The White House
Washington, D.C.
March 18, 6:07 a.m.
McCoy had never been to the White House, and it was a streak he had hoped to continue indefinitely as he was promoted through the Marine Corps ranks. The farther he could stay away from the halls of bureaucracy, the better. Looks like that streak is about to be broken, he thought as they cleared the E Street checkpoint and pulled up to the southwest gate of the White House complex. Two members of a Marine security detail manning the gate stepped up to meet them—one approaching the driver’s door while the other walked the perimeter of the vehicle with an inspection mirror on a pole to survey the underside of the car.
“Good morning,” the driver said, handing the stone-faced Marine a packet of what McCoy could only assume were both their credentials. McCoy had not given the driver his credentials, so he could not be certain.
“State your business at the White House this morning,” the Marine said, accepting the document packet but keeping his eyes on them.
Oh, this ought to be good, McCoy thought as he waited for the driver to answer the question. He was not disappointed.
“Colonel Castillo and Captain McCoy, here at the request of the President,” his confederate chauffeur said.
“Just a moment, sir,” the Marine said. “Please put your transmission in park while you wait.”
“Colonel Castillo, huh?” McCoy said with a narrow-eyed stare at his chauffeur. “I’m assuming you didn’t get your bird driving town cars around the beltway . . . sir.”
“I’ve worn a lot of hats over the years, McCoy,” was all Castillo said through a grin, both hands gripping the steering wheel at the two and ten o’clock positions.
“Mm-hmm . . .” McCoy said, studying the man in profile, trying to place the face and searching his memory for that name. After a long moment, he decided he couldn’t place the name or the face and ruminated over which branch of service Castillo harkened from. He settled on army, but that was little more than a gut feeling. He estimated the colonel to be in his fifties—though with a level of fitness of a man much younger—and wondered about this whole “driver” charade. Clearly Castillo, whoever he was, enjoyed messing with people.
Yeah, definitely army . . .
The Marine sentry returned a moment later, and handed Castillo his envelope back, and said, “Sir, they’re expecting you in the Situation Room. Park anywhere that’s open, then walk to the south screening building on West Executive Avenue. Your escort will meet you there.”
“Thank you, Corporal,” Castillo said, easing them past the stout barricades after they’d fully retracted.
At this hour, parking was easy to find, and Castillo pulled nose-in to one of the angle slips on State Place NW. After killing the engine, he opened the envelope and passed McCoy his new credentials. McCoy looked at the badge, which had his full name, his photograph, and a title—special assistant odni—printed in the upper-left corner. The badge was rimmed with a royal blue border and was fitted inside a thin transparent case.
“I think it’s time somebody tells me what’s going on,” McCoy said, as Castillo pulled on his door handle to get out of the car.
“Yep,” Castillo said. “That’s what we’re here for. C’mon, don’t want to be late on your first day. Leave your backpack in the back.”
With a grudging exhale through his nose, McCoy climbed out of the Town Car and followed Castillo to the south screening building where West Executive South met State. As promised, they were greeted by a White House staffer who introduced himself as Stephan Hart, ODNI liaison, and whisked them through screening before the two-hundred-foot march to the West Wing. When they reached the iconic white awning designating the west entrance, directly across the street from the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, McCoy paused.
“Ever been to the West Wing?” Hart asked him.
“Never,” McCoy said, looking up at the monochrome gray Presidential seal affixed to the front of the awning.
“Then welcome to the People’s House,” Hart said, calling the White House by its nickname—a forgotten tradition that had been renewed and resurrected by the current administration.
A very American concept, McCoy thought.
Referring to the White House as the People’s House, rather than, say, the Presidential Palace, as a despot or dictator might, was a symbolic reminder that the current President—however important she may feel—served at the pleasure of the people.
“No guards?” McCoy asked, taken aback that the entrance was unattended.
“There’s plenty of security here,” Hart said. “Just not posted at every door. That’s what the checkpoints are for.”
McCoy nodded and quickstepped to catch up with Castillo, who’d already gone inside—none of this new to the colonel. Hart held the door for McCoy and they both stepped into the foyer. Castillo was talking to the night receptionist who was seated at a desk and he already had her laughing at something. When they stepped up, she smiled and greeted Hart by name. To McCoy’s surprise, she didn’t ask to see their badges.
“You know where you’re going, Stephan, I believe,” she said, more parting comment than question.
“Yep, thanks, Sandy. Have a good one.”
“You, too. Nice to see you, Colonel Castillo.”
Castillo took the lead, as McCoy was beginning to sense would be the norm, walking straight through a cased opening and into a lobby twice the size of the foyer. The ceiling was low and the décor was, while tasteful, far from regal—not nearly as grand and stately as he’d imagined the West Wing to be. As if reading his mind, Hart played extemporaneous tour guide.
“This is the ground level of the West Wing,” the staffer began. “If you keep going straight, past that blue sofa and chair over there and head down the corridor, you’ll pass the Secret Service office and find access up to the first floor. That’s where you’ll find the Oval, the Cabinet Room, the Roosevelt Room, et cetera—basically all the iconic spaces you’re used to seeing in photographs and movies.”
