Chapter 1
Washington, D.C.
February 2045
A SIXTY-INCH WIDESCREEN television provided diversion in the reception area of the White House Oval Office. Super Bowl LXXIX unfolded in the form of a lopsided New Orleans victory. With the game essentially over as halftime approached, the room’s occupants paid only passing attention to the colorful cavalcade of colliding and racing figures, and for the most part wished they could be somewhere else.
A pair of dark-suited Secret Service lolled on a well-stuffed couch that oozed a rich leather smell every time one of them moved. Outside, the snow fall had ended. A cloudless, velvety sky presided over the uniform blanket of white, illuminated by a fingernail moon.
“Two-minute warning,” one of the receptionists announced. A long-shanked woman, the administrative supervisor, looked up from her desk. “Set up the president’s message traffic. She’ll want to review it quickly so she can get back to the game.”
“I don’t know why. The Browns don’t have the chances of a snowball in hell.” The speaker referred to the four touchdown Saints’ lead.
The supervisor shrugged. “Once an Ohioan, always an Ohioan, I guess.”
On the television, a line of young men dressed in black and gold filed off the field. From nowhere, someone shoved a microphone in the coach’s face to elicit the obligatory comments on how the game was going. In the middle of a testimonial to the valor of their opponent, a bulb lit on the receptionist’s desk top.
“She’s on the move.”
Soon, another pair of dark suits, the vanguard of the presidential entourage, entered. A conversation, moving with the group, preceded the president and chief of staff. In a burst of choppy strides, a stout woman, shaped like an Irish potato per her detractors, crossed the room. Lanky Chief of Staff, Dave Whitney, struggled not to outpace his stubby boss. Marjorie Ellis wore her trademark pantsuit, in this case a faded pea green. The president transited the reception area en route to the Oval Office, relieved the supervisor of the clipboard, and closed in on the sanctum. Conversation analyzing the first half action followed them like cologne on a gigolo.
They passed a portrait of George Washington, a collage of colonial era, martial colors splashed against the dark paneling. “I’m telling you Dave, Cleveland’s not out of it yet.” Shielded from presidential view, two guards rolled their eyes.
A Secret Service agent opened the Oval Office door and allowed his superiors to pass ahead before closing them in. A female Warrant Officer, carrying the nuclear weapons release codes took a seat in a prepositioned chair beside the door. With the president and Chief of Staff safely locked away, a sudden silence that took everyone by surprise filled the reception area.
The president held the sheaf of message traffic to one side like it might bite her. “Before I forget, make a note to tell that numbskull Bailey to start earning his Press Secretary salary and remind the media my last name is Ellis. My husband’s was Jordan.”
“You’ve been in the public eye for a long time under your husband’s name. It’s a hard habit to break.”
“They better get used to it. Kent’s been dead for almost two years. I’m on my own now. Tell Bailey he has my permission to pull the credentials of anyone who can’t get it right.” Narrow green eyes cut to the message board. “Anything I should know about here?”
“Your favorability rating can’t break thirty-five percent. The country’s still raw about the election.”
“They’ll calm down after we extend unemployment benefits another six months.”
“That’s a tall order. Feldman in the House has promised to fight you to the end on this. He’s really hot about your executive order admitting a quarter million more immigrants.”
Somebody had to clean the mansions and tend the gardens of her major donors, and work in their businesses at sub-minimum wage, but she’d never tell Eagle Scout Whitney that. Only the man waiting upstairs got that brand of candor. Instead, she said, “You worry too much.”
“Extending unemployment is just a temporary fix. We have to deliver on some of those campaign promises, and the clock is ticking.”
A crescent-shaped, closed-lipped smirk formed on Ellis’ round face. She surveyed her Harvard Law School, Rhodes Scholar Chief of Staff. “We have plenty of aces. Our friends in the media aren’t going anywhere. Homeland Security is loyal as a rescued puppy.” In a self-conscious move, Ellis pressed up against a double chin and returned to the message traffic.
“The Minority Rights Movement still shakes people down at every other stoplight in most cities. The police and the FBI think they’re pushing the country to the verge of a race or civil war.”
