PROLOGUE

Standing in the Oval Office, President Harrison Whitlock IV reached out and took down the brutal horse whip that hung on the wall just to the left of the most famous desk in the world.

Technically, this was a Cossack whip or nagyka, once used by Russian teamsters to control their massive draft horses. It also happened to make a cruel weapon. The whip consisted of a wooden handle that measured eighteen inches in length, covered in braided horsehide that elongated into the whip itself. The nagyka was just about three feet long.

The leather was starting to dry rot and the battered nagyka looked out of place in the formal presidential surroundings that included portraits of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. In truth, the whip held nothing but bad memories. The president kept it there, however, as a reminder of a time when he had lived in fear of that lash.

More and more these days, Harry Whitlock’s thoughts seemed to return to those times. Just getting old, he thought. Given that the war had ended fifty years before, it was likely that he would be the last president to have served in World War II. Back then, as a very young pilot, his B-17 had been shot down over Germany. One could still catch a glimpse of that young man in the president’s bright blue eyes.

“Sir?” his chief of staff had materialized and caught him reminiscing.

“It’s all right, Bob,” the president said, turning to face his chief of staff and the business of the day, but not before returning the whip to its place on the wall.

The whip served as a reminder that freedom must be defended, and that it comes with a price.

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