National Burden

by C. G. Cooper

  Travis shrugged, unaffected as usual. “I don’t really care what he thinks. I’m here to do a job, for as long as the President wants me.”

  “Senator Southgate will be fine. If you have any problems with him, let me know,” said the President.

  +++

  Cal and Daniel left the Commander in Chief and his new right hand man to their business. They hadn’t even been in town for half a day and already Cal was getting the itch to leave. “How about we go for a little walk?”

  Daniel nodded, unfazed by the mountains of snow outside.

  Once they’d left the White House behind, walking between the wall of shoveled snow on either side of the road, Cal asked. “What did General McMillan say to you?”

  Daniel colored just noticeably. “He wanted to say thank you.”

  “You know him?”

  “I knew who he was, but he obviously knows a lot more about me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He said he knew about the CMH, and that he knew why I didn’t get it.”

  The Congressional Medal of Honor is the nation’s highly military award for valor in combat. Then Sgt. Briggs was nominated, and would have received the medal if he hadn’t gone to the former president personally and asked for the nomination to be pulled. The president had done so, mostly because Daniel had been part of the team who’d saved the president’s life.

  “Is that all he said?” Cal knew all about the award.

  “No. He said if I ever needed anything, not to hesitate to contact him.”

  Cal glanced at his friend. “Well, that could be helpful.”

  Daniel looked up for the first time. “What do you mean?”

  Cal grinned mischievously. “It’s always nice to have a Marine general on retainer.”

  +++

  Secretary of State Dryburgh told his driver to take the long way back to the office. He needed time to think, time to digest what he’d just witnessed. Southgate was obviously pissed, sitting there with a stick up his ass, seething no doubt.

  Without being told, Dryburgh guessed that the three men he’d just met weren’t just former military; they were very likely current operators either in one of the government’s intelligence agencies, or possibly working for a private security corporation.

  In his travels and in his time in government, Dryburgh had met his fair share of hired guns. While the president’s friends didn’t look like meatheads, they certainly had the subtle look of ruthless warriors.

  The Secretary of State picked up his secure handset and pressed a preset number. “This is Secretary Dryburgh. I need you to pull a couple files for me.”

  +++

  They were back in sight of The White House after a chilly thirty minute jaunt when Cal’s phone buzzed. It was Neil Patel, SSI’s vice president of R&D and a virtual Rolodex with important contacts eclectically gathered over the years of mingling in the higher echelons of tech and moneyed society. “What’s up, Neil?”

  “You somewhere you can talk?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just thought you should know that we’re already getting pings on your records, both through headquarters Marine Corps and the FBI.”

  The tech whiz had his automated systems, which he’d personally programmed, constantly on the lookout for information requests on key SSI personnel. He’d explained it to Cal by equating it to a Google Alert. “You know when you set a Google Alert for a certain term or keyword, and whenever something’s posted online with that string of words, you get an alert?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, this kinda works the same way. If someone working at the CIA goes to pull up information on you, I get an alert detailing who did it and the information they accessed.”

  “Wouldn’t you have to have access to the CIA’s network?”

  Patel had just shrugged, as if to say that such a thing were no big deal.

  “Who put in the requests?”

  “One came from the State Department, and another came from the FBI.”

  “That has to be Dryburgh and Southgate,” Cal said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “We just had a meeting with them.”

  Neil whistled. “It sure didn’t take them long. How did you piss them off?” Neil knew of Cal’s dislike of politicians, a trait he’d had since their time together at the University of Virginia.

  “I was very nice. Ask Daniel.”

  “He was very nice,” said Daniel, loud enough for Neil to hear.

  “You want me to look into it?” asked Neil.

  “Let’s hold off for now. I’ll bet they just wanted to know who we are. I’d do the same thing.”

  “Okay, but let me know if you need my help.”

  “I will. Thanks, Neil.”

  Daniel looked at his friend once the call ended. “What are you thinking?”

