CHAPTER 11
PULLED MY PHONE OUT of the back pocket of my jeans—sure, I was the FLOTUS now, and also sure we’d been in a high-powered meeting and all that jazz, but I’d chosen comfort over conformity today.
Took a look to see if I was going to be staring once again at unfamiliar digits. Thankfully, and surprisingly, the call wasn’t from an anonymous number. “Hey, Squeaky, what’s up?”
Squeaky was the nickname I’d given to Nancy Maurer during Operation Defection Election. She had a very squeaky voice I’d thought was faked when we’d first interacted. It wasn’t fake, and circumstances being what they were, we’d ended up saving her life and, ultimately, her son’s life, too, though he was now an in-control android. We’d also rescued her grandchildren from their mother, who had apparently willingly become an android herself. Due to all of this, Mrs. Maurer had ended up as my First Lady’s White House Social Secretary. Conventionality was not our watchword.
Hearing it was someone we knew who made sense to be calling me—versus the Standard Opening Gambit Call from one of our many crazed enemies—Jeff gave me a quick kiss on my cheek, indicated to Siler, Buchanan, and Wruck that he wanted them with him, then he and the other men headed back inside to presumably start sharing the wonder that was heading our way. I stepped away from the door just to be polite.
“Madam First Lady, I need you to come to your office as soon as possible.” I had my own staff and, unlike Walter, they accepted that I hated titles and only wanted them used when necessary, when giving clues to each other, or when tossing our weight around. Meaning something was up. Or I’d screwed up. Either option was likely.
“Why? Crap, have I forgotten a meeting or something?”
“No, not a scheduled meeting. You have . . . a package here. I believe you’ll want to open it as soon as possible.” And with that, she hung up.
Stared at my phone for a few long moments. “Huh.” Said to no one in particular. Shoved my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and contemplated what might be going on.
Formality indicated something was up. Sure, maybe someone had sent a present and Mrs. Maurer just felt I’d want to open it immediately. But if so, why be formal? Could be a bomb, but in which case, why be so calm? The phrase “not a scheduled meeting” sort of indicated that someone else might possibly be there with her, meaning the only answer I could come up with was that the “package” was a person and she was being formal to give me a warning of some kind.
Meaning whoever had dropped by, snuck in, gated over, or beamed in was most likely sitting with Mrs. Maurer right now, over at the East Wing of the White House Complex, aka where I was expected to hang out more of the time than I actually did.
The White House wasn’t inaccessible, but it was pretty darned secure. Though, as Walter had tactfully pointed out, when we’d first gotten here, Jeff and I—and most of our extended team of friends and family—had circumvented the security measures with ease and frequency.
However, White House tours were still suspended due to the various terrorist attacks we’d had during Operations Epidemic and Madhouse, and due to us thoughtfully pointing out all the weaknesses and such, security was running on Extra Crispy. Meaning no one should have been able to waltz onto the White House lawns, let alone into the East Wing entrance, up the stairs, and into my offices at the end of the long hallway without going through a variety of security personnel, starting with Walter and his Eye in the Sky technology.
Of course, Walter had been focused on our potential Outer Space Trespassers, versus the mundane Earthbound ones. But even so, the Secret Service was supposedly on the case, and we had other security measures in place as well, including the standard Snipers on the Roof Plan that quite a number of presidents before Jeff had been using with supposed excellent success.
Additionally, pretty much anyone who was able to just drop in without an appointment was already in the LSR or their various rooms or offices within the complex. Meaning that no one should be with Mrs. Maurer unless we’d been expecting and willing to receive them. And she’d just confirmed that the expectation had not been in place.
Contemplated my options. She’d sounded calm, but had gotten off the phone quickly. Wasn’t sure if this indicated she wanted me and the cavalry or didn’t want to give anything away in case someone was listening in on our phone call.
So, did I bother those in the LSR with this? Especially since this had the potential to really just be a package from some head of state somewhere trying to curry favor? Mrs. Maurer hadn’t sounded panicked. Didn’t mean there wasn’t an enemy in there with her somehow, but under the circumstances, decided not to disturb anyone in the meeting at this precise time.
Thanks to becoming enhanced due to the Surcenthumain Boost I’d gotten by carrying the mutated hybrid baby of a mutated A-C, I had all the A-C bells and whistles, which included hyperspeed and faster regeneration. Christopher had been working with me on my Super Skills since Jamie had been born, and I was finally good enough to avoid unintentionally slamming into walls at hyperspeed.
So, I kicked up the speed and zipped over to “my” side of the White House complex. Hyperspeed being what it was, I was out of the Residence section, through the East Wing, upstairs, and outside of my office in just a few shakes of an ocellar’s tail. I did a fast check to see who of my staff was in their offices.
None of my staff were where I expected them to be. I had Mrs. Maurer functioning as both my Social Secretary and the head of the Graphics and Calligraphy Office—the existence of and need for which I was still having trouble accepting as necessary in the modern age of the internet and social media—but she’d indicated she was in my office, so her not being in either her office or in the G&C, as I called it, wasn’t a surprise.
Because I wasn’t trying to win the Overstaffing Award, I also had Abner Schnekedy doing double duty—as both Chief Floral Designer and Chief Decorator. He had one office, but he wasn’t in it. While it was always possible that his wife, Lillian Culver—who’d wisely kept her maiden name for business, and who was the top lobbyist for the defense industry and, somehow, now a loyal ally—had requested Abner’s presence in the LSR, the likelihood was slim. Barring someone wanting input on the design of our War Division recruitment posters, Abner would have no necessary input into affairs of state.
Because I had a Chief of Staff, too, and because that job required diligent attention 24/7, Vance Beaumont’s office was right next to mine. Him not being in his office wasn’t a shocker, though—because of his position he was actually in the LSR, sitting in between Culver and his husband, Guy Gadoire, who was the head lobbyist for Big Tobacco and also, somehow, a droolingly loyal ally, emphasis on “drool” when he was kissing anyone’s hand, mine in particular.
I had no doubt that Vance was representing the FLOTUS Input in a far classier and on-point manner than I would have. Vance could enjoy the pomp and circumstance while I dealt with the weird, which was a wise division of labor as far as I was concerned.
My last main team member, however, was also nowhere on the floor. Colette Alexis was my Press Secretary and an A-C troubadour. Because we’d originally thought that I wouldn’t be making any kind of statement about the A-C flag situation, Colette had stayed in her office, working on the many things I was supposed to be making statements regarding.
So, either Abner, Colette, and all the sweet young things who’d scored interning duties in the East Wing were in my office with Mrs. Maurer, or she’d had them evacuate the area. Had no idea which option I should hope for, so instead decided to go for a move that might make Chuckie proud and listened at my door.
Heard absolutely nothing. No talking, no movement, no typing, nada. So, either no one was in here or everyone was doing their best to be silent. Or someone was causing them to be silent.
Because of how our luck rolled, I chose to bet on my surprise visitor insisting on or creating the overwhelming quiet. Also chose to not wait any longer. Presumably I was expected, and hyperspeed should mean that I could get out of the way fast.
So I opened the door to my office. And was instantly knocked down.