test, but it’s a good-natured test. I’m sure we’ll get to know one another well enough.”

“Very well,” Montgomery said, taking that as a dismissal. He paused at the door to the secretaries’ office, then shook his head as if thinking better of something. At least he’d picked the right door; agents had been known to walk into the personal study. “I beg your pardon, Mr. President, but I happened to overhear DNI Foley mention that you might have a bout of plantar fasciitis going on. I don’t know if you are aware of this, sir, but that particular malady is also known as ‘policeman’s foot.’ Protective agents are on our feet for long hours, standing post and whatnot. I feel your pain, Mr. President, and I have some tried-and-true remedies if you’re interested.”

Ryan thought for a moment, then motioned to the leather chairs in front of the Resolute desk and leaned forward, all ears.

This Montgomery guy might work out after all.