  “I think I better keep my mouth shut or I’m liable to piss off a whole bunch of people in this town.”

  Chapter 13

  Georgetown University

  District of Columbia

  6:30 p.m., March 4th

  The pub was packed. Federal employees mingled with college co-eds over drink specials inspired by the crappy weather. With the blizzard wreaking havoc on local roadways, many employers opted to allow their employees to work from home or have a day off. The crowd at the old bar wasn’t necessarily rowdy, but it was easy to see that many had spent most of their day in the tastefully appointed establishment.

  Steve Stricklin seemed to be the only patron not enjoying himself. He sat in a corner booth, much to the annoyance of the proprietor, who had more than once asked to have the table for the swelling crowd.

  Stricklin had finally said, “FBI,” and flashed his old bureau ID card.

  The bar manager had relented and left the ornery customer alone. It wasn’t unusual to have federal employees flash their badges around, demanding special attention. It was all in a day’s work for pub employees, but it didn’t keep them from thinking of those badge flashers as arrogant pricks.

  Stricklin sat nursing his club soda, counting down the seconds until leaving. His guest was over an hour late, and the former FBI agent’s patience was paper thin. A moment later, there was a commotion at the door. Stricklin looked up. It was just a group of new girls in matching pink tank tops squealing after finding their friends. His gaze lingered a moment on one particular cute co-ed, a blonde with extremely large breasts.

  “You like the blonde or the brunette?”

  Stricklin jumped, spilling some of his soda in the process. He turned to his right. The man who’d made the comment stood an arm’s distance away, a ball cap casting a shadow on his face. How did he do that? Stricklin thought, unnerved by the silent entrance. “Huh? Oh, neither.”

  The guest motioned for Stricklin to scoot over, taking his spot. “What are you drinking?”

  “Club soda,” Stricklin answered.

  “Teetotaler?”

  “No. Just wanted to keep a clear head.”

  A waitress had seen the new addition and stepped up to an order. The man in the ball cap looked up. One eyebrow rose as the waitress made eye contact. Congressman Antonio McKnight put a finger to his lips, motioning toward the rest of the bar. The waitress smiled, nodding. “What can I get for you, sir?”

  “I’ll have a scotch, neat.”

  “And your friend?”

  “He’ll have a cranberry juice.”

  McKnight winked at the girl, who left promptly to fill their order.

  The Florida congressman turned to Stricklin. “We need to talk about the timeline.”

  Stricklin sat up straighter. “What? I thought you said--”

  McKnight held up a hand. “The situation has changed.”

  Stricklin huffed. “I’ve been working on this for months, and now you want me to push it back. Maybe I should--”

  McKnight cut Stricklin off with an icy glare. “I didn’t say anything about pushing it back.”

  �
�But you said--”

  “Do you ever shut up?”

  Stricklin’s mouth closed. He’d stepped over the line.

  “That’s better.” A smile returned to the congressman’s face. “Now, like I was saying, the timeline has changed. We need to speed things up.”

  Stricklin seemed mollified, and waited to see if he could ask a question. McKnight nodded. “Ask your question, Steve.”

  “Why the change?” Stricklin’s tone mellowed, now taking on a subservient hint.

  “It looks like they just made things a lot easier for us.”

  “Who? How?”

  McKnight grinned. “I just found out your old pal Stokes got in town this morning, and he’s been hanging out with the President.”

  A wide smile, the likes of which he hadn’t had in months, spread on Stricklin’s face. The pieces were fitting into place, the most important of them being enemy number one, Cal Stokes. If he could only take Stokes down with the President…well, that would be Karma finally on his side.

  +++

  The White House

  Travis Haden yawned into his hand. It had been a long day. First the early flight from Nashville, and then a full day of meetings. Travis knew he’d have to get used to it. Being the President’s Chief of Staff was a twenty-four hour job. Nights and weekends included.