Ahead, Castillo disappeared around the corner.
“Most people think whizzer is underground,” Hart continued, “but that’s a common misconception. While, technically, you could call this level a basement, it’s only halfway underground.”
“What’s whizzer?” McCoy asked, turning right and stepping through a set of open double doors.
“Oh sorry, not whizzer like it sounds. That’s just how people say the acronym—WHSR stands for White House Situation Room,” he said, leading McCoy down a half flight of stairs. “On the left is the Navy Mess. If you have time, I suggest grabbing breakfast there. Good eats.” He turned right again into a dead-end hallway where Castillo was pressing the buzzer on a keypad beside a single door.
“Colonel Castillo, Captain McCoy, and Stephan Hart to see the DNI,” Castillo said.
“Come on in,” a male voice said, and the door buzzed open.
Castillo opened the door and led the trio into the cramped reception area at the entrance to the Situation Room.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” the reception attendant said. “Please place your phones in one of the lead-lined cubbies and I’ll give you a ticket. DNI Fleiss is waiting for you in the Briefing Room, straight ahead.”
McCoy pulled his phone from his pocket and did as instructed, getting a little slip of numbered paper from the attendant that matched the numbered cubby he’d selected. He shoved the ticket in his pocket and followed Castillo across a transverse hall. As he did, he looked into a large room buzzing with activity. Two tiers of workstations staffed by a small army of analysts were working at computers or talking on phones in a setup reminiscent of many tactical operations centers he’d experienced.
He glanced at Hart beside him. “What’s that?”
“It has lots of nicknames, but most people just call it the Watch Center—think of it as the nerve center of WHSR. Down here we have a staff of approximately thirty personnel organized into five watch teams—three duty officers, a comms supe, and two intel analysts. They prep the President’s Morning Book and process thousands of cables and inquiries a day. It’s pretty bad-ass how much data they crunch.”
“Funny,” McCoy said, “I always thought the Situation Room was an actual room.”
“Once upon a time it was, but this space got completely renovated and updated in 2007. The name stuck, but the Situation Room is a moniker for this whole complex now.”
“Quit gawking and gabbing,” Castillo said, standing in the doorway ahead. “The DNI is a busy man and the clock is ticking.”
McCoy turned away from the Watch Center, nodded, and followed Hart into the Briefing Room—a modest-sized conference room with a dozen black leather chairs arranged neatly around a large rectangular table. Seated at the head of the table was a man McCoy recognized instantly as Director of National Intelligence Marty Fleiss.
“Captain McCoy,” Fleiss said, standing to greet him with an extended hand. “Welcome to the Situation Room.”
“Thank you, sir,” McCoy said, giving the DNI’s hand a firm shake.
“Charley, I see you didn’t get lost,” the DNI said with a grin to Castillo.
“Not this time,” the colonel said.
The DNI turned to Hart. “Thanks for playing escort, Stephan. If you could wait outside, please.”
“Yes, sir,” Hart said, and excused himself.
Fleiss gestured for McCoy and Castillo to sit as he took his seat back at the head of the table. “I imagine it’s probably been a whirlwind twenty-four hours for you, Captain?” he said.
“Yesterday I was sitting on a dirt floor sipping tea with a tribal leader on the other side of the world, and now I’m in the West Wing talking with the DNI in the Situation Room—so yes, sir, this is all a bit surreal,” McCoy answered.
The DNI nodded. “I assume Charley read you in on the basics of why you’re here?”
“Uh, that’s a negative, sir.”
Fleiss shot Castillo a sideways look.
Castillo just smiled. “I thought it would be better to throw him in the deep end and see if he could swim.”
McCoy resisted the urge to shake his head at this comment that perfectly encapsulated the difference between his father’s generation of warfighter and his own. Today’s leadership in the Corps didn’t have time to make every assignment a test of character and mettle. In a Marine Corps at war for twenty years now, the job itself was the test of a Marine’s character and mettle. As an officer, McCoy believed his number one responsibility as a leader was to effectively communicate information up and down the chain of command. Effective communication was the cornerstone of mission success. The world and the mission objectives were complicated enough; the last thing anyone needed was to waste time guessing and second-guessing the priorities, objectives, means and methods, and criteria for success. The days of “figure it out as you go along” were over as far as McCoy was concerned—and good riddance.
Apparently, Castillo hadn’t gotten the memo.
“In that case,” Fleiss said, “I think it’s time we got down to business. As you are undoubtedly aware, Captain McCoy, the U.S. secretary of state was abducted during a terrorist attack at the Middle East nuclear weapons nonproliferation summit in Cairo.”
“Yes, sir, I’m aware,” McCoy replied.
The DNI’s expression turned grim. “So far, we’ve made precious little headway finding him. Whoever did this covered their tracks exceedingly well and they have made no attempt to communicate any demands . . .”
And what does any of this have to do with me?