“You forget. The MRM helped put me in this dump.” She spread arms in reference to the White House. “I owe them a lot.” She paused to catch a breath. “Like my late husband used to say, every problem presents opportunity. The trick is to find ways of turning lemons into lemonade.” Ellis thumbed through the larger packet of messages. When she met Whitney’s gaze again, her eyes glazed in an expression of happier times. “And nobody was better than him.”
“Last of all, the American Women’s Advocacy renewed demands that you sign the Crimes Against Women bill.”
“What do they want? Kent and I shattered the glass ceiling in this country. Affirmative action and equality. Special protections. Fems got it all. Women hold sixty percent of college degrees. They dominate in just about all white-collar professions. Hillary Clinton would be proud, and the AWA still wants more. They’ll have to just wait.” A wall monitor displayed the halftime featured act, approaching the end of its routine. A riot of pyrotechnic colors filled the background. The time remaining until kick-off ticked down on a small insert inside the large screen. “Less than five minutes.” She picked up the Top Secret packet.
Whitney waited. Per routine, he’d previously screened the highly-classified traffic. He stood by, ready to clarify or provide amplification. The rustle of sheets being folded back became the only sound. Finally, Ellis said, “Intelligence on Ruskie Pacific war games, more a worry for the Chinese than for us.”
“Russia is always worth watching. They still have the second largest nuclear arsenal in the world and a corner on the paranoia.”
“More gobbledygook about the installation in Antarctica our satellites found. If this is all, I think we can get back to the game.” The president spun her chair and paused to inspect the moonlit snow drifts on the South Lawn, still as a Currier and Ives etching.
“I guess Admiral Byrd was right after all.”
Ellis turned from the outdoor vista. Watery, green eyes probed Whitney. “What do you mean?”
“During the nineteen thirties, the Nazis showed a ton of interest in Antarctica. The admiral thought they’d built a secret base there. After World War Two, he convinced the Navy to give him a small task force to solve the mystery. They didn’t find anything and wrote the whole thing off as rumor, but apparently, the Nazi project was on the level.”
“Big deal. The place is frozen solid, dead as last Thanksgiving’s turkey.”
“Not quite.” Whitney re-presented the clipboard. “Did you read paragraph six?”
As if dispelling a foul odor, the president waved him off. “Can it wait? Halftime’s almost over.”
“I think you should see this now.”
Ellis knew better than to disregard Whitney’s recommendations. Though new to politics, his instincts and judgement had no equal. More important, he along with Press Secretary Chris Bailey added a brush stroke of integrity to the administration family portrait, according to her administration’s arch enemy, FOX News. “All right.” With a show of petulant overbite, the expression that occasionally got her in trouble when cornered at a press conference, she took the clipboard. Disbelief soon followed. “How’s this possible? It’s been almost a hundred years.”
“The McMurdo crew has no explanation.”
Ellis reread the report. After the second pass, she recognized she’d found the distraction to buy the time she needed for the companion upstairs and to a lesser extent Dave to do what was needed. Best of all, nobody would get hurt. Then, after the dust settled, the MRM could return to the street corners and the donors would keep their cheap labor, while Homeland Security worried the police and military back into their respective cages.
For Whitney’s benefit, Ellis pretended interest devoid of politics. “This is incredible. We must do our best to preserve the discovery.”
“I’ll notify McMurdo.”
“No, this is too important for the locals to fool with. Don’t we have a high-powered cryogenic facility down in Orlando? The one doing research for the deep space program?”
“I believe so.”
Unable to resist, she allowed herself a minor gloat. “See Dave, something always comes up.” The president stood. “Get the Sec-Def on the line. Tell him to get the discovery to Orlando.”
“The only asset in the area is the Southern Battlegroup.”
“If that’s what it takes, so be it. I’ve got a game to finish.”
The pair exited the oval office. Pausing before the set in the reception area, the president’s eyes made a quick sweep over the football game. Two rows of helmeted men raced toward each other and Destiny. Whitney paused to give direction to the administrative supervisor. “Mildred, please get Secretary Kenny on the line for the president.”
By then, the Chief Executive, followed by a bevy of secret service agents, was well on her way to the comforts of the private spaces on the upper floors. From half way up the staircase, she modified the Chief of Staff’s directive. “Not until after the game, Dave.”
