There was no hiding for the Secretary from the beams of scrutiny directed his way. The media had encamped in his neighborhood outside his mansion in Potomac, Maryland, lying in wait to glimpse the man of the hour. But they dared not tread on his grass. Even the drones were reprogrammed to keep a distance. Balkan wasn't one to tolerate trespassers.

At 0700 hours, a Humbird on autopilot descended onto the landing pad built at the edge of his mowed lawn, blasting out fine cuttings and debris. It alighted but stayed idle as Balkan emerged from his residence, giving the flashing encampments his back. Once the passenger was secured, on-board computers supercharged high-velocity nacelles adding lift as the whines drowned out the frantic shouts and questions.

It has begun, he told himself. Stick with the facts -- but the facts are damnable. He needed to strategize a response for the oversight committees who would surely rake him over the coals the next few days. For now, POTUS had first dibs.

The PAV carrying the Secretary hugged the Potomac on its flight-path toward the White House. As it whooshed over the crescent boardwalk of Washington Harbor, the craft popped up, banked left, and spiraled gently onto the rooftop VTOL platform of the Watergate building. His aide Lisbeth was topside waiting to join him in the craft.

The last hop was quick. Landing on the White House lawn where Marine One often did, Balkan and Lisbeth made their way through a gauntlet of security checks. Tours were banned in the White House, and electronics, including passive intra-corporeal techs and com-arrays. As one entered the inner core, dampening fields scrambled individual RFID signals.

Special Security stood along every corridor, looking smart and determined. For theatrics. Their left shoulders were adorned with the words 'Honorem, Officium, Dili' -- Duty, Honor, Vigilance. Black jackets over black trousers had replaced Marine Dress Blues. Detractors had labeled these replacements Black Praetorians loyal only to the PIP in Dallas-Austin.

The atrium led to a narrow corridor which funneled one visitor at a time, like a cattle walkway to a slaughterhouse. Guests would step into a fishbowl -- a floor-to-ceiling polycarbonate glass enclosure constructed to contain a blast equal to twenty sticks of TNT. While the subject was there, sensors scanned for sub-dermal explosives such as peroxide-cellulose compounds inserted in private places -- a pinch sewn under the love handles, for instance. This wasn't mere paranoia. Montana Freemen and other anarchists had made several recent attempts on the President's life, none of which made the news. The Bureau had found a few collaborators, handed them over to the Praetorians for deep scrubs which led to more arrests. Those caught were elsewhere now.

The fishbowl was ready for them.

Balkan in his immaculate suit led the way, stepping into the glass enclosure. Millimeter-wave scanners and EM radiation washed over him to seek non-metallic objects and compounds flagged by Homeland.

"Pursuant to Homeland Security Title Code 8-2-Zero, please assume the posture," a mechanical voice sounded as white lights inside the box intensified and grew hot. The microwave weapon hummed to full power, ready to nuke the bag of meat.

Balkan raised his arms and faced the scanners as a whine rose from a panel behind him. A beam shot into his retina searching for his unique blood vessel nexus. These elaborate measures were in response to the availability of morphing solutions used by infiltrators to change their facial structures.

"Biometrics verified. You are cleared for entry, Secretary Balkan."

Lisbeth followed without incident after he vacated the box.

The pair continued on toward the West Wing which housed the President's top personnel, including the Chief of Staff, Press Secretary, the president's assistants, counsel, and their subordinates. It also enclosed the Oval Office. During FDR's administration, the Oval Office had moved from the original location to the southeast corner of the block. Engineers added a second story over the Rose Garden. Roosevelt, afflicted with polio, was a private statesman. The redesign allowed him to slip between the main residence and the West Wing without being seen. The current President appreciated this feature more than any leader before him. Recent concerns had to do more with internal security than privacy.

The White House had gone through further transformations unknown to the public. There were fearful Jack-in-the-Boxes installed -- antipersonnel devices designed to thwart platoon-size infiltrations. The deeper into the mansion, the more concentrated they were. Weaponized lasers, microwave 'cookers', and floor and wall mines were some of the nasty surprises waiting for any unwanted visitors.

A red carpet led the two visitors to the desk of the President's Special Assistant, sitting opposite the Roosevelt Room. A tall gentle lady in her mid-sixties, refined, no one had a clue she was Annie Oakley with the Glock 9 hidden somewhere on her bodice. The lady never missed.

She bore a tight face, lips pursed into a nervous smile, indicating the President was in a foul mood this morning.

