On Our Watch

143.

I am hustling through the streets of DC to make the 1000 meeting. The ambient vehicular drone an annoying audio artifact as I Bluetooth a quick preview of the tape. Grading the audio quality on a one to ten scale, one being inaudible and ten being pristine, I judge my capture quality at a solid five. The video will have to wait for a rush screening until after our emergency huddle-up. I feel confident that the content of the recordings will prove to be more important than the quality, and begin the quick change back to normal attire as I navigate the rental car one-handed towards The Hill. I have always found it exhilarating to drive with my knees while transitioning from one character to another, in this case from a rock star to a government agent. Inadvertently during this dangerous process I power up the car stereo, rings can be pesky, as Mick and Merry Clayton merge in apocalyptical mayhem:

Ohh see the fire is sweeping

Our very street today

Burns like a red-coal carpet

Mad bull lost its way. 

I park the car and take the stairs to the office, freshly remodeled after the break-in. As always it will take a minute or two to completely remove the ‘it’s just a kiss away’ caterwaul from my focus. 

In the small lobby Harlan is sitting with his briefcase on his lap scribbling notes onto a legal pad. He looks up and smiles, adjusts his earpiece and returns to his work. I glance at my watch and see the digital display roll to 1000 as Julie opens the main office door and invites us in. Harlan instantly ends his exchange, dumps the tools of his trade into the leather case and snaps the dual hinged locks shut with rehearsed choreography. I gesture for him to lead the way and follow into TOMs office. Passing the somewhat stoic Julie I offer as cheerful a “Good Morning” as I can combine in two part harmony with a cheesy smile.

TOM sits behind his desk, a somewhat understated, but very utilitarian, polished maple relic from another era. It could easily have been used by Churchill, Hoover or Jack Kennedy, the only visible upgrade being the pair of Apple computers on each side of the otherwise spartan desktop. To either side of the monitors rest a pair of phones each with a series of speed dial identifiers. An oil portrait of the Founding Fathers seated around their ‘almost’ completed Magnus opus adds to the staid atmosphere of the room. I cringe at the thought of Thomas Jefferson being the Keith Richards of his day. 

TOM stands, greets and asks us to sit with a sweeping gesture of his right hand. The chairs are designed for short term use only, formal to look upon but fatal for anything requiring a sit of more than thirty minutes in perfect posture. I immediately try to find a casual middle ground and end up feeling as if seated at attention. Pulling a notepad from my backpack helps.

“We are in a pinch, a situation in which I am sure you all recognize and appreciate the importance, nuance and danger of,” he dramatically begins. 

“The packets, which I understand were temporarily in the possession of parties other than the addressees,” he visually locks eyes with Julie, sitting immediately to his right, and myself, “hopefully have highlighted both the strategy and tactics necessary to successfully complete this delicate operation.”

I sit poker faced trying to read between the lines of his oratorial preface, aware that my packet contained only three words to that effect. 

“Furthermore, it is now the hottest topic on the Hill as the Senator has all but declared war on us. In the true style of their cherished political traditions, a smear campaign against the very group formulated to preserve their integrity and ability to effectively govern, please read the word ‘power’ into this, is effectively underway. This knife in the back propaganda against the understaffed and overworked team tasked with keeping the American people safe from the ill will of terror, foreign and domestic, is threatening our charter and the funding that guarantees it.” 

He pauses for a sip of water and I hear the clink of ice cubes augmenting the chilling topic. It's just a shot away. 

“In addition, I see this as a personal insult to each of us. Should we lose trust in each other, complete and unequivocal faith in our teammates and allegiance to our mission statement, the battle is lost and the mission has failed.”

He pauses for a beat and then stands moving slightly to his right allowing us to unobstructedly view the magnificent painting and says in a baritone of operatic intensity:

“For two hundred and forty-four years we have faithfully followed the wisdom, courage and ambition that these gentlemen crafted and authored as a blueprint of successful governance. Two hundred and forty-four,” he repeats for emphasis, “the termination of the ideals of democratic freedom represented in that document,” he points to the rolled parchment, “SHALL… NOT… END… ON OUR WATCH.”