30

Friday, January 29, 2021, 12:00 PM Eastern Standard Time

It was noon, and the President was finally walking toward the Oval Office. He was looking at his phone, admiring his latest Toot:

–<() Federal Judges have no Jurysdiction in State Elections! They must resign or be Impeached! If I could be Impeached for a Hoax, then they should be impeached for True Crimes!

He did not like to have anything on his schedule before noon. Mornings were for “Executive Time.” “Executive Time” was devoted to drinking coffee and watching the Morning Wolf show on Wolf News until the knot in his gut had been dissolved; Tooting about his enemies and all the depredations they had practiced upon him over the past 24 hours, and also hyping his upcoming “Thank You Rallies” (for legal reasons they could not be called third-term campaign rallies yet, but he had been assured by the Senate Majority Leader that he could soon dispense with this subterfuge); eating a long breakfast, prominently featuring sausage patties; watching more Morning Wolf, and Tooting about the things they had said that he liked; re-visiting the President’s newly gold-plated private bathroom; and finally, after the signoff of Morning Wolf, rolling out of bed and heading for the similarly gold-plated shower he had had installed in the Presidential Suite.

This morning had been about as usual, with the exception of the now regular pain in his gut, which seemed to be somewhere around his stomach, and a pain in his lower back that might or might not have been associated with the gut pain. He wondered whether this new pain was a hangover from the virus. He attributed all such gut pain to his system being “backed up,” and his preferred treatment was to double down on sausage patties and add another cup of coffee to his breakfast, which had the effect, as he saw it, of “blowing out the tubes.” The pain did not go away, but he did feel a sense of relief afterward. His problems using his right hand, to drink out of glasses, for example, he had come to see as something he would simply have to live with. Maybe the gut and back pain would soon fall into that category as well.

But now it was 12:00, and he was in an ebullient mood. Normally afternoons were somewhat annoying, as his aides pestered him to sign documents, call donors, go to briefings to which he could not be bothered to pay attention, and worst of all, make decisions about things he couldn’t care less about.

But today was different. Today was another special day, the day, which normally occurred every other Friday, to run through the nuclear launch procedures with the Acting Defense Secretary. He was especially looking forward to it today, because it had been interrupted for more than a month recently by his bout with the virus.

The ritual had begun under the President’s first Defense Secretary, as a way for that Secretary to educate and manage the President. When that Defense Secretary had been escorted off the premises for publicly differing with the President on Middle East war policy, the DOD had thought that perhaps these briefings would go the way of the SecDef who had initiated them. But the President had seized upon them as his favorite thing to do.

“I have to be on top of this,” he told one of the succeeding Acting Secretaries of Defense. “This is the most powerful, presidential thing a President can do. Not many people know that FDR never even did this. I need to know how to do it.”

As several years had gone by, the President had altered the drill to make it “more real.” For the past year or so, during which he had gone through three Acting Secretaries, he had insisted on taking the launch sequence all the way up to the final step, the verification to all missile siloes by the Defense Secretary that it was the actual Commander in Chief issuing the orders, before calling off the launch.

“I want those guys in the siloes to be on their toes,” the President explained to his latest Acting Secretary, who had been in the office for several months, but who looked several years older than when he had accepted the job. “We need to be able to do this drill in four minutes or less.” The Acting Secretary had popped another antacid tablet and nodded.

Today, as the President walked into the Oval Office, the Acting Secretary was waiting for him, with a slightly younger, taller man alongside him. Both of them were masked, as per protocol.

“Hey, Jim,” the President said.

“Uh, it’s John, Mr. President.”

“Okay, John. Who’s this?”

“This is Larry. We had discussed the possibility that he could replace me.”

“Replace you? I just got you trained up.”

“Yes, sir. But I have a physical condition that has caused my doctors to recommend that I take it easier and spend more time with my family.”

“Squirt, boys.”

Both guests went for their temporary belt-holsters, each marked with the President’s corporate logo, squirted disinfectant gel on their already latex-gloved hands, and rubbed thoroughly.

“You should get your office fumigated,” the President said. “Something seems to be catching in that place. Last three guys I had in that office all got sick with that gotta-spend-time-with-family thing.”

“That is quite a coincidence, sir. I’ll get right on that.”

“Okay, so Larry here has passed all the tests and background checks?”

“Yes sir,” Larry said.

“What’s your background?”

“I was in a Carrier Task Force for a while, sir, and then after that I worked for a defense contractor for ten more.”

“Did you vote for me?”

John coughed loudly.

“You really are sick,” the President said. “Okay, I believe you.” He turned toward the door.

“Mrs. Johnson?”

