The Threat

“Definitely. They provide Wa with ephedrine, a methamphetamine precursor. Along with weapons, computers, software, communications … The drugs go through Chinese shipping channels to Canada, and into the U.S. through motorcycle gangs.”

“How do we know all this?”

“The royal Thai government. Operation Tiger Trap. I can give you chapter and verse if you want it.”

One of the items of discussion at the meeting that morning, in fact the one Mrs. Clayton had spoken so sharply about, had been approval of what Dan understood to be the export of satellite stabilization technology to China. Now he asked, “What’s the State Department’s take? Do they ever put Beijing on report?”

“Not a good idea,” Meilhamer put in. “Commerce is powerful in this administration. They’re pushing hard to get access to the Chinese market.”

“Yeah, but they can’t have it all their own way. Importing our technology, exporting us drugs.”

“I’d run anything like that past the senior director first,” Meilhamer said firmly. “Really. Commander … you’ve just taken over this ship, remember. That’s deep water where you’re headed.”

Dan thought of pointing out that shallow water was what a skipper worried about, not deep, but decided that would sound like nit-picking.

When they were gone he swiveled his chair and looked down into the creeping gloom in the courtyard. Rolled his head around, trying to work out the kinks, though it actually didn’t feel that bad today. Some people — his previous commanders — had accused him of having a hair trigger. But what was the point in gathering the intel, finding out where the shit came from, if you didn’t try to close the spigot?

He knew this much by now: It was better to come out of the gate bucking. Start off as a chair warmer, it was too easy to stay one. But if you charged off in the wrong direction, you might end up stampeding over a cliff.

Thank God there was one enlisted around to serve as a reality check. “Ihlemann!” he shouted.

“What?” she yelled back, just as loud.

“Grab yourself a cup of coffee, Sergeant. Then get in here and tell me how things really work around this friggin’ place.”

4

Over the next weeks, he began to find his way around.

He went to the Indian Treaty Room for a retirement ceremony, some old-timer gold-watching out of Systems and Technical Planning. This was a majestic space, with green marble, encaustic tile, bronze sconces with shield-bearing cherubs, opal glass chandeliers, and a glorious view of the Jefferson Memorial. Less splendid was the Old Executive cafeteria at 0630, with its high-school steam tables and no place to sit. The gated courtyard where the Roadrunners were parked, mirror-black Econoline vans that acted as command centers when the president went on the road. The pressroom, with the worn folding seats of a 1940s movie theater, filled day and night with bored, unshaven reporters and cameramen. The White House mess, where you could order a burger on the tab, and pick it up at the window outside the Sit Room.

Connected to the West Wing by a short corridor was the White House itself. Wandering through the public rooms on his lunch hour, looking at paintings, china, exquisite antiques, it felt to him more like a museum than a residence. The first family lived on the second floor, with the most private and informal areas on the nearly invisible third. Beneath everything lay a noisy, smell-filled basement that was busy at all hours, like the kitchen and scullery of some great hotel. A concrete-walled ditch in front of the North Portico let staffers cross from the West to the East Wing without going through the ceremonial spaces. A basement archway still showed black smudge marks the British destruction party had left in 1812. To the south lay the clipped and fragrant rectilinearities of the South Lawn, glistening in the mornings with the rainbows of spray irrigation on the Rose Garden; a running track; and the heli pad for Marine One.

The political staff, who seemed to Dan very youthful, operated in a different world than the military. He sensed standoffishness from the permanent staff too. They were polite, but had the air of residents watching the transients pass. The Secret Service were like Terminators in business suits, as if the radios plugged into their ears had taken over their brains. His only unpleasant encounter was with a young female staffer he’d asked for directions to the East Colonnade. She’d glanced at his haircut and turned away without a word. There certainly seemed to be a lot of them about — young, good-looking women.