A SIXTY-INCH WIDESCREEN television provided diversion in the reception area of the White House Oval Office. Super Bowl LXXIX unfolded in the form of a lopsided New Orleans victory. With the game essentially over as halftime approached, the room’s occupants paid only passing attention to the colorful cavalcade of colliding and racing figures, and for the most part wished they could be somewhere else.
A pair of dark-suited Secret Service lolled on a well-stuffed couch that oozed a rich leather smell every time one of them moved. Outside, the snow fall had ended. A cloudless, velvety sky presided over the uniform blanket of white, illuminated by a fingernail moon.
“Two-minute warning,” one of the receptionists announced. A long-shanked woman, the administrative supervisor, looked up from her desk. “Set up the president’s message traffic. She’ll want to review it quickly so she can get back to the game.”
“I don’t know why. The Browns don’t have the chances of a snowball in hell.” The speaker referred to the four touchdown Saints’ lead.
The supervisor shrugged. “Once an Ohioan, always an Ohioan, I guess.”
On the television, a line of young men dressed in black and gold filed off the field. From nowhere, someone shoved a microphone in the coach’s face to elicit the obligatory comments on how the game was going. In the middle of a testimonial to the valor of their opponent, a bulb lit on the receptionist’s desk top.
“She’s on the move.”
Soon, another pair of dark suits, the vanguard of the presidential entourage, entered. A conversation, moving with the group, preceded the president and chief of staff. In a burst of choppy strides, a stout woman, shaped like an Irish potato per her detractors, crossed the room. Lanky Chief of Staff, Dave Whitney, struggled not to outpace his stubby boss. Marjorie Ellis wore her trademark pantsuit, in this case a faded pea green. The president transited the reception area en route to the Oval Office, relieved the supervisor of the clipboard, and closed in on the sanctum. Conversation analyzing the first half action followed them like cologne on a gigolo.
They passed a portrait of George Washington, a collage of colonial era, martial colors splashed against the dark paneling. “I’m telling you Dave, Cleveland’s not out of it yet.” Shielded from presidential view, two guards rolled their eyes.
A Secret Service agent opened the Oval Office door and allowed his superiors to pass ahead before closing them in. A female Warrant Officer, carrying the nuclear weapons release codes took a seat in a prepositioned chair beside the door. With the president and Chief of Staff safely locked away, a sudden silence that took everyone by surprise filled the reception area.
The president held the sheaf of message traffic to one side like it might bite her. “Before I forget, make a note to tell that numbskull Bailey to start earning his Press Secretary salary and remind the media my last name is Ellis. My husband’s was Jordan.”
“You’ve been in the public eye for a long time under your husband’s name. It’s a hard habit to break.”
“They better get used to it. Kent’s been dead for almost two years. I’m on my own now. Tell Bailey he has my permission to pull the credentials of anyone who can’t get it right.” Narrow green eyes cut to the message board. “Anything I should know about here?”
“Your favorability rating can’t break thirty-five percent. The country’s still raw about the election.”
“They’ll calm down after we extend unemployment benefits another six months.”
“That’s a tall order. Feldman in the House has promised to fight you to the end on this. He’s really hot about your executive order admitting a quarter million more immigrants.”
Somebody had to clean the mansions and tend the gardens of her major donors, and work in their businesses at sub-minimum wage, but she’d never tell Eagle Scout Whitney that. Only the man waiting upstairs got that brand of candor. Instead, she said, “You worry too much.”
“Extending unemployment is just a temporary fix. We have to deliver on some of those campaign promises, and the clock is ticking.”
A crescent-shaped, closed-lipped smirk formed on Ellis’ round face. She surveyed her Harvard Law School, Rhodes Scholar Chief of Staff. “We have plenty of aces. Our friends in the media aren’t going anywhere. Homeland Security is loyal as a rescued puppy.” In a self-conscious move, Ellis pressed up against a double chin and returned to the message traffic.
“The Minority Rights Movement still shakes people down at every other stoplight in most cities. The police and the FBI think they’re pushing the country to the verge of a race or civil war.”
“You forget. The MRM helped put me in this dump.” She spread arms in reference to the White House. “I owe them a lot.” She paused to catch a breath. “Like my late husband used to say, every problem presents opportunity. The trick is to find ways of turning lemons into lemonade.” Ellis thumbed through the larger packet of messages. When she met Whitney’s gaze again, her eyes glazed in an expression of happier times. “And nobody was better than him.”
