William Tyree - Line of Succession

*

The President loosened the belt on his robe, revealing the 28-inch waistline that his Presidential opponent had famously suggested was “out of step with mainstream America.” The President moved in for a kiss, but Eva turned her head. She hated the awkwardness of Oval Office meetings. The President had assured her that he’d had all the customary microphones and cameras removed, but she knew the Secret Service often backfilled his feeble attempts at privacy.

She checked her watch. “This better be good,” she said. “We’ve got a Security Council meeting in ten minutes and I still have to pack.” They had planned a secret getaway to Martha’s Vineyard, going so far as to have the President’s body double rent an estate on nearby Cape Cod to throw off the paparazzi.

The President sat on the couch and motioned for Eva to sit opposite him. He put his palms together, as if to pray, and leaned forward, speaking as delicately as he could: “It’s about the weekend.”

He had hardly said anything, but Eva could tell where he was going with this. It was the downside of being the President’s lover. “No need to explain,” she said coolly, although she’d been looking forward to the trip for two months. “It’s just business.”

“The Iranian Ambassador’s asking for an urgent meeting at Camp David.”

Eva’s brown eyes got wide. The President had made international headlines by extending an olive branch to Iran during his first term and opening up diplomatic relations for the first time since the 1970s. But the presence of an embassy in D.C. had done little to cool tensions. “I trust you’re going to run this by the Security Council,” she said.

“I can’t. Half the council’s against me.”

“Work with me, Isaac. I’m in the half that’s on your side.”

“The Iranian hardliners are making threats again.”

“So? Talk of wiping Israel off the map is an annual political rite for the clerics, nothing more.”

“This isn’t business as usual. Sixteen MIGs broke Israeli airspace last week. Looked a heckuva lot like a dry run for an attack. CIA says Iran’s reserve armor brigades have been called up too. And there’s this.” He took a handheld computer from the desk and handed it to Eva. She looked at the satellite image depicting a number of official-looking state cars surrounding some sort of industrial complex. “That was taken near the Caspian Sea just a few days ago.”

“Is that an Egyptian flag on that SUV?”

“Sure is, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. There are bigwigs from Jordan, Saudi Arabia, the UAE and Syria there too.”

“What are they selling? Nukes?”

“Water.”

“Water?”

“That complex in the photo is a desalination plant. It’s a long story. I can fill you in up at Camp David this weekend.”

Camp David. The suggestion that she would join him there was stunning, even for the President, who in his second term had too often thrown caution to the wind. “Oh, the GOP would love that,” Eva quipped, giving the President room to play it off as a joke.

His face was as serious as it had ever been. “Eva, we’re both widowers. We’re doing nothing wrong. Maybe we should just — “

“Stop. We’ve been over this. MSNBC did that Web poll, remember? When they caught us going to dinner together?”

“Hardly scientific.”

Eva was insistent. “Nobody wants the Commander-in-Chief dating a cabinet member. The fact that we’re both widowers doesn’t change anything. It just looks bad.”

“I’m your boss. I could order you to come to Camp David to discuss the Iranian trade embargo.”

“And that would be sexual harassment.” Eva stood and picked up her Louis Vuitton attache.

“I’m not joking."

“You’ve always been bold,” she said. “I’ve loved you for that. Don’t be reckless.”

“You can always change your mind,” he said.

“I won’t.”

As Eva left, Mary Chung took the opportunity to poke her head in the door. She was holding a freshly pressed suit. “Excuse me, Mister President,” she said. “The Security Council is waiting.”

White House Cabinet Room

7:30 a.m.

Defense Secretary Dexter P. Jackson arrived for the National Security Council meeting in uncharacteristically casual dress for himself on a Sunday morning, let alone Washington — chinos, boat shoes and an untucked white oxford shirt. Nearly the entire Congress and White House staff had already left town for the summer recess. Dex’s bags were packed and his wife was standing by to pick him up as soon as the NSC meeting was over. In less than three hours he would be trolling for marlin in Chesapeake Bay.

Although his name was inscribed on a brass nameplate on his Cabinet chair, he could have found it blindfolded. Like everything in status-oriented Washington, the chairs around the long mahogany table that President Nixon had gifted to the White House were arranged in hierarchical order. The Defense Secretary’s chair was next to the President’s high-backed version. Chairs assigned to the Vice President and secretaries of State and Treasury were the next-closest, arranged in the order that the cabinet posts were first created beginning in the late 1700s. Likewise, the Homeland Security chair — vacant today, since President Hatch had recently fired the agency’s Director — was situated at the far end of the table.

Dex stared out the French doors at the Rose Garden as the rest of the Council members filed in. There would be several additional vacant chairs today, since the Vice President was already on vacation, two of the four Joint Chiefs were abroad and the President’s National Security Advisor was at an off-site meeting.

Speers sat in the back against the wall, chugging an energy drink. At the President’s request, Agent Carver sat beside him, leaving O’Keefe to baby-sit Lieutenant Flynn in Georgetown.

This was Carver’s first NSC meeting. He turned to Speers. “Is there an agenda, Chief?”

“There are two agendas,” Speers whispered. “The President’s and the Joint Chiefs’. The President’s objective is to get NSC meetings over with as fast as possible, since he’d rather bypass General Wainewright and the Joint Chiefs altogether and keep expanding his executive powers. The Joint Chiefs’ agenda — and Dex Jackson’s, for that matter — is to bring up as many explosive items as possible within an hour, so that they can publicly say they’ve attempted to work with the President and won’t take the blame for anything that goes wrong. It’ll also make for gripping reading after they retire and fish for seven-figure book deals.”

Carver shook his head. “Our tax dollars at work.”

Secretary of Defense Dexter Jackson checked his watch. As usual, the President and Eva were late. Dex leaned over the table, his caramel face widened in a grin. “A hundred bucks says that Eva comes in about sixty seconds before the POTUS again,” he said, using the acronym common in military circles for President of the United States.

General Wainewright looked up from the emails his assistant printed out for him each morning. “Too easy.”

“Okay. You want odds? The President walks in right after Eva, and he’s still tucking his shirt in.”

“You’re on,” Wainewright said. “And make it two hundred.”

Wainewright, a four-star General and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, pulled two hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet. The 58-year-old war horse was simultaneously muscular and overweight. He bench-pressed his weight every morning in his neighborhood gym. He also ate a piece of chocolate cake with brandy at bedtime every night. It all showed.

“Is the AC on?” Wainewright said. He wiped the sweat from his brow. There was nothing wrong with the temperature in the air conditioned room. These were the dog days of summer, yet Wainewright insisted on wearing a dress uniform made heavier by the decorations pinned to it. In addition to the four silver stars on each of his shoulders, General Wainewright wore the Bronze Star, the Army Commendation Medal, the Army Service Ribbon, an Air Assault Badge, the Combat Action Badge, the Distinguished Service Medal and the Legion of Merit.