THE OVAL OFFICE, THE WHITE HOUSE,
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THAT SAME TIME
“That rat bastard!” the President of the United States, Samuel Conrad, thundered as he exited his private study adjacent to the Oval Office. “Who does that guy think he is? He doesn’t know anything except what some hack reporter puts out over the wires. Somebody save me from the know-it-alls in the world.”
The President’s National Security Adviser, Sergeant Major Ray Jefferson, U.S. Army, had just walked into the Oval Office when the President finished his tirade. The President’s Chief of Staff, Thomas F. Kinsly, was fixing the President a cup of coffee—decaf, Jefferson hoped—and he immediately made his way over to fix himself a cup. The White House had the best coffee in the world, Jefferson learned, but the Oval Office stuff seemed even better, and he never failed to grab a cup when he could.
Ray Jefferson took his coffee, stepped back behind the sofa in the little meeting area of the Oval Office—and almost seemed to disappear from sight. That was his favorite of all his many talents learned over almost three decades in the military: the ability to seem insignificant, blend into his surroundings, and look completely disarming. He was of just over average height, wiry, with short dark hair and blue eyes that seemed to reflect his mood at any given moment: they could be light and friendly one moment, dark and angry the next, but they were sharp and rarely missed anything. His ability to stand perfectly still, listen, and observe people and events around him had always served him well, and even more so now in his rough and tumble political role as the President of the United States’ National Security Adviser.
Thomas Kinsly, the President’s White House Chief of Staff, was everything Jefferson was not. Like the former Chief of Staff Victoria Collins, Kinsly was another one of the President’s close friends; a successful fund-raiser, and political organizer and operative, he was an expert at networking and strategizing but had almost no experience working with entrenched Washington bureaucrats and politicians with their own agendas—even Ray Jefferson, a soldier since age seventeen, was more politically astute than Kinsly. He was younger than his predecessor, tall, dark, and good-looking, well spoken and affable with the media, but known as hard-charging and relentless with his staffers. Kinsly had made it clear early on that Jefferson was not, and probably would never be, a member of the inner circle.
Fine with him, Jefferson told himself early on. He didn’t have to kiss ass to get access to the highest seats of power in the free world.
“There you are, Sergeant Major,” the President said, finally noticing his National Security Adviser’s presence even though he had been there for a while. Samuel Conrad was tall, gray-haired, and distinguished-looking—a photo-perfect figure of the chief executive. After graduating from Rutgers University with a degree in accounting and then Rutgers School of Law, almost his entire professional life had been in public service: two terms in the New Jersey legislature, two terms in the U.S. House of Representatives, two years in the White House Budget Office, four years as Undersecretary of the Treasury, two terms as the governor of New Jersey, two years in the White House Chief of Staff’s office, and one term in the U.S. Senate before reaching the Oval Office. He was normally unflappable and in control—this was the first time in Jefferson’s recollection that he ever saw the President in the Oval Office with so much as his tie loosened, let alone with a raised voice.
Jefferson didn’t care much for politicians or bean counters, but he felt an obligation to this President as a way to make up for the death and destruction caused by Jefferson’s old boss, the previous National Security Adviser to the President, who betrayed and almost killed the President and who was responsible for the deaths of thousands before he was finally stopped. Anything that got this President so angry had to be serious.
Jefferson waited to see if the President would explain what the shouting was about, but that was not yet forthcoming. “Any updates on the Border Patrol killings last night, Ray?” the President asked.
“Just what Director DeLaine sent over from the Bureau about an hour ago, sir,” Ray replied. “No new leads. These guys were pros—I reject Secretary Lemke’s theory that it was a turf war between smuggler gangs.”
“Why?”
“Pistols and shotguns, maybe—but AK-47s put these guys several steps above the average smuggler,” Jefferson replied. “Plus the evidence of body armor. These guys were professional soldiers.”
“Your analysis, then?”
“Same as this morning’s briefing, sir—it was an infiltration by a heavily armed and trained commando squad, similar to what we encountered with the Consortium,” Jefferson replied. The energy monopoly–turned terrorist organization known as the Consortium, secretly led by now-deceased former National Security Adviser to the President of the United States, Robert Chamberlain, had been held responsible for the terror attacks in Houston, San Francisco, and Washington. Despite the efforts of hundreds of law enforcement agencies around the world, the organization was believed still in operation, now led by ex–Russian oil oligarch Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov. “Could even be another Consortium infiltration: Zakharov looking to even the score and sending in troops via a different, more established—and frankly, highly successful—route. I’d consider using human smugglers to bring my terrorist forces into the U.S. if I wanted to sneak in: chances are better than five-to-one I’d make it.”
The President nodded, then picked up a briefing folder. “I read your recommendations about this ‘Operation Rampart’ project, Sergeant Major. Lots of tough love in here.” He saw Jefferson’s eyes narrow, and the piercing glare made him decidedly uncomfortable. “Something on your mind, Ray? Let’s hear it.”
“I’d appreciate it, sir, if you tell me flat out what you think of my plan,” Jefferson said. “‘Tough love’ doesn’t tell me a thing.”
“That’s out of line, Jefferson,” Kinsly snapped.
The President raised a hand toward his Chief of Staff, then tossed the folder back on his desk. “I’ve gotta learn to be more direct with you, Sergeant Major,” he said. He motioned to the memo. “Let me get this straight, Ray: you want to put an entire Army division on the border?”
“I proposed forming a task force which would be about division-sized—about twenty thousand troops, including Army and Air Force aviation reconnaissance, logistics, and communications support assets, sir,” Jefferson explained. “I recommend Reserves or National Guard units instead of active-duty forces, each working in their own home state—it might give them a little added incentive to do a better job.”
“And you expect them to completely seal off the southern border?” Kinsly asked.
“It wouldn’t be one hundred percent, Mr. Kinsly, but it would be a hell of a lot better than what we have now.” He turned to the President. “Sir, the military as you know is legally prohibited from performing law enforcement duties, but they can assist law enforcement, and already do on a regular basis. Let’s step up surveillance along the borders and see if the level of illegal border crossings is on the increase, then interdict some of these migrants and find out who they are—migrant workers, illegal immigrants, or in fact terrorists. That’s the real question we’re facing here, isn’t it?”