Roy's Independence Day

Chapter 1-3

Lying here atop the White House roof, much of his view was of the big white oaks on the White House lawn. A manicured reminder of the oak, maple, and Norway pine forests of home. As evening settled over the city, he tried to imagine himself setting up camp under a lean-to alongside a fast rushing stream thick with dinner still swimming in the cool water.

Fernando’s double click over the microphone had his attention swinging before he even wholly returned to D.C. A little more circumspect, he kept his rifle close to hand and slipped out his binoculars.

Again, there was no mistaking her. She’d been inside the bubble of the White House for a full day, which he knew to be exhausting, but she was still going a mile a second.

Halfway to the gate, she glanced back over her shoulder and slammed to a halt as if she’d hit a glass wall.

For a long moment, she was looking at the White House itself, her grin as wide as a little girl’s given a brand new toy. Then her eyes tracked upward.

Her smile shifted. No less radiant, but now she looked…dangerous.

She very deliberately scratched at the side of her nose with her extended middle finger, then whirled on her heel and was gone.

He could hear Fernando’s laugh on the murmuring D.C. air though he was stationed over a hundred feet away.

Sienna lay on her Georgetown bed, her body vibrating with exhaustion. The National Security Council meeting had been scheduled at a full hour, and she closed it at exactly fifty-nine minutes. It was an act that seemed to take everyone by surprise, except for Daniel who nodded in thanks—clearly very protective of his boss’ schedule.

The President had welcomed her once more and they’d all filed out as his next meeting filed in. General Rogers fell in beside her as they moved through the outer office.

“If you have a moment?”

She’d hoped to try and find her office. She had met with the former NSA a number of times there. It was also where Daniel, the President, and others had interviewed her, but now it was finally hers and she wanted to see it. Instead, she followed the general.

That “moment” had led to two hours in the Situation Room. She’d been too busy trying to keep up with his sharp mind to be shocked by the plainness of the room. So many movies and television shows portrayed the darkly mysterious room with hand scanners, mahogany tables, leather armchairs, and massive screens covered in situational analyses. Beyond the pair of Marine guards standing at attention outside the door, it was about as undramatic as could be.

In truth, it looked like any standard white conference room with a few too many phones and a few too many television screens against one wall.

The general, who must have had a detailed awareness of her resume, had proceeded to grill her as if for a job interview. Dartmouth, Yale, Oxford. Rand Corp think tank. Some time in Stratfor studying geopolitical influences to forecast military hotspots. Through her father’s connections and her own, she’d arranged for a three-year study on normalizing the six US Commands. She’d spent six months each at: USNORTHCOM and USSOUTHCOM which covered North and South America, USAFRICOM, USEUCOM which included all of Russia, USCENTCOM which was the hell of southwest Asia, and USPACOM from the West Coast to Japan, China, and Australia with Antarctica tossed in for good measure.

At some point she couldn’t identify, her interview with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had shifted from interrogation to consultation. Having proven her understanding of the big picture to General Roger’s satisfaction, he was soon testing his own understanding of power centers and friction motives against her own observations.

Unlike any other conference room anywhere, each time the general called out to the apparently empty room, “We need to see a map of the distribution of Chinese forces from Hong Kong to Australia,” or “What is the current estimated stability of the ruling regime in the Congo?” hidden Marine Corps intelligence officers would leap into action. Within moments the information would be on the main screen. At her own request, a key tabulation of activities of NATO versus EU alliances was pushed down from the big screen onto her tablet computer. She could get used to this.

When the general departed with no more than a solemn nod of approval, she suspected she’d passed a test more stringent than Daniel’s and the President’s original interviews.

She’d spent a quiet hour in the Situation Room—in the Situation Room!—working on better answers to some of the general’s unresolved questions. Or at least unearthing better questions of her own.

Her next foray to reach her office passed close by the Vice President’s. His assistant, the rather daunting Cornelia Day, had flagged her down and asked if she had plans for lunch.

She didn’t have plans to eat…ever, especially not with the way her head was already whirling. She’d only met the Vice President a few times and had never sat with him one-on-one. Cornelia took advantage of Sienna’s brief hesitation to conduct her into Zachary Thomas’ White House office, decorated in what she finally decided might best be called, early tongue-in-cheek style.

