The Art of War (First Contact) by Peter Cawdron

Author:Peter Cawdron [Cawdron, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-06-29T16:00:00+00:00

The Situation Room

Lisa meets Admiral Berkshire in the lobby of the EEO, as the Eisenhower Executive Office is affectionately known by the military staff working there. The EEO was built next to the White House to hold administrative staff.

Admiral Berkshire greets Lisa warmly, shaking her hand.

“Um,” she mumbles, looking around within the marble entranceway. “Do we have time for me to… um…”

“Sure,” he says, pointing to a bathroom sign beside the main stairs.

“Thank you.”

Lisa power walks to the bathroom. There’s no line, which is a relief. She hangs her laptop bag on the back of the stall door and relieves herself. She’s wearing navy fatigues. The admiral has assured her it’s okay, but standing before the mirror, washing her hands, she feels distinctly underdressed to meet the President of the United States of America. She should be wearing her navy whites.

She walks back out into the foyer. The admiral is looking at something on his phone. Lisa hasn’t made it more than ten feet before her bladder says, “I need to go again!” She grits her teeth, ignoring her nerves. Anxiety is a bitch. She straightens her top, pulling it tight and down as she walks up to the admiral.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Ready.”

The admiral leads her out into a parking lot and across a private road separating the EEO from the White House.

Armed Marines watch the two of them with professionalism. The Marines are in parade dress, hiding the reality that they’re ready to go to war with anyone that looks even remotely out of place.

The two of them walk into the main entrance of the West Wing and surrender their phones, pass their bags through another scanner and submit to another body scan. They’re waved through.

“This way,” the admiral says.

For her part, Lisa’s mind is on record. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and she is determined not to squander being in the West Wing of the White House. She doesn’t want to miss a thing. Dark mahogany doors separate various sections, while the wooden surrounds and internal windows are painted white. There’s no dust. They walk past a seating area outside one of the grand rooms near the Oval Office, and Lisa desperately wants to run her finger along the skirting boards, the edge of the side tables, the back of the wooden chairs and the gilded frame of 18th-century ships firing cannons, looking for dust. There won’t be any. It strikes her that there’s no lint. Her eyes scan the carpet, looking for lint that’s formed from the passage of people walking to and fro. Nothing. How do they keep this place looking so pristine?

Lisa wants to stop and look closer at the painting on the wall, partially out of a desire to settle her nerves, partially out of sheer fascination with how the white sails billow in the wind, driving the ships on. The clouds above them have an ethereal texture like that of spun cotton, being caught in the dawn as the sky lightens from a soft yellow to pink to pale blue.

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