A Patriotic Nightmare. Don E. Post

after seven in the morning, and the worst snowstorm of the season ravaged the nation’s capitol. Old timers bitterly complained, and everyone admitted tiring of the dark, cold winter days.

      The icy wind whipped the wet snow down Seventeenth Street, penetrating Darren’s bones in spite of his new coat. “Why don’t they shut down this whole city until this storm blows over? It takes a moron to be out in weather like this!”

      He quickly looked around to make sure no one heard him. “No one’s dumb enough to be out this early on such an atrocious day but me,” he said aloud. At last he reached the sanctity of the foyer. He stomped snow off his shoes and then made his way to the elevator and the second-floor cubbyhole he called an office. The room, adjacent to the suite occupied by his boss, General George Burcks, a retired Marine, had grown cramped, but Darren managed. Burcks, chairman of President Carl Evans’ National Security Council (NSC), wore four stars, was in his mid-sixties, stood a trim, athletic, six feet three inches tall, and sported silky white hair. His decorations reflected major roles in every war and skirmish since Korea.

      As he entered the elevator, Darren reflected on the weird process that brought him to Washington a year ago, which now seemed like decades. Many of the factors still eluded him. He did not know Burcks nor had he ever worked in government. And he had never worked in D.C. Never wanted to. He grew up in Texas but spent some of his childhood in Latin America and Asia. His parents, both medical doctors, spent a great deal of time assisting international health organizations. Two sisters practiced law in Houston and Austin. Darren landed a job with Global Analysis, a California international think-tank, after graduating from the University of Texas in nineteen eighty-five with a degree in international relations. Political risk analysis, business development tasks, and marketing research had kept him in Asia and the Mideast over the years. The move to the National Security Council began in Singapore, and he vividly remembers Ms. Clark’s phone call.

      He had just pulled himself out of bed that fateful Wednesday morning at Singapore’s Hyatt Regency Hotel and sat on the edge of the bed worrying about losing some of his 240 pounds, when the phone rang.

      “Mr. Hopkins, I’m Jo Clark, administrative assistant to General George Burcks who chairs the President’s National Security Council. The general would like to talk to you about a senior research analyst’s job.”

      “Well,” he stammered in his sleepy condition, “you caught me on my blindside.” He could hear her laugh.

      “I understand,” she said. “There’s a high degree of urgency in getting this position filled, so he hopes you’ll at least be willing to come to Washington at our expense to discuss it.”

      “Uh, gosh,” he replied as he fought to shake the fog out of his head. “I’ve got a number of appointments set up over here, and I’d have to talk to my boss before I could agree to do that.”

      “The President of Global Analysis has already given General Burcks permission to bring you to Washington. And, if things work out and you join us, your Global Analysis job will be waiting for you when you decide to return. You can’t top that can you?

      “Wow. I’m impressed!”

      “Can you postpone your meetings?”

      “I suppose so,” Darren said slowly. His mind tried to process what had happened as rapidly as possible.

      “Good. You need to catch an immediate flight to Washington. Can you arrange those flights or shall we?”

      “Wait, let’s back up one step. How much time do I have to consider this?”

      “The general wants an answer by noon our time. Again, remember, this is just an interview.”

      “Well, I need to get the cobwebs out of my head before I answer.”

      “Of course,” Ms. Clark said softly. “I’ll call you back in two hours. Is that okay?”

      “I guess so.” He stared at the Singapore skyline from his twelfth floor window for several minutes after Ms. Clark hung up. Wow, he thought. The National Security Council? I don’t even know what the hell it does. His curiosity got the upper hand. He wanted to talk to General Burcks.

      Whoops! The elevator opened on the second floor and Darren, so engrossed in the trip down memory lane, almost missed his floor. He headed down the musty corridor to his office, hung up his coat, and went to the kitchen off Ms. Clark’s office to prepare a pot of coffee. Letting the coffee perk, he returned to his office. At least the office is warm and cozy, he thought. The fierce wind rattled the old windows. He walked over and stood watching the snow pile up in Lafayette Park. His mind returned to that initial trip from Singapore to Burcks’ office.

      The Singapore Airlines 747 taxied to the gate at Dulles International Airport at around ten a.m., Thursday, thirty hours after Ms. Clark’s phone call. Two Marines met Darren as he came down the ramp and entered the airport lounge. He still remembered his disbelief. The encounter went something like this:

      “Sir, General Burcks sent us to pick you up. Come with us.”

      Before Darren could get a response out of his mouth, they whisked him through a nearby door, down two flights of stairs, out another door and into a gray Mercury Marquis. One man loaded Darren’s suitcase in the trunk, jumped into the driver’s seat and shot off the tarmac so fast Darren grabbed for something to hang on to. As they sped through airport security gates and east on the Dulles Toll Road, the other marine, a major, asked, “Sir, may I have your passport?

      “I guess,” Darren said, as he handed it over.

      The major handed the passport to a young lieutenant, and then turned to Darren and said, “Sir, your passport will be processed and delivered to your hotel room later this evening.”

      “Well, thanks, that’s great service.” Darren began to feel a mounting apprehension, much like that experienced by pets owned by taxidermists!

      The car finally entered an unmarked drive at the old executive office building next to the White House and parked in an underground garage with a musty odor. The major escorted him to the elevator and General Burcks’ office on the second floor. Washington’s cold but sunny weather invigorated him after the humid ambience of Southeast Asia. Thankfully he brought a light coat.

      Ms. Clark greeted him warmly, took his coat and asked that he be seated while the general finished his phone conversation with the President. Wow, heady stuff, Darren recalled thinking. A few minutes later Ms. Clark escorted Darren into the office, introduced him and stood by for further orders.

      “Darren, glad to finally meet you. I hope you had a pleasant trip,” Burcks said, rising to shake Darren’s hand.

      “I slept most of the way. Thanks for asking.”

      “Let’s get our luncheon order in before we start.” As the General relayed their request to Ms. Clark, Darren scanned Burcks’ office, noting pictures of several U.S. presidents and numerous notables as well as an unimpeded view of the White House and Lafayette Square.

      Burcks wasted no time on pleasantries. Darren could feel his heart racing lickity-split. Sweat built up in his armpits.

      “Darren, your boss at Global Analysis, Faulk Landrum, is an old friend of mine. Your name came up in a recent conversation as one whom we’d like to have working with us.”

      “Ahhh, so he triggered this?” Darren said with a slight smile and a nod of his head.

      “He and another friend of mine at Pentagon named Al Olsen. I’ve known Olsen for years and also value his counsel. And we’ve talked with dozens of people who have known you over the years. I think our research has been pretty thorough.”

      Caught off guard, blushing slightly, Darren sputtered, “Really?

      “Really.” Burcks got out of his chair, stared at Darren with fire in his narrowed eyes. Then, in a voice that would have made Moses proud, he said, “Since September eleventh, two-thousand-two, times have been tough. We are scouring the landscape to find the best talent. To date