  He’d met so many people that he couldn’t imagine keeping everyone’s name straight. Ellen, the President’s secretary, said she’d have a handful of prospective aides in the next day for interviews. “You’ll need someone to help you, Mr. Haden.”

  Travis didn’t doubt it. At SSI he’d managed his daily tasks mostly on his own. At the White House, he could have a small army of staffers at his beck and call. One step at a time, he told himself.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in.”

  The door creaked open. Cal stepped in the near barren office, save the quickly growing stack of files on the desk, followed by Daniel Briggs.

  “What are you guys still doing here?” Travis asked, having assumed that his cousin would have caught the first plane back to Nashville, or at least to SSI’s second headquarters in Charlottesville.

  “The President’s secretary called and said Brandon wanted to see me. I thought I’d stop by before going in.”

  “Something I should know about?”

  “I thought you would know that’s why I came here first.”

  “He didn’t say anything to me,” Travis said. “What time is the meeting?”

  “Seven.”

  Travis looked at his watch. “You want me to come with you?”

  “You don’t have to. I see you’ve got enough to do.” Cal pointed to the stack of paper on Travis’s desk. “You still sure you want the job?”

  Travis exhaled. “Yeah. It’s no SEAL Team Six, but probably more stressful.”

  “We’ll stop by on our way out.”

  President Zimmer was hunched over, working at the coffee table, his suit coat and tie laying on a side chair. He looked up when Cal and Daniel walked in, his eyes slightly sunken from the strain of the day. “Hey, guys. I was just gonna get a cup of coffee. Want anything?”

  “This place got any beer?” Cal asked, followed by an elbow from Daniel.

  Zimmer laughed. “That sounds better than coffee. Do me favor, press the button that says butler on my phone and tell them what we want.”

  Cal picked up the phone sitting on the side table and put in their order. Not two minutes later, Lester Miles walked in balancing two Sweetwater 420s and a bottle of water. “I should’ve known you were the one ordering the beer,” Lester offered with a grin.

  “What can I say, Top? You can take the Marine out of the Corps, but you can’t take the Corps out of the Marine.”

  The butler handed out the perfectly chilled beverages and excused himself. President Zimmer was the first to take a healthy swig of his beer. “That’s good. I didn’t know we had it.”

  Cal swallowed, savoring the hoppy taste. “It’s a brewery down in Atlanta. We get it all the time in Nashville.”

  Daniel sipped his water, remaining silent as usual.

  “Why don’t you two have a seat. I had something I wanted to ask you,” said Zimmer.

  Cal noted the hesitation in his friend’s tone, and took his seat slowly. “What’s up?”

  Zimmer motioned to the mess on the coffee table. “Just playing a little catch-up, or, a lot of catch-up.” He sat back into the sofa cushion, taking another swig of his beer. “What did you guys think of our meeting earlier?”

  Cal and Daniel looked at each other. “We were just talking to Trav about it,” said Cal. “General McMillan’s a good guy, use him.”

  “I have. He’s a lot like you two. No bullshit.” The two Marines nodded. “What about Dryburgh and Southgate?”

  Cal took a moment to respond. “Why don’t you let Daniel answer that question? I’m trying to be more PC while I’m here.”

  “Daniel?”

  “It’s like me and Cal talked about, Southgate is suspicious. We’re not sure it was the best idea introducing us.”

  “Why not?”

  Daniel looked to Cal, who nodded for him to continue. “Having Travis as your Chief of Staff is one thing. Inviting your friends, who happen to be in the line of work that we are, to meet two very senior politicians could make you look bad.”

  “I don’t know if they’d look at it that way. Besides, they don’t even know what you guys do.”

  Cal interrupted. “They will soon. We’ve already gotten word that right after our powwow two inquiries went out requesting information on me, Travis and Daniel.”

  “And you know this how?”

  Cal shrugged. “Neil. There’s not much the guy can’t do with a computer.”

