Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (67 page)

“Some people will claim that freedom belongs to all mankind. That is a lie. Don’t believe it. From the beginning of time that lie has been deceiving the world.

“Some will say that all people have been given the power to choose. Another lie. Don’t believe it. Life is
not
a matter of choice. It is a matter of
strength.
It is
not
a matter of freedom. It is a matter of
power.
That’s the only thing that matters: who is strong, who is weak, who can convince enough of the others to follow. That is all that matters in this miserable world.

“And know this, young king, for there may be times when you will doubt. It is no sin, my brother, to defend what you have: your kingdom, your family, your place in this world, the riches and privileges that your forefathers built. It is no sin to protect them, and protect them you will.

“Now, listen to me, Abdullah. There are things you must learn. Certain oaths and combinations that will unlock special doors.”

Major General Neil Brighton stood anxiously in the narrow pantry outside the Oval Office. He glanced at his watch: 10:16
A.M.
He had only twenty minutes with the president, beginning at 10:20
A.M.
, and as always he found himself standing outside the office early to make sure that he was ready. It was an obligation demanded of the staff, and an easy one to offer, since he worked just down the hall. And he didn’t want to waste a minute of his allotted time. Twenty precious minutes. He needed them all.

Leaning away from the wall, he glanced down the hall toward his own office. The West Wing was quiet; it was a Saturday afternoon, and most of the staff wasn’t in. He studied the hallway, with its heavy blue-and-white window coverings and imposing paintings—former presidents, western landscapes, the D.C. landscape in 1822—all of them set in large, gold-gilded frames and spaced evenly between the high windows.

Halfway down the narrow hallway was a display of military photographs. But there were none of the typical pictures of speeding fighters, powerful ships, or deadly battle tanks. Instead, the photographs showed soldiers—mostly young men, a few women—all of them battle weary, with dust and sweat and dirt on their faces. The pictures were tender: a young rifleman, his heavy M-16 under his arm, bending down to pet a small kitten with his fingers while anxiously surveying the battle damage around him; a multi-ethnic group of soldiers standing in a circle, their heads bowed in prayer; a young soldier sitting cross-legged in the dirt dressed in full battle gear—flak vest, helmet, protective goggles, and gloves—while holding an infant in his arms. Smoke was wafting in a stiff breeze behind him and debris had been scattered everywhere, but the soldier looked almost peaceful, as if he were holding his own child. There were pictures of soldiers handing out candy, giving a young boy a high five, kissing a letter from a loved one, helping an old woman across a battle-scarred street. There was a picture of a young medic wrapping the broken leg of a small dog, a little boy standing nervously at his side, one hand on his puppy, another on the medic’s arm. In the middle of the pictures was a handwritten note:

This is why we do it.

It had been General Brighton’s idea to put up the display. Most of the national security staff had been against it. Too emotional, the national security adviser had said. But Brighton had insisted, even going to the president when the others told him no. Upon seeing the photographs, the president had agreed with Brighton.

The general considered the display one of the better things he had done. Members of the press, congressional delegations, cabinet secretaries, White House staff, all of them passed the display every day. Most of them stopped. The pictures were simply too compelling to pass by casually without taking a look. And some of those who stopped to look at the pictures studied them for a long time. The images caused them to think. Brighton was happy about that.

Looking farther down the hall, Brighton could see the open door to his office, a tiny cubbyhole at the far end of the West Wing. It was hardly more than a closet, with old wood floors, a single narrow window (sealed shut and covered with shatterproof Mylar coating), and a small wooden desk dating back to the Civil War. It would have been an embarrassingly tiny office had it been in any other government or business building in D.C. But it wasn’t. It was in the White House—which made his 80 square feet of space more valuable than most any piece of real estate in the world. Many people would have happily paid millions of dollars in order to work this close to the president.

General Brighton considered that fact as he looked down the hall. He knew it was fifty-three steps from his office to the Oval Office door. He knew that. Fifty-three steps. He had counted them many times.

