year, Carlson believed. The pressure of making decisions that affected billions of people every day—many of them negatively—hadn’t gotten to him yet. As he’d told Maddux, Dorn’s infatuation with the job would wear off around the first anniversary of taking that momentous oath on the Capitol steps on that blustery January day. At that point being president would turn into a grind, just like every desk job ultimately did.
Carlson always looked forward to that anniversary because dealing with a new president and his administration became infinitely easier. By that one-year mark the president no longer questioned the morality of what was going on in the shadows. By that time he fully appreciated knowing that there were people out there quietly killing the enemies because he’d come to realize how many people wanted to kill him and, bottom line, how vulnerable he was despite all of the Secret Service’s efforts. In fact, after that first anniversary, the president usually started wanting more of what Carlson delivered—much more.
That was the progression with the liberals. The conservatives were in it up to their eyeballs right out of the gate, even before they took the oath—especially the neocons. They were the easy ones to deal with.
Unfortunately, President Dorn was as far left on the political spectrum as any commander in chief of the United States could be. He was a tree-hugger from Vermont who thought the ACLU was the most important group ever founded; that the death penalty was a barbaric ritual that only lunatics could support; and that the founding fathers had made a huge error in judgment when they’d decided that everyone had the right to bear arms. David Dorn made Bill Clinton look like Ronald Reagan, and Ronald Reagan look like Joseph Stalin.
“Well,” Carlson said, “I’m sure we could get you off with a small fine and some community service if you did complain about something.”
The president laughed heartily. “You’re amazing, Roger.”
Dorn was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a full head of dark hair who radiated charisma as impressively as the core of a nuclear power plant radiated energy, and couldn’t have looked more presidential if he’d tried. In fact, Carlson thought of Dorn as the floor model. He just wished Dorn’s political views weren’t so severely left of left. He’d never cared about a president’s political affiliation before, but he was starting to with this one. He hadn’t fully dismissed Maddux’s words of caution.
“You’re in your seventies, right, Roger?”
“Seventy-three, Mr. President.”
“But you look fifty-three.”
That was crap, Carlson knew. His gray hair was thinning, he had deep creases at the corners of his mouth, crow’s-feet at the corners of both eyes, and he’d started to get those brown spots on his arms and legs. And though he didn’t really need the cane he used when he met with Maddux, he still hunched over when he walked because of a bad disk in his back that should have been operated on ten years ago—but there’d never been time. He looked like an older man because he
was
an older man.
Lately, he was feeling like one too. He was pragmatic, he always had been, and he knew his days of dealing with the constant pressure of running Red Cell Seven were numbered. It was almost time for him to be done with this crazy thing he’d been devoted to for over four decades. It was almost time to yield the awesome responsibility of this job to someone younger, and he knew exactly who that would be. There would be a quiet approval process, but it would be only a formality. He just needed to get President Dorn in line before he could turn over the reins to Shane Maddux and ride off into the sunset.
“And you act thirty-three,” the president continued, gesturing for Carlson to sit back down. “I hear people half your age can’t keep up with you.”
Carlson turned his head slightly to the side, as though he was deflecting the
Carlson always looked forward to that anniversary because dealing with a new president and his administration became infinitely easier. By that one-year mark the president no longer questioned the morality of what was going on in the shadows. By that time he fully appreciated knowing that there were people out there quietly killing the enemies because he’d come to realize how many people wanted to kill him and, bottom line, how vulnerable he was despite all of the Secret Service’s efforts. In fact, after that first anniversary, the president usually started wanting more of what Carlson delivered—much more.
That was the progression with the liberals. The conservatives were in it up to their eyeballs right out of the gate, even before they took the oath—especially the neocons. They were the easy ones to deal with.
Unfortunately, President Dorn was as far left on the political spectrum as any commander in chief of the United States could be. He was a tree-hugger from Vermont who thought the ACLU was the most important group ever founded; that the death penalty was a barbaric ritual that only lunatics could support; and that the founding fathers had made a huge error in judgment when they’d decided that everyone had the right to bear arms. David Dorn made Bill Clinton look like Ronald Reagan, and Ronald Reagan look like Joseph Stalin.
“Well,” Carlson said, “I’m sure we could get you off with a small fine and some community service if you did complain about something.”
The president laughed heartily. “You’re amazing, Roger.”
Dorn was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a full head of dark hair who radiated charisma as impressively as the core of a nuclear power plant radiated energy, and couldn’t have looked more presidential if he’d tried. In fact, Carlson thought of Dorn as the floor model. He just wished Dorn’s political views weren’t so severely left of left. He’d never cared about a president’s political affiliation before, but he was starting to with this one. He hadn’t fully dismissed Maddux’s words of caution.
“You’re in your seventies, right, Roger?”
“Seventy-three, Mr. President.”
“But you look fifty-three.”
That was crap, Carlson knew. His gray hair was thinning, he had deep creases at the corners of his mouth, crow’s-feet at the corners of both eyes, and he’d started to get those brown spots on his arms and legs. And though he didn’t really need the cane he used when he met with Maddux, he still hunched over when he walked because of a bad disk in his back that should have been operated on ten years ago—but there’d never been time. He looked like an older man because he
was
an older man.
Lately, he was feeling like one too. He was pragmatic, he always had been, and he knew his days of dealing with the constant pressure of running Red Cell Seven were numbered. It was almost time for him to be done with this crazy thing he’d been devoted to for over four decades. It was almost time to yield the awesome responsibility of this job to someone younger, and he knew exactly who that would be. There would be a quiet approval process, but it would be only a formality. He just needed to get President Dorn in line before he could turn over the reins to Shane Maddux and ride off into the sunset.
“And you act thirty-three,” the president continued, gesturing for Carlson to sit back down. “I hear people half your age can’t keep up with you.”
Carlson turned his head slightly to the side, as though he was deflecting the
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