July 12th, 7:55 a.m.; the White House
Dressed in the same clothes he had worn to the first meeting with the President—gray suit, white shirt, red tie—Aaron Hardy turned left at the end of the hallway. A secret service agent was escorting him to the Oval Office for an early morning meeting with the President. This was going to be Hardy’s first formal contact with anyone, since his return from Russia.
After Hardy’s plane had landed on American soil, Director Jameson had called to inform him of the meeting. The phone call had been short and to the point. Hardy had been unable to ascertain Jameson’s mood. The man’s personality was cold and his demeanor was rigid. Prior to that call, Hardy and the Director had only one face-to-face meeting, and a tense phone conversation from Russia.
Striding toward the Oval Office, Hardy passed several people—secret service agents, staffers and a few unfamiliar to him. All of them had taken special interest in him. One person cranked his head around, as he passed, continuing to stare. From the time he had stepped onto the grounds of the White House, everyone had acted in the same manner. Their attitude teetered on the brink of admiration and…’dead man walking.’
Two secret service agents, standing on either side of the door to the Oval Office, sized up the newcomer, their eyes never leaving Hardy. Reaching the Oval Office, he heard the door to the Cabinet Room, which was down the hall, open. The President entered the hall with the Joint Chiefs of Staff; he was the first to see Hardy. He acknowledged him and continued his conversation with the Vice-Chairman. Rounding the corner of the hallway, the Joint Chiefs of Staff made eye contact with Hardy, nodded their heads and shook his hand. The last to do so was the Commandant of the Marine Corps, Wesley McIntosh, a four-star general.
General McIntosh was in his mid-sixties and bald, except for a patch of gray hair that surrounded the back of his head near his neck. The numerous medals on his uniform were proof of his professional prowess, having spent almost fifty years serving in the Marine Corps. He had seen action as a foot soldier in Vietnam and as a colonel in the first Gulf War before playing a major role in coordinating the invasion of Iraq in 2003. After the President had nominated him to be a Joint Chief, he was easily confirmed by the Senate. General McIntosh shook Hardy’s hand the longest. “As a fellow Marine, I’m damn proud of you, son.”
Hardy’s eyebrows furled downward, while he shook McIntosh’s hand. “Thank you…sir.”
After McIntosh had left, Hardy saw the President beckoning him toward the Oval Office. Hardy sidestepped the commander in chief and entered the room. FBI Director Jameson and the President’s Chief of Staff, Peter Whittaker, were sitting on the couch. Hardy gestured toward the closing door, more specifically, the scene that had unfolded. “Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what was that all about?”
The President put a hand on Hardy’s back and extended his free arm. “Come, sit down and I’ll tell you all about it.” The President strolled to the other couch, directly across from Jameson and Whittaker. He sighed when his body sank into the soft cushions. “After spending an hour in one of those straight-back chairs, this feels pretty darned good.”
Hardy shook hands with Whittaker and Jameson before sitting next to the President. He was still unsure of his future. In fact, the greeting he had received from the Joint Chiefs, especially General McIntosh, had only added to the confusion.
Whittaker started the meeting. He was a short, lean man, in his late forties. His black hair was parted on the left side; a thin mustache lay beneath his long, narrow nose. His eyes were small and close together. When he spoke, he had a very distinct Ivy League accent, having grown up in Massachusetts. His words were carefully chosen. The President had tapped Whittaker to be his Chief of Staff, because of his attention to detail. Nothing made it to the President without Whittaker’s knowledge. The President respected and trusted Whittaker and allowed him a great deal of latitude in all things related to the Presidency. “Mr. President, I have scheduled a meeting with the Russian Premier for later this month. Considering how nice the weather has been, I thought the Rose Garden or the South Lawn would be appropriate. Of course, we will have this office made ready if the weather does not cooperate.”