Fifty-three steps away from the president, the most powerful man in the world. Fifty-three steps away from some of the most pivotal moments and decisions of the last two hundred thirty-five years.

Most people had no idea how big the White House really was. Hidden behind carefully planted landscaping, and with much of it built underground, the fifty-five thousand square feet of office space and living quarters were spread across six stories and one hundred thirty-four rooms, with eight staircases, three elevators, and thirty-five bathrooms. Out of all of this space, Brighton had but one tiny office.

Fifty-three steps from the president.

Sometimes it felt like a mile.

He glanced again at his watch. 10:18
A.M.
now. He fidgeted, moving from one foot to the other. He wasn’t nervous, but he was restless; that was just the way it was. One didn’t enter the Oval office without feeling a little on edge.

Four minutes later, the heavy door to the Oval Office swung open and the president’s chief of staff let him into the room. Behind the chief of staff, next to a white Elizabethan couch, the president was standing, his back to his desk. He wore a dark suit with a striped shirt and red tie, and he was bending over while an assistant held a document for him to sign. Behind him, the National Security Adviser, Johnny “Bo” Grison, Brighton’s co-worker on the national security team, was leaning against the gently curved wall, his right arm tucked across his chest, his left elbow resting in his right hand, his fingers touching his lips. Grison was staring at the floor, deep in thought, and he paid no attention as Brighton walked into the room.

Grison and General Brighton had a mutual respect for each other, but they were not close friends. They were on the same side of the battle, but they tended to see things from very different points of view. Although Grison was the man who had recommended to the president that he bring Brighton on as his personal security adviser (he had argued for a long time that the president needed an informal and less structured link between his intelligence and military chains of command), Brighton knew that sometimes Grison now regretted the move. Grison thought Brighton was a pessimist: too skittish, too fast to act, too willing to see threats when there was nothing there. Brighton, on the other hand, thought Grison was too slow, too methodical, always waiting for more information and never willing to make any kind of final decision.

“Bo!” he once exploded in exasperation. “You can’t wait for perfect intelligence. It doesn’t exist. We get what we can, but you will never know
everything
. If you demand perfect information, then you are demanding the impossible. Sometimes, Bo, you’ve got to go with your gut. Sometimes you have to close your eyes and jump off the cliff. If we always have to wait until you are perfectly comfortable, we’ll never move. Things are changing too quickly. Our enemies are quick and cunning. We have to be quick and cunning too. We’ve got to stay up with them, Bo, or this whole thing falls down.”

“You’re talking like a fighter pilot, ready to bomb something—anything—to bits,” Grison had shot back. “This is different, Neil. We’ve got to be careful. If we don’t get it right, if we make a mistake, then we all pay the price.”

Brighton’s face was tense with frustration. “Our enemies aren’t afraid of making mistakes,” he said.

So the two men served in nearly constant conflict, and the president knew it. But he didn’t mind. In fact, that was precisely what he was hoping to get. It gave him the conflicting voices, the different points of view, the balance he needed to make the best decisions he could. And the president was a strong man. He was capable of listening and thinking, then making a decision for himself.

After signing the last document, the president tucked his pen inside his breast pocket, and the aide disappeared through a narrow hallway door, leaving the four men alone. Brighton glanced at the president as he sat down. Not tall, but with the square shoulders of a boxer, the president was, for the first time in his life, starting to show his age. His eyes were accented by crow’s-feet, which a few years ago hadn’t been there, and his temples were turning white.

The men sat in their customary seats: Grison and General Brighton on the white couch, the president and his chief of staff facing them on two padded armchairs. The president was holding an iced tea with lemon. A Diet Coke
^®
was waiting for the general. Grison sipped his water. The chief of staff chewed his gum.

“How’s Sara?” the president asked as the general sat down.

“She’s fine, Mr. President. Thank you for asking, sir.” Brighton shifted in his seat, and then added, “She sends her warmest regards.”

