Brad Thor: State Of The Union

“You’ll never get away with it,” said Harvath.

Draegar laughed and raised his prosthetic hand in salute. “Somehow I knew you were going to say that. But no more games now. I hope you brought your appetite. The sooner you get started, the sooner you may actually get out of here. Chew, chew, chew.”

As Draegar stepped forward to make sure his prisoner properly cuffed himself, Harvath pulled out his flashlight, flipped up the filter and said, “Chew on this, asshole,” as he depressed the thumb switch on the tail-cap.

While the former Spetsnaz soldier and East German Stasi operative had been able to dodge the overwhelming 225-lumen beam in Berlin, this time he wasn’t so lucky. The man was instantly blinded.

Harvath dove to the ground and struggled to get to his Beretta before Draegar could raise his own weapon and fire. But all at once, he knew his efforts were in vain. The figure of Alexandra Ivanova had appeared in the doorway and the room was instantly filled with brilliant muzzle flashes accompanied by the sharp reports of the CX4 Storm carbine Harvath had given her.

THE WHITE HOUSE

TWO DAYS LATER

Harvath avoided the hustle and bustle of Pennsylvania Avenue and entered the White House via the southwest gate. Unlike previous visits, he was asked to wait in the guardhouse until his escort arrived. It seemed an odd request, as Harvath was a former member of the president’s protective detail and had never been asked to wait before. When Secret Service Agents Tom Hollenbeck, Chris Longo, and Kate Palmer arrived to walk him up West Executive Avenue, he had a feeling something was up.

As they walked, his friends made small talk. Palmer told him how good he looked, while Hollenbeck and Longo regaled him with stories about the two nurses they had met at the hospital in Berlin.

Though the trio refused to tell him why he needed an escort, Harvath decided not to press it and instead took the good-natured, albeit incessant, ribbing in stride. He allowed himself a few minutes to get lost in the unseasonably warm February day and the relaxed fellowship of his former Secret Service coworkers-each of whom mattered more to him than they would ever know.

After holding the door open as they arrived at the West Wing, Hollenbeck jumped ahead of the party and steered them toward the White House Mess.

“Tom,” said Harvath. “What’s going on?”

“They’re not ready for you yet in the Situation Room, so I thought we might get a cup of coffee together in the Mess,” replied Hollenbeck.

Though Harvath was wary, he went along with the request and the minute he turned into the cafeteria he was greeted by an overwhelming wave of applause. In addition to all of his former Secret Service colleagues, it appeared as if every White House staffer was in attendance.

Uncomfortable with such fulsome praise, Harvath thought things couldn’t get any worse until Dr. Skip Trawick popped up in the back of the room with a pint glass in hand and began singing in his mock Scottish accent, “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” The rest of the assembled guests joined in and Harvath had to suffer through it until they finished and a glass of punch was shoved into his hand. He was then led over to a cake decorated with an American flag and the wordsForever May She Wave where he cut the first piece and then handed the knife over to Longo and placed him in charge.

A call came over Tom Hollenbeck’s earpiece and he waded through the crowd of grateful well-wishers to extricate Harvath and accompany him to the Situation Room.

“They don’t really have any idea of what we did, do they?” asked Harvath as they exited the Mess.

“Not really,” answered Hollenbeck. “Technically, the entire event with the Russians never happened.”

“Then what was that all about?”

“The White House needed a reason to explain why Congress had been put into hiding and the president had conducted his State of the Union address from the White House. As far as the press and everyone else is concerned, there was a credible terrorist threat against the capitol, and you and Gary Lawlor, along with several federal law enforcement agencies and the DC Metro Police, helped to neutralize that threat. The folks at the White House just wanted to show their appreciation.”

“Folks at the White House,” asked Harvath, “or you, Longo, and Palmer?”

Hollenbeck stopped and turned to face Harvath. “So what if they don’t know what really happened? The gratitude you witnessed and hopefully felt back there was genuine. For once in your life, take a moment and enjoy some of the praise that you so rightfully deserve. You’re damn good at your job, Scot, and your country is lucky to have you.”

Hollenbeck didn’t wait for Harvath to respond. In fact, he didn’t want any response from Harvath, that’s not why he said what he had said. He said it because he meant it. When he took his little boy to ball games and sang “The Star Spangled Banner,” when they got to the part about America being the land of the free and the home of the brave, there was a handful of guys he thought about and Harvath was one of them.

They arrived at the security checkpoint before Harvath could come up with anything to say. Hollenbeck briefly put a hand on his shoulder and then turned and walked away as the two Marine guards looked over Harvath’s ID and waved him through.

There was the familiar hiss as the airlock released and the Situation Room door swung open. As Harvath entered, he expected to see a mass of agency heads seated at the long cherrywood table, but there were only three people present-the president, Defense Secretary Hilliman, and General Paul Venrick, commander of the Joint Special Operations Command. Though Harvath had no idea how they had gotten hold of it so fast, each of them had a small piece of his cake sitting in front of them.

Harvath took a seat where the president indicated and waited for the commander in chief to start the meeting.

“For once, I find myself in a meeting with no idea of how to begin,” said the president, with more than his customary economy of sentiment.

Harvath was at a loss by the show of emotion on the face of the normally rock-steady man. The uncomfortable silence that descended upon the Situation Room was broken when General Venrick took the lead, stood up from his chair, and saluted Scot Harvath. The General was quickly joined by Secretary Hilliman, and even the president himself. The men held their salute until Harvath rose from his chair and returned their expression of esteem.

No matter what followed, this moment was the greatest honor Scot Harvath had ever experienced in his life.

“Okay,” said the president, sitting down and stabbing at a piece of cake, “let’s bring Scot up to speed.”

Defense Secretary Hilliman was the first to speak. He described how the FBI, in conjunction with NEST teams from the Department of Energy, had been able to locate all of the sleepers’ nukes in each city and successfully deactivate them. Each had been hidden in a mausoleum with the same family name as the one Scot and Alexandra had uncovered in the Congressional Cemetery-Lenin.

While on the subject of Alexandra, Hilliman explained the high points of her debriefing. While waiting for Harvath outside the first mausoleum, she had heard something and thought it might be Draegar. She went to investigate, but it had been a ruse. Draegar drew her away from the mausoleum, and the next thing she heard was the explosion. By the time she saw Draegar again, he had already attacked Morrell and his men and was making his way back to the mausoleum where he was holding Harvath captive.

Hilliman went on to explain that Alexandra had been offered asylum, but had asked instead that General Stavropol’s journal be entrusted to her care. Other than that, all she wanted was a flight home. As those were her only requests, the United States had willingly granted them to her, after, of course, photocopies had been made and she had fully explained how to decipher the coded entries.