Chapter One - THIRD TERM

Bud leaned into the Oval Office and gestured at his watch. "Mr. President, it’s time, ten minutes till extraction. We’ve got to head down."

Jack Canon got up from his desk and walked toward him. Bud looked rough. His eyes were bloodshot; he was squinting.

"You look tired." Jack could sympathize. Presidents get little sleep.

Bud waved at the sun glaring through the windows. "We had a fight. Jackie's staying with her sister." His shoulders slumped into a posture of defeat unusual for him.

"Not again. What happened?"

"We were celebrating our anniversary. I caught Jackie eyeing another guy. I blew up."

“Wasn’t that a little paranoid?"

"I'm not enough for her."

"She loves you."

"She's accomplished and beautiful—"

"And you're the White House Chief of Staff." Jack grabbed Bud by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. "You two are the perfect Washington power couple."

"Maybe on paper, but Jackie doesn't seem to think so. She said I'm an errand boy—meanwhile, covering you made her a star."

"You're hard on yourself. The Chief of Staff is hardly an errand boy. She said that in anger."

Bud stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Jackie's right. At the end of your second term, I'll be a short, bald has-been with a paunch and a bad attitude. She'll be famous and beautiful."

"You love her that means something. At the end of my second term, you'll write your ticket in private industry."

Bud scuffed his feet like a guilty kid. "I haven't shown myself the way I would have liked."

"You're a player in this town. Jackie knows that. You should apologize…" Jack moved toward the veranda doors. "Walk with me."

"She was looking at another guy…” Bud followed.

“So what? I’ve seen you look at other women. People look.” Jack swung open the door to the veranda, focused on the White House gardens and switched to shop talk. "Bill's in charge of the operation. He's our eyes."

Bud caught his sleeve on the door handle and tried to free it, "Are you telling Sandy?"

"I don't know, I'm struggling whether I should."

"You want it over first?" Bud wrangled his wrist, trying to pry his sleeve loose. "Or are you not planning to tell her?"

"Officially, he's dead. Part of me thinks we should leave it that way."

Bud winced. "He was like a brother—"

"To all of us. Hey, I hoped Tip and Sandy would end up together."

"Instead, she had a breakdown." The fabric of Bud's jacket sounded and audible rip. He gave it an exasperated look and walked along the colonnade outside. “Wouldn't the news help bring her back?"

"To her old self? This operation has a slim chance of success. Why get her hopes up?" Jack wasn’t sure it was the right decision.

They went inside, then down a series of hallways and stairs to the situation room. Jack pressed his eye against the ocular sensor, the infrared scanned his eye and the transponder beeped. Before entering he turned to Bud.

“Heads up. Bill colored his hair. You know to cover the gray. He said it makes him feel younger.”

“Thanks for telling me. What color?”

“Sandy brown,” Jack said entering the room.

Bill was alone; his eyes focused on the Hi-Def monitors lining the walls. Empty chairs circling a mahogany table were reminiscent of less clandestine operations. The operation was secret, beyond the oversite of Congress and the media.

On screen, fragments of cement were flying in all directions. Jack leaned over a seat, and asked, "What are our chances?"

"Forty-five percent—more if they don't blow the place once they know we're coming,” Bill replied.

A compound reminiscent of Auschwitz appeared onscreen. Silent missiles smashed through barrier walls like kindling. Pictures of multiple vantage points vibrated the destruction of the ghostly Armageddon. There were horrific reports of doctors, aid workers, and clergy, along with those of the inmates surviving in darkened cells. Starvation, forced amputations, and suffering were their companions. Bud's face pinched.

Bill circled, "Are you okay?"

Bud shrugged it off. "Stomach cramps."

"You gotta relax."

Bill sat back clasping his fingers behind his head.

"Jackie's at her sister's."

"Peyton?"

"Yeah."

"Wow," Bill smiled, "Nashville's reigning princess, what I wouldn't give…" He reclined further, “Imagine the life."

"She's stunning, but that girl's messed up.” Bud squeezed his chest, “I'm going over tonight to apologize to Jackie. I hate being alone." He held his hands together and looked up. "The last divorce almost killed me, my dad died at this age."

"I hope, for your sake, that she comes back." Bill sat forward. “Don't end up like me. My marriage was a disaster. I got caught up in the first campaign. The cameras, the flash, the media. I've always felt empty. Feeling important was intoxicating. The days got longer until one night I came home and slipped between the sheets. I said I was sorry, but April rolled me a cold shoulder. I knew it was over."

Bud gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. "Jackie’s a heartbreaker. I should've seen it coming."

"Self-fulfilling prophecy," Jack cautioned him. “Do you think Tip’s okay?”

Bud scratched his head. "Speaking of okay, how's Sandy?"

"I haven't told her what we’re doing."

"What if the mission is a success?"

"I’m worried. If our enemies spot them together, she's a target."

"We can't lose her." Bill adjusted the satellite.

"He can't resurface. He has to be a ghost. Tip said so himself; he wouldn't do well appearing before Congress."

