Washington, DC; the Harry S. Truman Federal Building
Two years before the day of
It was scarcely a mile’s drive back to his office in the Truman Building, even following the least circuitous route from the White House. Yet thanks to a combination of DC traffic and never-ending road repairs, the trip took almost twenty minutes. David didn’t mind, though. Getting behind the wheel gave him a little uninterrupted time to mentally compose the letter he had to write.
He entered through his office’s side door to avoid any impromptu visitors who might be waiting for him in the reception area. Once inside, he woke up his computer by moving its mouse. He then clicked on an icon that caused Trish’s workstation to ding and changed a symbol on both their screens from red to green. This let her know David was back in his office and she could come in if necessary.
Thirty seconds later, there was a muted tap on the door. Trish opened the door and slipped inside, gently closing it behind her. “Welcome back, Mr. Secretary. Here’s a list of people who have been trying to get in touch with you this morning.” Trish handed David a sheet of paper. “I’ve taken the liberty of organizing them according to what I think will be your sense of urgency.”
David glanced at the list and then laid it on his desk. “You’ve got some kind of superpower, Trish. But today these folks are all going to have to wait a little longer. Go grab a steno pad. We’ve got a fire to light.”
“A steno pad? Mr. Secretary, you do realize we’re a quarter of the way into the twenty-first century. I’ve never seen an actual steno pad. I’ve heard the term, maybe from my grandfather.”
“Yeah, I guess I forgot. You learned your trade after the days of voice recognition and cursive handwriting. Just get your iPad, transfer our phones to the switchboard operator, and hurry back.”
As Trish scurried away, David sat down at the small conference table in the center of his office, a somewhat casual departure from his usual, more formal working position behind his desk. When Trish returned seconds later, David motioned for her to sit down across from him.
“Trish, I know we’ve discussed some extremely sensitive material before, but nothing—and I mean nothing—comes close to what I’m going to share with you now. My saying that may be a bit insulting, especially given your security clearance, and if so, I apologize.”
“Mr. Secretary, I can’t imagine anything you might say that would insult me,” Trish said.
“I’m obligated to ask you to treat everything we discuss in this meeting just like it was top-secret sensitive compartmented information. It isn’t officially classified SCI simply because we don’t have time to go through normal channels. Again, forgive me for asking, but can you swear that what you are about to hear will not leave this room until I release it?”
“I assure you that I will treat whatever we discuss as a matter of national security.”
“Thank you, Trish. I knew you would and that you would understand my caution. And it is a matter of national security. This coming Thursday, I will announce my resignation as the United States secretary of state.”
It was a good thing Trish wasn’t trying to take shorthand. She would have broken her pencil. A stunned expression flooded her face as if someone had punched her in the stomach.
David continued, anticipating his next words to be a knockout blow to her senses. “And I’ll announce my intention to run for president in the next election.”
Trish’s jaw dropped.
“So let’s compose a letter to the POTUS,” David said. He proceeded to dictate to his shell-shocked administrative assistant. When he was finished dictating his gratitude for the opportunity to serve and his regard for the president, he leaned back in his chair.
Trish closed the cover on her iPad. “My head’s spinning, Mr. Secretary. I hope the last two shockers are all you have for today. I don’t think I can handle anything else.”
“You’re safe for now, Trish. Once you print my letter on State Department letterhead, I’ll sign it and we will send it by courier to the POTUS. Any other time, I would have hand-carried it, but he knows it’s on the way. And he knows what it says. He’ll call me on my cell once he receives it.
“As soon as I get his call, I would like you to set up an emergency close-hold meeting in my conference room.” He tore off a sheet on his yellow legal pad and handed it to Trish. “Just the staff on this list. It might be wise to send a group text and tell them to be on standby, just in case someone has plans to leave early.”
Scarcely twenty minutes later, Trish tapped on David’s door and came in with his letter of resignation. David signed it in the painstakingly precise brush script he had mastered in grammar school. After making copies of the signed document, Trish placed it in a white nine-by-twelve envelope stamped POTUS EYES ONLY, sealed it, and gave it to the waiting courier.
Back in his office, David texted Kelly: “It’s done. Plan on submitting your own letter as soon as word hits the streets. I’ll be home for dinner at the regular time tonight. This may be our last chance to have a regular meal for a while.”
David meant his last statement to be hyperbole; it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.