out pair of Adidas sneakers and Go Navy sweatshirt he now wore. The hardwood floors and built-in oak cabinets and bookshelves were original — an important part of the home’s design when a rich mink farmer built it back in the early thirties.
The “Double R” was also President Mason’s favorite place during any sort of crisis — international, domestic or personal. The past three years had been turbulent, and he had been here almost as much as he had been in the White House.
Secretary of State James Coates sat to the left of the President’s desk, his hand patting the chair arm impatiently as he watched his Commander-in-Chief. Seated next to him, Defense Secretary Jacob Banks leafed through an intelligence report that had been handed to him by his attaché fifteen minutes earlier as he’d entered the room. Chief of Staff Edward Thurman had found his usual seat, symbolically, as far to the right as possible. He sat slumped in his chair, flicking his nails. An unoccupied spot between Banks and Thurman was reserved for Central Intelligence Agency Director Carl Winston.
Paramount decisions would be made today, and Mason wanted no distractions from any of his other advisors. He wanted no bleeding heart opinions, no humanitarian whining.
The four were deep in their own thoughts and silent, Mason studying the window’s reflection of three of his most trusted advisors. Sweat beaded on Coates’ upper lip, which had sported a broad mustache during his prior assignment as Secretary of the Navy. With the more politically scrutinized station of Secretary of State that Coates now held he’d decided with great reluctance that his facial hair go, and Mason was sure his friend of thirty years still missed it every morning when he shaved. He knew Coates also missed the mustache at times like these when he would have normally pulled at it while considering such an important dilemma. Although Coates was a warm and passionate man, he had yet to let his emotions get in the way of his job.
Defense Secretary Jacob Banks was also personable. When he spoke, it was important and honest. A third generation military man, Jacob Banks came through the ranks as a former U.S. Air Force pilot and Vietnam War Veteran, and most recently was the first African-American governor of Kansas. The air of a simple man, under this thin layer of restraint was a complex strategist.
Chief of Staff Edward Thurman was a different story. The closely cropped, gray hair added to his cool and hard character. He seldom showed any sort of emotion, was always curt to the press and as aloof as a hermit. Considered as one of Mason’s political coffin nails by most Republican Party leaders, Thurman had been a close friend since college days, and the President would have no one else for his Chief of Staff. Over the past thirty-two months, Thurman had pegged every foreign crisis before it arose. He’d given advice that helped stave off many tense situations that could have blown quickly out of proportion and would have required U.S. troop involvement on foreign soil. He was a needed and trusted confidante, no matter that the man lacked any sort of personality trait that could be mistaken as the slightest bit mammalian. And the cigars he insisted on smoking were detestable. The air still stank of the one he’d put out directly after arriving.
When CIA Director Winston joined them, the room would become as electrically charged as a summer thunderstorm. Winston was always Mister Cool — expressive, yet reserved and normally soft-spoken. Although at all times courteous, he acted as though he thought himself slightly better, knowing more, smarter than everyone else — including Mason. Hell, he’s probably correct, President Mason thought and nodded to himself.
While waiting for Director Winston, Mason decided he would not rein in the passions of his four advisors, but let their feelings come out. In a situation such as this, there was no place for holding
The “Double R” was also President Mason’s favorite place during any sort of crisis — international, domestic or personal. The past three years had been turbulent, and he had been here almost as much as he had been in the White House.
Secretary of State James Coates sat to the left of the President’s desk, his hand patting the chair arm impatiently as he watched his Commander-in-Chief. Seated next to him, Defense Secretary Jacob Banks leafed through an intelligence report that had been handed to him by his attaché fifteen minutes earlier as he’d entered the room. Chief of Staff Edward Thurman had found his usual seat, symbolically, as far to the right as possible. He sat slumped in his chair, flicking his nails. An unoccupied spot between Banks and Thurman was reserved for Central Intelligence Agency Director Carl Winston.
Paramount decisions would be made today, and Mason wanted no distractions from any of his other advisors. He wanted no bleeding heart opinions, no humanitarian whining.
The four were deep in their own thoughts and silent, Mason studying the window’s reflection of three of his most trusted advisors. Sweat beaded on Coates’ upper lip, which had sported a broad mustache during his prior assignment as Secretary of the Navy. With the more politically scrutinized station of Secretary of State that Coates now held he’d decided with great reluctance that his facial hair go, and Mason was sure his friend of thirty years still missed it every morning when he shaved. He knew Coates also missed the mustache at times like these when he would have normally pulled at it while considering such an important dilemma. Although Coates was a warm and passionate man, he had yet to let his emotions get in the way of his job.
Defense Secretary Jacob Banks was also personable. When he spoke, it was important and honest. A third generation military man, Jacob Banks came through the ranks as a former U.S. Air Force pilot and Vietnam War Veteran, and most recently was the first African-American governor of Kansas. The air of a simple man, under this thin layer of restraint was a complex strategist.
Chief of Staff Edward Thurman was a different story. The closely cropped, gray hair added to his cool and hard character. He seldom showed any sort of emotion, was always curt to the press and as aloof as a hermit. Considered as one of Mason’s political coffin nails by most Republican Party leaders, Thurman had been a close friend since college days, and the President would have no one else for his Chief of Staff. Over the past thirty-two months, Thurman had pegged every foreign crisis before it arose. He’d given advice that helped stave off many tense situations that could have blown quickly out of proportion and would have required U.S. troop involvement on foreign soil. He was a needed and trusted confidante, no matter that the man lacked any sort of personality trait that could be mistaken as the slightest bit mammalian. And the cigars he insisted on smoking were detestable. The air still stank of the one he’d put out directly after arriving.
When CIA Director Winston joined them, the room would become as electrically charged as a summer thunderstorm. Winston was always Mister Cool — expressive, yet reserved and normally soft-spoken. Although at all times courteous, he acted as though he thought himself slightly better, knowing more, smarter than everyone else — including Mason. Hell, he’s probably correct, President Mason thought and nodded to himself.
While waiting for Director Winston, Mason decided he would not rein in the passions of his four advisors, but let their feelings come out. In a situation such as this, there was no place for holding
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