"Those fatheads," Bud scoffed. "Luckily for us, they can't haul a missing corpse in for questioning."

"Can you imagine Tip grilled on the assassination?" Bill asked.

"You're giving me chills, it would be a disaster," Bud warned. "He'd slip up on something. They'd call us in one by one."

Bill frowned. "It would end badly."

"How could we control that? My palms are sweaty thinking of it." Bud pulled out his handkerchief and wrung his hands.

"Sandy can't lose him twice.”

"I wish you could tell her." Bud pushed the handkerchief into his pocket, and held out his hand, "Look, I'm shaking from nerves."

"Sometimes the dead have to stay dead, for the good of the country."

"Who volunteers to be beaten, starved, and locked up in a Syrian prison—that's off the rails. What type of guy could do that?" Bud asked.

"A hardcore operative—one of Tip's crew, ready for anything. That type." Tip assembled an elite team of private soldiers. Their existence is known only to the President and his inner circle.

Bud rolled his eyes, "Something's been gnawing at me. Driving with Jackie last Sunday, I was irritated, so I laid on the horn. This guy jumps out of his car and starts for me. I got out hoping he'd recognize me and back off. Instead, his eyes filled with rage. I panicked and turned toward the car. My knees buckled. I tripped and dropped like a sack of potatoes. My palms ripped, I'm bleeding, on the ground, woozy, and the guy is standing over me. My hands are itchy from the scrapes. I’m expecting him to slug me. Instead, he extends his hand and helps me into my car. Jackie said not to worry, but the look on her face..."

Jack gave Bud a tap on the shoulder. "Don't beat yourself up. Combat's not in your wheelhouse, and Jackie will understand. Hey, Tip's crew couldn't have gotten me elected."

"Once, let alone twice." Bud grinned.

"There's the nasty guy I know," Bill encouraged him. "The ruthless kingmaker. I'll bet that's what attracted Jackie in the first place. Show her some of that."

Bud took a mock bow. "I'm flattered, but once I'd like to be that guy."

"Who?" Jack asked.

"Someone who can enter the harshest prison in the world, dig a GPS out of his leg, and..." he said as he reached for a can of Coke on the table, "surgically implant it into a valuable asset."

"You've got a different set of skills," Jack pointed out.

Apache helicopters hovered over the prison unloading a barrage of firepower as Bud placed several ice cubes into a monogrammed crystal tumbler. He popped the lid and poured the caramel contents. Fizz bubbled over the top as he raised the glass. "Speaking of elections?"

The President snorted. "Oh, here it comes, the third term business again."

"Good luck with the 22nd amendment," Bill said.

Bud's eyes narrowed. "We have to try."

"Voters may not want us around that long. I'm ready to give someone else a chance." He was. Being president had aged him.

"He's right, our poll numbers have tanked," Bill added. "Terrorism, the economy, inner cities. We can't change any of it. Health care's a mess."

"Washington's a disaster. During the recession, the one percent increased their wealth more than at any time since the Great Depression. My goal to help ordinary people get it back failed. Let the Republicans fail for a change."

"You helped the country become energy independent, that can be your legacy," Bill said.

"Jack, you want more? Don't leave the country in the hands of the Republicans. I told you, I know a guy. He quit years ago, but he can help us now,” Bud said.

"What's he got that you don’t?"

Bill protested, "If he's so great, why did he leave politics?"

"Nobody's worth his time," Bud swallowed another slug of his Coke. "Says they're all narcissists."

"What makes you think he'll work for us?"

"I have a hunch." Bud grinned, swirling the soda in his glass.

"Money?" Bill asked.

"Nah. The Prophet doesn't care about money."

"You call him a prophet? He's lying, or you're being played," Bill chided.

Bud put down his glass, "He's willing to meet Jack."

"He wants money, people line their pockets in this town," Bill grumbled. "Or, power? I'll bet he hasn't got a clue what power is in Washington. Or, what it takes to keep this country safe."

"Not an inkling and he'd cringe if he found out. But, in his prime, he was behind many big names."

"Why haven't I heard of this Prophet? What a joke, seriously, it scares me to hear you talk like that." Bill adjusted the broadcast, magnifying the west end of the compound. Helicopters hovered as OEO Special Forces zip-lined to the ground.

"He's off the grid and lives in an old, rusty colored barn in Maine. I think I can persuade him to help us."

As Bud spoke, commandoes entered the main building. Bill switched the feed to cameras attached to each unit's body armor. The leader stepped forward, removed a black canister from his belt, and tossed it into the opening. The canister rolled lopsidedly down a hallway and exploded. Smoke and dust filled the area. Red lasers searched out enemy combatants as chaotic flashes of gunfire lit the way. Each zone was cleared and the liberated led to the waiting choppers. The fighting raged for several minutes, until a scratchy voice sounded, "This is not a decoy."

There was static, and the communication failed. During radio silence, the minutes felt like hours. Finally, a flare shot high over the compound.

Bill’s voice went cold, "They got him."

"Alive?" Jack asked, afraid of the answer.