The president watched Brighton squirm and smiled.

Brighton’s wife, the lovely Sara, had met the president on many occasions, and she always seemed willing to give him advice, something that made Brighton cringe but that the president loved. She was engaging and pleasant, and the president had a warm spot for her in his heart.

“She still not reading any newspapers?” the president asked.

Brighton smiled. “Still too many, I’m afraid. I can tell as soon as I get home if she’s been reading the
Post.
”

The other men looked at each other questioningly, and the president leaned over to his chief of staff and explained. “Sara is, and I’m not just saying this,” the president eyed Brighton under a creased brow, “one of the most politically perceptive people I know. She seems to have a sixth sense, a real feel for the country out there. But, as I understand it, she recently swore off reading the papers or watching the news. Said she couldn’t take it any longer. Too frustrating. Too maddening. It was driving her nuts. But I knew she wouldn’t make it. She’s a news junkie.”

The other men smiled. They could relate. The president turned more serious, looking at the general again. “Did she did she see the photograph of your son?”

“Not yet sir.”

The president leaned forward. “Yeah, well, you tell her, if someone ever shows her, it’s so much garbage. It means nothing. It’s all garbage press.”

Brighton thought of the newspaper image of his soldier son that had appeared on the front page of the
Post,
the carnage and death of the Iranian village all around him. Were most of his fellow Americans willing to believe that their soldiers would assault and kill dozens of villagers in Iran? Apparently not. The story had no legs. Although the cynic inside him was a little surprised, Brighton was extremely relieved that the story hadn’t grabbed any traction inside the United States.

The truth was that General Brighton didn’t much like the press. Left or right, it didn’t matter, he had little respect for any of them; he had seen how they worked, he knew the agendas they had. But as he looked at the president, his face remained neutral and calm. His was a nonpolitical position, and he took great pains to be careful of everything he said.

The president watched him carefully. “Is your family OK, Neil?” he asked in a caring tone.

“Yes, sir, they are.”

“I’ll bet they miss you.”

“Sir?”

“I know that you’re not home much. You’ve been working long hours.”

“We all have, sir.”

“You’ve been working longer hours than most.”

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

“I’m sure, and I appreciate it.”

“Thank you, Mr. President, but really, I’m just doing my job. Like everyone else, we’re just trying to make this thing work.”

The president pressed his lips together. “And your boy, the soldier?

“Doing well, sir.”

“Where is he now?”

Brighton hesitated. “All over, Mr. President.”

“He’s Special Forces, right?”

“Yes, sir. Special Forces. But in fact, he was recently invited to join the Cherokees.”

The president hesitated. He knew what that meant. “Is that going to make things difficult for you, Neil?”

Brighton was ready for the question and answered firmly. “No sir, it won’t.”

The president kept his eye on him, thinking, and then let it go. “And your other boys?”

“Fine, sir,” Brighton answered quickly. Although he was sincerely appreciative of the president’s interest, inside his mind, he was tapping a mental foot. Twenty minutes allocated for the meeting. Eighteen and counting. Lots to discuss.

The chief of staff fidgeted nervously as well, eager to get to the point. As the unofficial timekeeper, he took his responsibilities seriously.

The president saw Grison shift in his seat. He didn’t care. He wasn’t ready. He genuinely liked General Brighton and his family. “If there’s anything I can ever do for your kids, you let me know, OK? After all that you have sacrificed. After all you have done. It’s a small thing for me, General Brighton. Let me help out if I can. Schools. Graduate programs. A good job. Happens that I know a few people. Be happy to make a couple calls.”

Brighton had to smile. In fact, he almost laughed out loud. It was an absurd proposition: the president of the United States making a call for his sons. He shook his head and waved off the offer with his hands. “Thank you, Mr. President. You are very generous.” He knew he’d never ask the president to make a call.

The president cocked his head to the side. “You seem a little hesitant.”