  President Zimmer sat quietly, digesting the information. On the one hand, he’d expected Southgate and Dryburgh to be suspicious. He would have been too if the roles were reversed. On the other hand, he was the President of the United States. Something about having others go behind his back, however necessary, sent early warning signals flashing in his mind.

  Zimmer was no novice to the political game. He’d been around it since birth. The problem was, unlike before, when he’d fought tooth and nail for his seat in Congress, and built a team from the ground up, he was now in someone else’s position. It was like switching wives on a whim and being expected to be the same husband the other guy was. Impossible.

  Cal felt for the young president. He knew it had come as a complete shock to Zimmer when his predecessor had handed off the keys to the kingdom. Hell, the whole world had seen Zimmer’s reaction on live television.

  But Cal knew Zimmer was made of tougher stuff than others might think. He wasn’t just a pretty boy wanting to be famous. Since meeting the former congressman from Massachusetts, and truthfully not liking him at first, Cal had seen Zimmer grow in his views of the world and in his passion to affect change. He knew his flaws and wasn’t afraid to work hard. In short, Cal trusted the man with his life, and for the blunt Marine who trusted few, that was a very big thing.

  “Look, we’ll be fine. We know how to watch our backs. It’s you I’m worried about. You look like someone just pissed in your beer.”

  The comment snapped Zimmer out of his trance, his face registering surprise. “What?”

  “I said, you need to buck up, Mr. President. They don’t call you the leader of the free world for nothing. I know the whole thing sucks, and you didn’t have a clue this would happen when you agreed to step in as vice president, but that’s all done. There’s no going back. You’ve got a job to do.”

  President Brandon Zimmer looked at his friend for a long time and then nodded.

  Chapter 14

  The White House

  8:14 p.m., March 4th

  The rest of the conversation had gone well, Cal promising to help in any way he could, from the safe confines of SSI, of course, and the President’s attitude improved.

&
nbsp; “He seemed a little more down than I would’ve thought, Cal. You think something else is going on that we don’t know about?”

  Cal and Daniel made the final turn to Travis’s office. “I don’t know. I think he would have told us.”

  “It just seems strange. The Brandon we know is so not down in the mouth.”

  “Tell me about it. Maybe it’s just the job. I wouldn’t put that on any sane person, believe me.”

  +++

  The Russian Embassy, Washington, D.C.

  Secretary of State Geoffrey Dryburgh sipped his vodka out of the hand-carved mug that was no bigger than a standard shot glass.

  “Tell me what’s new in Mother Russia, Igor.”

  Igor Bukov, the Russian Ambassador to the United States, refilled his guest’s glass with a vodka he’d said came from the most expensive distillery in his country. The two men had known each other for years, first meeting in the early nineties when Dryburgh had visited Russia on a business trip to seek out new sourcing partners for an American liquor distributor. Back then, Bukov had been CEO of one of Russia’s largest vodka brands, Bukov Vodka, a company founded by his grandfather. The businessmen turned politicians had hit it off instantly.

  “It’s still very cold, my friend.” Bukov spoke with only the minuscule hint of a Russian accent, a testament to his European education.

  Dryburgh pointed to the window. “And you don’t call this cold?”

  “This feels like summer to me, Geoffrey.” Bukov raised his glass in a toast, downing it again.

  “What about the political climate? Any thoughts on our new president?”

  Bukov shrugged, noncommittal. “Not my place to say.”

  “Come on. You’re best friends with the leader of Russia. Don’t give me that crap, Igor.” The jab came with a friendly smile.

  “I would not call what I have with my country’s president a best friendship, more like a healthy working relationship.”

  Bukov was downplaying his role in the Russian government and Dryburgh knew it. The wily Russian, while never having served a day in the Russian government prior to his appointment as ambassador to the U.S., was a seasoned veteran of his nation’s political process. Over more than a few shots of his family’s stock, Bukov had once admitted to a not-quite-so-inebriated Geoffrey Dryburgh that his family had bankrolled numerous politicians over the years. He’d even bragged about having a hand in the current president’s ascendance.