Collateral (Tier One #6)

Office of the Vice President

West Wing of the White House

Washington, DC

0815 Local Time

Jarvis tugged at his shirt collar and grumbled his displeasure.

“What was that?” Petra said, looking up from the notebook computer propped on her lap.

“I said this shirt collar is too damn tight.”

“I’m sorry, that must be aggravating,” she said with what almost felt like spousal empathy.

“I’m serious, Petra. It’s driving me crazy. I don’t know if I can wear a tie every damn day for the rest of my life.” He got to his feet and began to pace.

She tilted her head a few degrees to the right and fixed him with a knowing stare.

“What?” he snapped.

“Nothing,” she said, but the corners of her lips tipped up just so.

“It’s not nothing. You’re giving me that look again.”

“What look?”

“That one you give me whenever you think you’ve figured something out about me that I failed to recognize,” he said, stopping long enough to mimic her head tilt and expression.

Instead of pushing her buttons, it had the opposite effect. “You’re going to make a great Vice President,” she said, her lips finishing their curl into the most endearing smile he’d ever seen.

Marry me, he thought. Marry me right now. I don’t want to do this alone. The compulsion to say the words seemed so loud and overpowering in his head, he worried for a split second he might break down and do it. No. Not like this. It needs to be . . . perfect.

Instead, he said, “The thing is, I never actually said yes. It just happened . . . It feels like this was forced on me.”

At this, her expression changed from fangirl to dubious juror. “You’re not the kind of person who lets life happen to him. The President sounded the call of duty and you answered it. We talked about this. Remember?”

“But I never actually said yes.” He resumed pacing.

“Mmm-hmm,” was all she said.

“In fact, I told the bastard no.”

“Must not have been a very convincing ‘no,’ Mr. Vice President,” she said, then seemed to work very hard not to chuckle at his expense.

“It’s not funny,” he growled, despite failing to suppress a smile of his own.

“No, no, not funny at all. Being forced against your will into being second in command of the most powerful nation on Earth is no laughing matter,” she said with just enough sarcasm to break down what was left of his petulant wall of self-pity.

“I see what you’re doing and it won’t work,” he said, already feeling his shoulders relax a little.

“Listen, Kelso, I know this is not what you wanted.” She put her computer aside to give him her full attention. “And I know Warner bulldozed you into this. But he sees the same thing I see in you.”

“Now you’re making me uncomfortable,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“Ha ha, very funny.” She got to her feet and went to him. “We don’t get to choose our fate. On the contrary, fate chooses for us. And in this moment in time, when faced with these circumstances, fate picked you to be Vice President.”

“What if I don’t believe in fate?”

“Fate doesn’t care,” she said. “It’s agnostic to our whims and moods, or haven’t you noticed?”

Jarvis inhaled deeply, exhaled through his nose, and stared at her.

She placed her right palm on his chest.

“But I have Parkinson’s,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I have acid reflux and my right knee is catching,” she replied, not missing a beat. “Our bodies are fallible and imperfect—whatcha gonna do?”

“Wait a minute,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her. “What’s going on with your knee?”

“I think I might have torn the meniscus,” she said with clipped irritation, then shaking her head added, “That’s not the point of this conversation. The point I’m trying to make is the same one I made when we got the diagnosis a few months ago. Whether you’re DNI or Vice President is irrelevant. In either case, you are serving your country at the highest level, and you’re doing it with the mind, body, and soul fate has given you.” She reached up, and with deft fingers loosened and removed his necktie, then undid the top button on his collar. “That being said . . . no reason to be miserable while you’re at it.”

“Thank you,” he said, standing up straight with Vice Presidential bearing.

“You’re welcome,” she replied and handed him his now neatly folded necktie.

A knock came at the door.

“Come,” he barked in his command voice.

The door cracked open and Warner’s Chief of Staff stuck his head in. “The President wants to see you in the Oval Office.”

“Tell him I’ll be right there,” Jarvis said with a perfunctory nod.

The other man nodded back and disappeared without shutting the door.

“You ready?” he asked, turning to Petra.

“Yeah, just let me grab my laptop,” she said, fetching her computer. “All right, let’s go.”