The very first thing she noticed was an HO-gauge trainset on a lovely 1700s table of Quaker simplicity and craftsmanship. It resided in a place of honor close by the big window facing the Eisenhower Executive Office Building and she suspected that if she asked about it, they might never find another topic. So she glanced at the rest of the office.

There were stunning photos of the Colorado Rockies and also the softer hills that she could only assume were near his wife’s family residence in Tennessee. There were photos of skiers and the two of them on horseback. If she’d seen a full set of horse tack or a pair of downhill skis tucked behind the door—she checked and there weren’t—she wouldn’t have been surprised. There was one picture of the former Captain Zachary Thomas, looking very official and handsome in his dress whites with an alarming number of service ribbons. It had cropped up in the news a lot after the Italian disaster. But it was another photo, hung close beside the trainset, that caught her attention and finally gave her the ability to speak.

“Why haven’t I ever seen this one?” Not the most gracious of openings. To cover her gaffe, Sienna pointed to the image of a very handsome and somewhat younger Zachary Thomas with three other men all clowning around. They wore flight suits and were clearly enjoying each others’ company too much to pose seriously in front of the massive Air Force rescue helicopter that must be theirs.

“Always struck me as a bit disrespectful. Our job was hauling out a lot of very hurt people. But my Anne”—again with the mushy tone—“insisted I put that one up.”

Obviously she’d done all of the decorating, but Sienna wasn’t going to tease the Vice President about that. “No. It makes what you did more human. You should definitely release it.”

“Well, that makes two votes to my one. The President always said not to argue with women who we don’t have two shakes of a rattler’s tail chance of understanding anyway. I’ll give it to my people.” And Sienna learned that the Vice President gave full respect to his President when outside of Peter Matthews’ presence.

His smile was easy to return. They spent most of lunch discussing favorite D.C. restaurants. In his own way, that too was an interview only a little less demanding than General Rogers’. In the hour she gained a real sense of the man and learned that he probably deserved all of the respect he received in the press.

Daniel had snagged her as she once more entered the hallway a mere twenty feet from her own office. He led her back to his office, thanked her for keeping the meeting on time (apparently the first National Security Advisor to do so in this administration—and perhaps any other), then introduced her to…she’d have to check her notes.

All afternoon she’d felt as if she’d been targeted by that sniper. This advisor…Wham! That superintendent…Bang! The Secretary of Defense (who clearly felt her age, gender, and having a pulse completely disqualified her for the job, though having a chest at least gave him something to look at)…Kaboom!

There were only three large offices on the west side of the West Wing’s first floor: White House Chief of Staff, Vice President, and her own. She didn’t make it there until six o’clock in the evening.

And yet as she’d walked out of the White House, with little more brain activity than one of her brother’s zombie movies, she couldn’t help but look back and smile.

Day One as the National Security Advisor.

Check!

And if she could avoid screwing up, there were still two-hundred and three more days to go until the next President’s inauguration.

That’s when she’d remembered the sniper and glanced up. Was it the same one? She had no idea as he was little more than a silhouette far above. At least there was no sniper rifle aimed at her this time, but his binoculars weren’t exactly cruising back and forth across the lawn seeking trespassers. Flipping him off this morning in full view of the White House had been perhaps a little rash. So, she was more subtle about it this time.

She’d heard a second counter sniper on the West Wing’s roof laugh, but for some reason it was the one stationed on the Residence who had caught her attention. She supposed it proved that the girl still had it if she kept him riveted so.

It had put a bounce in her step, which was all that sustained her until she had made it home.

She shouldn’t have laid down in her suit; it would be too wrinkled to wear to the White House again without a trip to the dry cleaners if she lay here much longer. However, the thought of moving was even worse. Maybe if she just lay very still then it wouldn’t crease. Not a problem; she wasn’t sure if she’d ever move again.

She didn’t have time to worry about suit wrinkles in the morning as she awoke with barely time to change out of her crumpled clothes before rushing out to the CIA for a round robin of briefings and meetings there. Next time she’d set an alarm before she lay down.