“Yes, sir?” his secretary’s voice said, from the speaker on his desk.

“Cleanup on Aisle 6. We’re gonna need someone to spray here.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

“In the meantime, put some more gel on your hands, please, Jim. So, Larry, did you vote for me?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Both times?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mrs. Johnson escorted a white-clad janitor into the room; he sprayed the entire room, with the exception of the President’s immediate vicinity, with a fine mist of some ionizing disinfectant.

“Now swap those masks for new ones,” the President said.

“Me too?” asked Larry.

“Better safe than sorry,” the President said. “Put ’em on, boys.”

Both men did as they were told. Mrs. Johnson, clad in a surgical gown, gloves, and face shield, dropped the old masks in a sterile bag, sealed it, and walked out of the office behind the janitor, holding the bag in front of her as she might have held nuclear waste, or perhaps someone else’s baby who had unexpectedly dirtied his diaper.

“So, are you familiar with this whole rigamarole here, Jerry?”

“Larry, sir. I’ve been briefed on it, sir.” Larry’s voice was muffled by the mask.

“Huh? What’d you say?” the President said.

“I SAID I’VE BEEN BRIEFED ON IT, SIR,” Larry shouted.

“Jesus, no need to scream,” the President said. “So you can explain the procedure to me,” he continued. “Take me through it, then. This is the most presidential thing I do.”

“Yes sir, Mr. President,” Larry said, surreptitiously pulling his phone out and looking down. “If you, Mr. President, decide to order the use of nuclear weapons, you will be taken aside by the ‘carrier’ of the ‘nuclear football,’ and the briefcase would be opened.”

“It’s not a football.”

“Yes, sir, that’s correct.”

“It doesn’t even look like a football. It’s just a heavy briefcase. Nobody knows that. It’s very interesting.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, so the briefcase is opened.”

“Then a command signal, or ‘watch’ alert, would be issued to the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

“That’s the heads of the Army, Navy, Coast Guard, etc.”

“Army, Navy, Marine Corps, and Air Force.”

“No Coast Guard?”

Larry’s eyes narrowed. He quickly looked down at his phone. He made an executive decision.

“No, sir.” Larry looked quickly at the Acting Secretary for a fraction of a second, then plunged on.

“You as President would then review the attack options with me, if I am honored to be made the Acting Secretary of Defense, as well as with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and decide on a plan, which could range from a single cruise missile to multiple ICBM launches.”

“I don’t like that I have to consult the head of the Joint thing.”

“Sir?”

“That takes time. We need to be able to do this fast in an emergency.”

“We will, sir. But we really should talk to the head of the military, because he has the missiles. He will have to help execute the launch.”

“All right. As long as he doesn’t hold things up.”

The Acting Secretary coughed again, inside his mask. The President shot him a look. Larry cleared his throat and forged ahead.

“There are preset war plans developed under OPLAN 8010, which used to be called the Single Integrated Operational Plan. Then, using Milstar…”

“Milstar?”

“Milstar, sir. It’s a satellite system for military communications.”

“Oh. I thought it was a drug for people who are a little nuts.”

“Sir?”

“You know, Milstar. That drug they used to use in the ’50s.”

The Acting Secretary cut in. “I believe that was Miltown, Mr. President.”

“Miltown. That might be it. But I think it might be Milstar. I have a very good memory. Some people say I am a genius.”

“Yes, sir,” Larry said.

“Do you think I’m a genius, Larry?”

“I think it takes genius to be elected President of the United States,” Larry said.

“They said it couldn’t be done,” the President said. “And I did it twice.”

“Yes, sir,” Larry said. “You did.”

“I think he might work out, Jim,” the President said to the Acting Secretary. The Acting Secretary looked as though he was about to say something, then simply nodded.

“So, what’s next?” the President asked.

“So, the aide, a military officer who has completed a Yankee White background check, the most rigorous type, would contact the National Military Command Center and NORAD to determine the scope of the strike.”

“I think I am the one who says the scope of the strike.”

“Yes, sir. I think what I meant to say is, they take your order and try to figure out what weapons they have to send where so as to do what you want.”

“That’s more like it. But it sounds like that could take even more time.”

“I am told… that they are pretty good at doing that very quickly. I think it only takes a minute or less. So, after they do that, the Milstar…”

“Miltown, I think we decided.”

“Whatever you say, sir. After they do that, the comms systems would air the currently valid nuclear launch code to all nuclear delivery systems that are operational.”

“And then kaboom?”

“Almost, sir. There are two more steps.”

“I tell you, in the private sector we would eliminate all these steps. I’d have a button on this desk. Someone crosses us, kapow.”