“Last of all, the American Women’s Advocacy renewed demands that you sign the Crimes Against Women bill.”
“What do they want? Kent and I shattered the glass ceiling in this country. Affirmative action and equality. Special protections. Fems got it all. Women hold sixty percent of college degrees. They dominate in just about all white-collar professions. Hillary Clinton would be proud, and the AWA still wants more. They’ll have to just wait.” A wall monitor displayed the halftime featured act, approaching the end of its routine. A riot of pyrotechnic colors filled the background. The time remaining until kick-off ticked down on a small insert inside the large screen. “Less than five minutes.” She picked up the Top Secret packet.
Whitney waited. Per routine, he’d previously screened the highly-classified traffic. He stood by, ready to clarify or provide amplification. The rustle of sheets being folded back became the only sound. Finally, Ellis said, “Intelligence on Ruskie Pacific war games, more a worry for the Chinese than for us.”
“Russia is always worth watching. They still have the second largest nuclear arsenal in the world and a corner on the paranoia.”
“More gobbledygook about the installation in Antarctica our satellites found. If this is all, I think we can get back to the game.” The president spun her chair and paused to inspect the moonlit snow drifts on the South Lawn, still as a Currier and Ives etching.
“I guess Admiral Byrd was right after all.”
Ellis turned from the outdoor vista. Watery, green eyes probed Whitney. “What do you mean?”
“During the nineteen thirties, the Nazis showed a ton of interest in Antarctica. The admiral thought they’d built a secret base there. After World War Two, he convinced the Navy to give him a small task force to solve the mystery. They didn’t find anything and wrote the whole thing off as rumor, but apparently, the Nazi project was on the level.”
“Big deal. The place is frozen solid, dead as last Thanksgiving’s turkey.”
“Not quite.” Whitney re-presented the clipboard. “Did you read paragraph six?”
As if dispelling a foul odor, the president waved him off. “Can it wait? Halftime’s almost over.”
“I think you should see this now.”
Ellis knew better than to disregard Whitney’s recommendations. Though new to politics, his instincts and judgement had no equal. More important, he along with Press Secretary Chris Bailey added a brush stroke of integrity to the administration family portrait, according to her administration’s arch enemy, FOX News. “All right.” With a show of petulant overbite, the expression that occasionally got her in trouble when cornered at a press conference, she took the clipboard. Disbelief soon followed. “How’s this possible? It’s been almost a hundred years.”
“The McMurdo crew has no explanation.”
Ellis reread the report. After the second pass, she recognized she’d found the distraction to buy the time she needed for the companion upstairs and to a lesser extent Dave to do what was needed. Best of all, nobody would get hurt. Then, after the dust settled, the MRM could return to the street corners and the donors would keep their cheap labor, while Homeland Security worried the police and military back into their respective cages.
For Whitney’s benefit, Ellis pretended interest devoid of politics. “This is incredible. We must do our best to preserve the discovery.”
“I’ll notify McMurdo.”
“No, this is too important for the locals to fool with. Don’t we have a high-powered cryogenic facility down in Orlando? The one doing research for the deep space program?”
“I believe so.”
Unable to resist, she allowed herself a minor gloat. “See Dave, something always comes up.” The president stood. “Get the Sec-Def on the line. Tell him to get the discovery to Orlando.”
“The only asset in the area is the Southern Battlegroup.”
“If that’s what it takes, so be it. I’ve got a game to finish.”
The pair exited the oval office. Pausing before the set in the reception area, the president’s eyes made a quick sweep over the football game. Two rows of helmeted men raced toward each other and Destiny. Whitney paused to give direction to the administrative supervisor. “Mildred, please get Secretary Kenny on the line for the president.”
By then, the Chief Executive, followed by a bevy of secret service agents, was well on her way to the comforts of the private spaces on the upper floors. From half way up the staircase, she modified the Chief of Staff’s directive. “Not until after the game, Dave.”
© 2014-2021. All rights reserved and no exceptions. All personal works on this site are the exclusive property of I Heart Book Publishing, LLC. Work may not be transmitted via the internet, nor reproduced in any other way, without prior written consent.
