Summers had a reputation as an up-and-comer and had come to the White House after being the operations officer of a black ops team known as Task Force Trident. The only time her personality emerged while she was on duty at the White House was when a senior officer from within the elite Spec Operations community came to see the president. Those really hard men always took time to say hello to Summers and joke about the fancy loop of braid on her right shoulder, teasing her about becoming a staff weenie and getting a death glare from the dark blue eyes in return.
“Can’t cut it in the field anymore, eh, Major?” one lieutenant general had quipped.
“Your pants are unzipped again, sir. Another senior moment?” she replied in her distinctive, quiet voice that was polite but carried a sense of menace, like the purr of a puma feasting happily on an elk.
The three-star automatically looked down at his pants. They both laughed. It was the kind of rude exchange that passed for respect among such warriors.
The weight of history and grandeur of the White House had weighed upon her on that first trip through the uniformed Secret Service cordon at the gates and then on the walk up the long driveway to the main entrance. After that, it became just another job. The suitcase stayed within arm’s reach because it contained everything the president needed to launch a nuclear strike, whether it might be a small tactical weapon or the final, full-blown, tear-the-roof-off attack. Summers was the unanimous choice if somebody had to be on call to help the president launch Armageddon. She would probably just lean over his shoulder, a gentle aura of perfume surrounding her, and casually coach him through the authentication codes and leaf through the pages in the folder that listed the deserving targets, printed in red. She would not flinch from such an awesome responsibility and since everybody was probably about to die anyway, she might throw in a few suggestions of her own and anybody on her personal shit list would be catching a nuke on the head.
Sybelle got along fine with the other staff members whose duties also put them in close proximity to the Oval Office, and a couple of agents of the Secret Service protective detail had even asked her out for a date. She always declined and the agents grumbled about the wasted personal life of such a beautiful woman. She stood five six, weighed no more than 125 and, since she was currently based in Washington, Sybelle’s black hair was trimmed at an upscale shop, short but flaring just a bit at the collar. She was frequently called upon by the White House Social Secretary to escort a single man at an evening event, but those relationships never left the grounds. Sybelle was fierce about protecting her personal life.
She looked at the Football again. It hadn’t moved. Still there, with one end of a steel chain attached to the handle, the other end dangling free, a handcuff ready to be snapped onto her wrist.
Things had been routine around the Oval Office, with a steady stream of visitors coming and going. Then a little after three, the President’s chief of staff threw open the door of his adjoining office and bolted across the narrow hallway, barking at the two Secret Service agents flanking the door. “Code Red! Lock it down,” yelled Steve Hanson. “Evacuate him to the shelter!”
The agents spun and followed him through the door, talking into their wrist microphones as they went. The entire atmosphere of the White House changed in an instant. From calm backwater to hurricane in the blink of an eye. Sybelle unbuttoned her jacket and pulled out the Glock, knelt beside the Football and clicked the steel handcuff onto her left wrist. Then she stood again, with the pistol in her right hand, pointing it toward the floor as her eyes quartered the area.
Two more agents ran up and one dashed straight into the office while the second assumed post at the main door, holding a small machine gun. He and Sybelle exchanged the briefest of glances, and he was startled about how cool she appeared to be in this emergency. The White House was plunging into total lockdown, nobody allowed in or out, the threat unknown and security accelerating to a maximum. Snipers removed their rifles from their cases on the roof, the antiaircraft missile system was activated, and uniformed agents scrambled into defensive positions. The big gates were locked.
Summers stood there unconsciously humming a little tune, her eyes glittering like polished stones. The pistol did not twitch, although it was held in only one hand. It was almost as if she wanted somebody to attack.
There was a flurry of activity inside the Oval Office, since the president had been in the middle of a meeting about the upcoming elections in Iraq. He was whisked out, each arm held by a Secret Service agent. One spoke into his sleeve microphone to alert the agents’ command post: “Buckskin is moving.” The code name had been assigned to the president by the U.S. Army Signal Corps because the president was from Tennessee and had constantly used Davy Crockett symbolism during his campaigns.
As the group cleared the doorway, the president looked over at Sybelle, gave her a slight grin, and said, “Major Summers, maybe you had better come along. Bring our suitcase.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. Sybelle holstered her weapon, hefted the forty-five-pound case and wrapped both arms around it as a Secret Service agent pushed her into the fast-moving group heading to the secure shelter beneath the second basement. Finally, she thought as she trotted down the stairs, toting the country’s secret nuclear codes, something interesting.
7
THE WEARY TRIDENT TEAM called for a ride home as soon as they were safely back inside Afghanistan and a Dark Horse MH-47 helicopter from the 160th Special Operations Aerial Regiment soon arrived overhead to extract them from a long and barren plateau. Once aboard, the two thundering rotor blades of the SOAR bird prevented any attempt at conversation, so they loosened their gear and got comfortable for the long haul back to a forward operating base.
When they reached a safe altitude, the crew chief flashed a white greaseboard on which he had scrawled a one-word question: SWANSON?
Kyle pointed to his own chest and the crew chief struggled over, stepping around the other guys’ boots. “I’m Swanson,” he yelled when the crew chief approached. “What’s up?”
“Wait one,” the sergeant called out, handing over a flight helmet containing a radio.
Kyle pulled the little microphone arm into a speaking position and adjusted the cushioned ear pieces into place. The crew chief flipped a switch, turned a knob, and gave him a thumbs-up.
“Gunny Swanson?” the pilot’s voice was clear, despite the racket, and almost casual in tone. For the SOAR crew, this quick mission was a total milk run and they were all relaxed. No one had shot at them.
“That’s me,” said Kyle.
“We won’t be taking you to the FOB. After your team was on the map again, the brass changed our flight plan. We’re to deliver you straight to Bagram.”
Swanson exhaled in disappointment. Military regulations were looser at a forward operating base, while the huge Bagram facility meant rules and regulations, even though they would be sticking close to the special operations compound. “Any idea why?”