“A two-person verification procedure would be executed following this, and then the codes would be entered in a Permissive Action Link.”

“Two more people? Jeez.”

“This is to make sure someone doesn’t try to launch our nuclear weapons when you don’t want to do that.”

“No wonder we haven’t launched them in all of history. It’s too hard. I hope our enemies don’t know how hard it is for me to whack them.”

“Two people in each missile silo have to agree that the launch codes they have received match the ones they have that they know are the currently valid codes. It’s standard procedure, sir.”

“There has to be a way to simplify this.”

“Finally…”

“Finally. I get to push the button?”

“There’s no button, sir.”

“So what do I do?”

“Actually, it’s what the Secretary of Defense does. If it were me, I would then verify that it is you that has issued the order, by giving them the special code that is on a plastic card known as ‘the biscuit.’”

“But once I order the attack, you can’t stop it.”

“No, sir, no one can stop it.”

“And how long does this whole procedure take?”

“Well, I’ve never been through it, sir,” said Larry, looking over at John, “but my understanding is, it would take little more than four minutes from start to finish.”

“Okay,” said the President. “Let’s do it.”

“Sir?” Larry said, a startled look on his face.

“Let’s run through the procedure thing.”

John turned to Larry. “It’s something he likes to do on a biweekly basis,” he said, his voice still muffled by the mask. “We run through the entire procedure up to the reading of the code off the biscuit, then don’t give them the code, and it’s called off.”

Larry’s eyes grew wide. Stars appeared at the edges of his visual field. His brain, seemingly under the impression he had jumped off a cliff or stepped in front of a freight train, rapidly began to review the steps that had brought him to this point.

***

“Come on, Larry. It’s a snap. You can do this. You were IN the Navy. I wasn’t even in the military at all. You’d be surprised at what a difference that makes with these people.”

Larry hit the accelerator of the golf cart and headed toward the rough to find John’s ball.

“I don’t know, John. I’ve got a pretty good gig here at the country club. And it’s been a while since I was in the military.”

“But you worked for a contractor for a few years. Right?”

“Yeah, after I got out I worked for one. I was in maintenance. I took care of the motor pool. Kept the cars gassed up and cleaned.”

“How’d that go?”

“Great, until the incident.”

“Incident…?” John shook his head as if to get back on track. “I don’t even care. I have to get out of this job. You can do it. I’ve seen you work. They have people who can tell you all the details, do everything for you. And like I said, from what I can see, they like military guys.”

“I don’t know, John. I can barely remember who to salute or the difference between an F-18 and an F150. And there was that time I, uh, lost that one plane.”

“You lost a plane?”

“Well, it fell.”

“It fell?”

“Off the carrier. One of my shipmates and I were a little drunk and made a bet… anyway before you know it the plane slid off the end and kabloop.”

“Kabloop?”

“It fell off the stern.”

“How’d that end up?”

“We pinned it on a third guy who was even drunker.”

“Oh, I think you will fit in just fine at this place.”

***

“Let’s get going,” the President said. “Bring the football guy in.” John rose from the couch in front of the Resolute Desk and went to the exterior door. “Mrs. Johnson, can you send the Military Aide in?”

The military aide, a Coast Guard Commander, with a nameplate displaying the name SMITH, walked in with the suitcase. Her posture was ramrod straight, and she looked composed, but close examination might have revealed a bit of twitching around her left eye.

“I thought you said the Coast Guard wasn’t part of this,” the President said, accusingly.

The Acting Secretary looked back and forth, then stammered, “Your military aide can be a Coast Guard officer, but the Joint Chiefs do not include anyone from the Coast Guard.”

The President appraised him with a raised eyebrow.

“Sometimes I think you people are making all this shit up just to make me feel dumb.”

“I assure you, we are not, sir,” the Acting Secretary said.

The President stared at him for several seconds.

“Okay, let’s do it,” the President finally said. “Open the briefcase.”

Larry, the would-be new Acting Secretary, looked over at the Acting Secretary with wide eyes over his mask. The Acting Secretary’s expression revealed nothing.

The military aide bent over, opened the leather-clad metal suitcase on the table across from the Resolute desk, and then stood at attention.

John, watching the President, thought he looked absolutely delighted, like a small child who has come downstairs before dawn to open presents on Christmas morning. He backed away behind the President to surreptitiously raise his mask and swallow an antacid, and wondered to himself how soon he might be able to get out of this job.

Then a thought occurred to him:

If I do get out of this job, and someone else is doing this every two weeks, will I ever sleep soundly again?

© 2020 Nolan O’Brian