There was only one other person on the top floor of the White House, seated too far away to hear, a shadow that always was behind the president, even when the sun didn’t shine: a military attaché who carried the “football.” Technically, it was just a metal briefcase. It weights forty-five pounds and a satellite antenna pokes out of the side. It is not locked to the aide, as many commonly thought, since they were in the relative safety of the White House. The case holds the key ingredients needed for the president to annihilate any enemy at a moment’s notice: a transmitter (never used); a black book listing options for nuclear strikes based on current threat analysis and updated at least daily, more often in times of crisis (peered at several times by presidents with reactions ranging from morbid interest to shock and dismay, but never used); another book containing options of classified sites the president could be taken to in case of emergencies (used on 9/11/2001); and most importantly, a three-by-five card with the authentication codes for launch (never used). There is also a sat phone and a pistol, the latter an object of speculation as to whom it was to be used on and why. The dark humor was it was the attaché’s last way out if the case had to be used.
The Keep had told Templeton four years ago during the in-brief that several presidents, most notably Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan, had preferred to keep the code in their jacket pocket, indicating a strange combination of need for power and lack of trust. This had led to Carter sending the authentication codes for a nuclear holocaust out to get dry-cleaned along with the jacket while on a trip one time.
After that, the Secret Service began checking laundry.
Then it had ended up on the emergency room floor in discarded clothing after Reagan got shot.
After that, the Secret Service really tried harder to keep the president from getting shot.
The Keep had recommended following protocol and leaving the codes in the case.
Templeton thought the constant presence of the officer in range of the president was more than just a practical thing. It was a reminder of the seriousness of his job, for despite four years in office, he’d never been able to zone the guy out of his sphere of awareness.
He couldn’t comprehend carrying those codes in his pocket. Sometimes, late at night, he pondered what it would be like to have that briefcase opened and give the codes. Then he usually took a Xanax to get back to sleep.
The president heard his wife’s angry voice echo up the stairwell and sighed. “Why is Christmas so damn important around here?” he asked.
The Keep responded to the president’s question, because she did more than just keep the book. She was also fluent in White House and presidential history. “Christmas didn’t become a national holiday in the United States until 1870, during the administration of Ulysses S. Grant. One might think this would have something to do with the separation of church and state, but the same bill also made New Year’s, the Fourth of July, and Thanksgiving national holidays.”
President Templeton snorted. “Maybe Grant just liked days off and to party? He supposedly liked to take a drink or two. Or maybe the Founding Fathers were too busy for the first century or so to worry about national days off?”
The Keep nodded. “Possibly. But contrary to popular myth, Grant was not a great imbiber of alcohol in quantity. He simply had no tolerance for alcohol. So when he did drink, the results were, shall we say, not fortunate for him. As far as Christmas in the White House, Abigail Adams threw the first Christmas party here and it was quite the smash.”
The president was slouched in a chair in the solarium on the third floor of the White House, the uppermost level, while the Keep sat at a large round table, a large, leather-bound book in front of her. The president’s Secret Service detail was one floor below, quite irritated not to be on the same level even though they also had two guys on the roof, as always.
Somehow the Keep was able to overrule even the Secret Service inside the White House. Which made the president suspect there was more to her than just taking care of the big book. But in four years, he’d never seen her do anything except occasionally brief him on incidents that the covert world she represented dealt with. Incidents that never had After Action Reports typed up on computers, or paper; only verbal briefings, one on one. Incidents that didn’t even make the Top Secret daily intel briefing. Incidents that scared the shit out of him and caused him to take more Xanax than he probably should.
“Adams was from Boston,” Templeton said. “I thought they were all uptight hard-asses, like General Riggs.”
“Not Abigail,” the Keep said, making it sound entirely plausible that she was on a first-name basis with a long-dead First Lady. “She threw a great party.”
The Keep did not look the part. Midthirties, pale skin, with short dark hair. Athletic, slender build, and just barely over five feet tall. It was easy to see how she was rarely noticed. Templeton didn’t even know her name, only her title and first name, Elle, which no one used but was on her ID badge with Keep as her last name.
She’d been important the first month he was in office, and she was important in this last month, but for the rest of the four years, he had no idea what she did except for the incident briefings. Apparently she also brushed up on White House history. The last time he’d seen her was six weeks ago, giving him the summary on a Rift incident in North Carolina. The very existence of Rifts and Fireflies was just one of several secrets she’d briefed him on when he took office.
She had a tiny office down the center hall on this floor, where a cluster of the staff worked. Now that he reflected on it, Templeton realized he’d never seen her office. In fact, there were a few rooms in the White House he’d only glimpsed on the quick tour four years ago.
Templeton shook his head as the sound of the preparations rose through the floors below. Even here in this private sanctum they heard the clamor of hammers banging and voices shouting. “Does it have to be such a big deal? The money could be better spent in other ways.”
The Keep shrugged, such goings-on of little consequence to her. “Christmas at the White House has evolved into what it is with each administration adding their own special touch.”
It had indeed. As the decades and centuries rolled by, Christmas at the White House grew from Abigail Adams throwing a great party (according to the Keep) to an elaborate, drawn-out affair lasting from Thanksgiving through New Year’s, so significant that there was a year-round full-time staffer planning the event.
She probably had an office next door to the Keep, the president mused, and like a holiday vampire only rose at the appropriate time of year.
This year, the last in President Templeton’s term, the holidays had an added urgency to it, a feeling not quite of desperation but perhaps resignation. Christmas in the big house for a lame-duck president is an awkward event for the First Family, knowing they’re going to get the boot in less than a month. Why put up decorations when you’re going to be packing everything in a few weeks? Most people wouldn’t do it, but most people weren’t the First Family and subject to the obligations of tradition and the expectations of the “people,” whoever they might be.
“Do you think the treaty lost me the election?” Templeton asked. He was putting off the task the Keep was here for, but in reality, he was actually putting off going downstairs to the chaos of the preparations and the meeting with the press in the Entrance Hall in front of the tree. He could expect to be barraged with questions about the treaty, not good old St. Nick. And, of course, he also didn’t want to face the demands of the Oval Office over in the West Wing.