“Excellent,” said the President, who appeared to be very pleased this morning. He shifted his weight to his right hip and crossed his left leg over his right, so he could face Hardy. “Aaron, you have managed to accomplish what no one has been able to do in a long time. Yesterday, the Russian Premier called me, directly. We spoke for a few minutes and talked about two things.” The President held up his right forefinger. “One, he was willing to meet with me, regarding the war on terror; specifically, how our two countries might work together to stop future terrorist attacks.” He held up two fingers. “Two, he had high praise for you.”
Hardy raised his eyebrows. He knew the Premier was grateful, but he did not expect his name to come up during such an important phone call. He glimpsed the men sitting on the other couch. Whittaker was smiling, but Jameson was not.
“Your heroic actions, Aaron, have laid the groundwork for the United States and Russia to become allies in this war on terror. And, that meeting…later this month,” the President pointed, “the one that Mr. Whittaker was referring to…the Premier requested that you be there.”
The events of this morning fell into place like tumblers in a lock. The Joint Chiefs all knew about the upcoming meeting between the President and the Premier, and that Hardy had paved the way. He relaxed, feeling somewhat more confident his job was secure. Since he had gotten the call from Jameson, he had been obsessing over this meeting. Opening his eyes this morning, he was sure he was going to be fired.
The President stood—Whittaker, Jameson and Hardy joined him—and extended his hand. “You’ve done your country a great service, son. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re working for me.” Hardy clasped the President’s hand. “Now, if you and Mr. Jameson will let yourselves out, Mr. Whittaker and I need to hammer out the details of the meeting with the Premier.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
Jameson nodded, “Sir,” before heading toward the door. Hardy followed.
The two men left the Oval Office and walked down the hallway. Neither one said a word. Hardy had to take longer strides to keep pace with Jameson. He sensed something was not right between him and his boss. The tension between them seemed to have gotten worse. As they approached the lobby, Hardy’s intuition became fact.
Jameson planted both feet and stopped. Hardy had taken two additional steps before he could halt his momentum. “Everything may have worked out this time,” said Jameson. “But, I guarantee that if you continue to go ‘rogue’ on these missions, you’re going to wind up doing irreparable damage to yourself and to your country.”
‘Rogue?’ I followed orders. I accomplished the mission. Hell, I even managed to get a Presidential ‘attaboy.’
“I expect my agents to be disciplined and to follow orders when they are in the field. You got lucky, Hardy. If things had gone south and the Premier had been killed, who do you think would have made a perfect target for the Russians to blame?”
“As I said on the phone, sir, circumstances in the field can change and going to ‘plan B’ does not mean a soldier has gone ‘rogue.’” Hardy held up his hand. “I know you have field experience, but with all due respect, how long has it been since you’ve been in the field, sir?”
Jameson’s face and neck darkened. He glanced toward the lobby. He needed to keep his anger under control.
Thinking he had gone too far, Hardy regretted his words. A beat later, he stood taller. No, I don’t regret anything I said. If he caved now, then Jameson would never respect him. He barreled ahead. “Terrorists don’t play by the same rules we’ve been confined to for years. In order to do my job, I’m going to need to change the rules, too. And, that may mean changing how I carry out the mission, the orders I’ve been given.”
The color of Jameson’s face had made it to crimson.
“I assure you, sir, I have no other motive than to do what’s best for my country.”
“I don’t question your motives, Hardy. Your tactics are what concern me.” Jameson brushed past Hardy and strode toward the lobby.
Hardy watched the man storm off. He shook his head and spoke under his breath, mimicking Jameson. “My tactics led to the capture of my target and the saving of innocent life. My tactics got a meeting with the Premier of Russia. My tactics—” Hardy stopped himself. He was going down a juvenile path. He was above that behavior. Maybe, I shouldn’t have taken this job. He ushered the thought out of his mind and meandered toward the lobby. He had a dinner date with Special Agent Cruz and wanted none of this to interfere with that. All he wanted was to go home and get some rest. His problems with Jameson could wait.