“Now, I imagine you’re sitting there wondering what all this has to do with you,” Fleiss continued. “And that’s a fair question, which is why I think this is the perfect time to turn this indoc over to Colonel Castillo.”
“Captain McCoy,” Castillo began, taking the proverbial baton from the DNI, “you’ve been identified and selected as the top candidate for the Presidential Agent program. As the Presidential Agent, your first assignment will be to locate the secretary of state and bring him home.”
McCoy felt his mouth drop open. “Excuse me?”
Castillo flashed him a “no bullshit” smile. “Any questions?”
“Uh . . . yeah, a million,” McCoy said, his head spinning. “First of which is, I’ve never even heard of the Presidential Agent program. What is it and who runs it?”
“The Presidential Agent program was created under a previous administration to fill a need that exists where the intelligence community, Department of Defense, and clandestine operations ecosystems intersect. Imagine, if you will, a giant Venn diagram where those three communities overlap—in the very center there’s a tiny triangle where all the rings cross. Can you picture that in your mind?”
McCoy nodded.
“That hyper-connected space is where the Presidential Agent program was created to function. Our job is to execute emergent tasking, in denied areas, with zero footprint. We operate with the full knowledge and silent backing of the President of the United States, while offering her plausible deniability in the event we fuck up. In other words, the Presidential Agent gets the shit done that nobody else can—like rescuing the secretary of state from terrorists.”
“Hold on,” McCoy said, raising both his hands in disbelief. “Sounds like we’re reinventing the wheel a little bit here. If you want to rescue Secretary Malone, send in the Tier One—this is the exact type of mission Delta or the JSOC SEALs were created for.”
“Where do you want the President to send them?” Castillo asked, cocking an eyebrow. “I told you nobody knows where Malone is.”
“Well, isn’t that the CIA’s job—to figure that out?”
“It is,” the DNI answered, taking the baton back from Castillo. “And they haven’t been able to find him.”
“Okay, but what in the world makes you think I can?” McCoy said through an exasperated laugh. “Twenty-four hours ago, I was sitting in Iraq with the Raiders, leading an operation that has absolutely no connection with Egypt whatsoever. I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I have to be candid with you—I don’t have the first clue how to go about executing the task you’re suggesting. But even if I was arrogant enough to claim I did, I don’t have the network or interagency connections to effect a successful mission.”
Fleiss and Castillo looked at each other with matching knowing smiles.
“We know that,” Castillo said. “But I do . . .”
“You see, Captain, you’ve been selected to be the next Presidential Agent, and Charley is going to teach you how.”
In McCoy’s head, the first puzzle piece clicked into place. “So, I assume that means Colonel Castillo is the former Presidential Agent?”
“Not former . . . am,” Castillo said, beating the DNI to the punch. “I am the one and only Presidential Agent, and you’ll be working for me.”
In the corner of his eye, McCoy thought he glimpsed the DNI grimace at this. Maybe Castillo was having a little trouble accepting the idea of passing the torch . . . assuming that was what was going on here.
“In MARSOC vernacular,” Fleiss said, “you’re the operational element and he’s command and control.”
McCoy nodded, feeling a little better about this goat-rope he’d been sucked into . . . but only a little. “So, how exactly is this supposed to go? We work Malone’s kidnapping in parallel to the rest of the IC and whoever finds him first wins?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. Think of this as a counterterrorism fox hunt, and you’re the lead hunter. The difference is, I’ll make sure all pertinent intelligence uncovered is funneled to you in real time. In addition, you will have access to any and all intelligence collection means and methods at my disposal without having to jump through the hoops you’d normally be required to. As the Presidential Agent, President Cohen is basically handing you a giant pair of razor-sharp scissors and the authority to cut through any and all bureaucratic red tape that normally bogs down this giant machine we all work inside. I want you to understand that that takes an incredible amount of trust. The President is opening herself up to tremendous risk with this program, Captain.”
So why in the hell did she choose me? POTUS doesn’t know me from Adam . . .
“Understood, sir,” McCoy said. When neither Castillo nor Fleiss followed up, he said, “So, about my orders. I never received the TAD paperwork.”
“Sure, sure,” Fleiss said, pressing back from the table and getting to his feet. “Charley, make sure you get McCoy a copy of his orders, please.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Castillo said. “Will do.”
McCoy stood and the DNI clapped a hand on his shoulder and met his gaze. “The clock is ticking. Good luck, McCoy.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, feeling as if at any moment Gunny Dean and the rest of his unit would burst in and yell “Surprise!,” putting an end to this charade.
And with that, the Director of National Intelligence walked out of the room—leaving him alone with a man who thirty minutes ago had pretended to be his Uber driver and now turned out to be his new boss.
“Well, don’t just stand there with your mouth open, McCoy,” Castillo said, turning toward the door. “We’ve got work to do.”
“What’s next on the agenda?” McCoy said, stepping after him.
“We hop on a plane to Egypt. Because if there’s one thing I can guaran-fucking-tee, it’s that the secretary of state ain’t going to rescue himself.”