They stepped out of his office, walked down the hall, past the Roosevelt Room, and entered the Presidential Secretary’s office. Warner’s secretary waved them both into the Oval Office and shut the door behind them. President Warner looked up from his chair behind the Resolute Desk, where he was on the phone, and gestured for them to take a seat. Together, they sat on the open sofa across from where Warner’s Chief of Staff was sitting, furiously typing text messages.

“Yes, you have the green light, General,” Warner said into the handset as he stood. “That’s correct . . . yes . . . the Vice President is going to do it . . . all right, keep me updated, thank you, that will be all.” With a dour look on his face, he placed the telephone handset in its cradle and walked over to join them. “I’m going to keep this brief,” he said and sat down beside his Chief of Staff. “I just gave approval to the Joint Chiefs to deploy the Marines to Mariupol.”

Jarvis glanced at Petra, then back at Warner. “But sir, that is going to be interpreted as an escalation.”

“Which is why you’re going to go on television and tell the world the opposite”—the President made a show of checking his watch—“approximately ninety minutes from now.”

“I don’t understand, sir,” Jarvis said, screwing up his face.

“I know, because this is not the world you come from, but it is the world you live in now—a world where reality is defined by words, not actions. By outcome, not intent. So, when you’re standing behind that podium in the Press Briefing Room and the reporters ask you if this move should be construed as an act of war against Russia, you are going to look at them like they are all crazy and tell them the opposite is true. You’re going to point out how badly things are spiraling out of control in Mariupol, and then tell them it leaves us no choice but to send US Marines to assist the Russians with peacekeeping efforts. And when they push back at you, you’re going to take it up a notch and say that it is our intention to work hand in glove with Russian forces because we and the Russian share a common goal . . . to quell the violence in the streets and make Mariupol safe for everyone, Ukrainians and Russians alike.”

“With all due respect, sir, that’s ridiculous. The veneer on that message is so thin, it’s transparent. They’re going to eat me alive and then they’re going to run to the Russian Ambassador for comment and he’ll claim there has been no dialogue concerning cooperation and that Russia sees this move as provocation.”

“No,” Warner said and smiled. “He’s not going to say that.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because you’re going to preempt that scenario by insinuating that cooperation was his idea. You’re going to make him sound like the voice of reason and thank him for being the type of ambassador we need in these desperate times. A concerned partner who reached out and asked for our help, because after all, the Russian troops in Mariupol are there to keep the peace, not to wage war.”

Jarvis laughed, but when Warner didn’t react in kind, he said, “You’re serious? You want me to lie?”

“Oh, I’m dead serious, Kelso. This is the way the game is played. Welcome to politics, Mr. Vice President.”

Jarvis didn’t say anything; his mind was already churning through the probable question-and-answer scenarios he would face in this melee with the press.

“I can see you’re already putting together your battle plan,” Warner said, grinning wide. “Good. Stick with military metaphors; it’s appropriate for a man with your pedigree. I want you to treat this press briefer like any other engagement, except instead of firing bullets, words are your ammunition.”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t,” Warner said. “That’s why I made you VP in the first place.”

Jarvis nodded and turned to Petra.

She took the nonverbal cue and said, “We don’t have much time. We need to get to work drafting your remarks and get updated on everything that’s happened in theater over the past six hours so we don’t get blindsided, so . . . unless there’s something else, Mr. President?”

“No, no, by all means, you are excused,” Warner said, then shot his own Chief of Staff a sly, knowing look.

Jarvis pressed to his feet, nodded at the President and his Chief of Staff and excused himself.

When he got to the door, Warner called after him. “Oh, one more thing, Kelso . . .”

“Sir?” he said, turning.

“Make sure you wear a tie.”

“Yes, sir,” Jarvis said, cursing in his mind. “Of course.”

Officially chided, he and Petra exited and headed back to his office. Once they were out of earshot, he turned to her and said, “Are you fucking kidding me—did that really just happen?”

“I’m afraid so,” she said.

Great, he thought. I’ve let the President turn me into what I’ve always despised most. The one thing I promised myself I would never become—a politician.

“What’s that expression you used to use at the Tier One all the time?” Petra asked, her heels clicking on the floor as they walked in step.

“Embrace the suck,” he said, shooting her a sideways glance.

“That’s the one,” she said and gave his arm a quick squeeze. “I think it’s time we embrace the suck.”