The Special Assistant rose from her desk, beckoning. "Secretary Balkan, he's ready for you."

Lisbeth hung back and found a seat in the hallway. She wasn't on the entry list.

The Assistant received her cue from her earpiece. She nodded for him to follow her. She pushed the door open and announced, "Mr. President, the Secretary . . ."

Intrusive camera drones were forbidden, but the Oval Office was not without monitoring. Naked eyeballs watched everything that transpired within. As he entered, Balkan could see another door shut ahead of him -- his arrival came at the tail end of a meeting with a TexPax delegation. He knew the President's morning schedule, that the 8 a.m. time slot involved governor regents sent by Chairmark Drexel. How severe the reprimands were, he would find out soon enough. Pain like water usually flowed downhill.

The door behind him closed without a sound.

The President gazed through the south-facing bow windows with his hands clasped behind his back. "I hope you had a good night, Victor . . . I didn't." POTUS turned to face Balkan, glaring at him longer than was comfortable.

He's in a rare state, Balkan sensed and steeled himself.

"We gave you unprecedented power with sweeping mandates over civilian and military alike. No one has more." The Presidential We unsettled him.

Balkan shifted his weight from one leg to another and cleared his throat. "I serve at your pleasure, Mr. President."

"You neglect the tick that bites your underside. You know what I'm referring to."

"No one could expect a leak like this."

"Well, that's the problem, isn't it? You didn't do your job, which is to anticipate."

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"We scrutinize data handling inside clean centers, we log every action, all recordings disseminated for analysis," Balkan explained. "Then they're wiped per protocol."

"Then you have a serious security issue," the President spoke, his voice flat which made it more ominous. "The breach likely happened within your process."

POTUS had not invited him to sit. The Secretary faced the oaken desk as if he were a truant before the principal. His gut soured.

"We're doing everything we can to find out, Mr. President. But I'm confident the breach couldn't have happened from our end."

"Oh? Breaches are made by insiders, from people who had access to sensitive systems. That would be my theory."

"Yes, sir. I could only guess someone copied the feeds before we downloaded them for analysis." Balkan's explanation quickened as he rushed to make a point.

"You mean to say infrastructure integrity is to blame? Is data that vulnerable, I would think not?"

"No, these feeds are on ultra-secure networks. They can't be hacked from the outside. I have to think any vulnerability might lie between the hand-offs."

The Chief shook his head. "Look, Victor, it's simple -- you either have foreign infiltrators or domestic traitors. Which is it?"

"We are investigating, Mr. President."

"I'm not feeling confident, Victor. We have a devastating security breach right under our noses with dire repercussions: a full delegation from Austin was here before you came in -- Drexel demands an intervention. TexPax has trillions invested down there . . . The Caracas government is barely holding on by their fingertips. The whole regime might collapse, they tell me." He paused for breath.

Balkan was silent, looking at the floor. The Secretary had sat in on daily intelligence briefings and had known the situation far better than his boss. Minute by minute reports had given him a dire assessment long before coming here -- a Bolivarian collapse would sever all fief ties to the Norteamericanos.

"Secretary Balkan, you assured me there would be no glitch in your operation," the President stammered, becoming irate, "I read reports from State just this morning -- our embassies in five countries are under siege, their compounds pelted with rocks. People are mad as hell. And here too, look outside."

"I saw coming in," Balkan said meekly.

POTUS clenched his jaw. "I'm getting demands to apologize by every two-bit prime minister from Greenland to Micronesia. The UN Security Council accuses us of" -- he counted with his fingers -- "a Geneva Treaty violation, unilateral aggression, and lying to our allies. Moscow and Beijing are rolling on the floor." His face reddened. "And did I mention the pressure coming from Dallas-Austin too?" The President stiffened with resentment. "I am the Commander-in-Chief. I don't answer to them -- not anymore."

"Yes, sir."

The Chief exhaled, struggling to calm. "I see only one plan of action now."

"Sir?"

"We dig in. We cannot admit involvement, do you understand? To do so, we lose everything."

"You are clear on this course of action, Mr. President?"

"You get a hold of the press and you tell them we had nothing to do with it, Victor. Circle the wagons and bring in the women and children. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Deny -- even to St. Peter's face, if you must. Lies that persist, in time, become indistinguishable from the truth. It has to stick no matter how shitty it sounds because the alternative is goddamn unacceptable."

Balkan nodded.

"The soul of this presidency is at stake."

A second humble nod from the rebuke.

"People can doctor anything, especially fake news. You make it happen. You clean up this mess. Because it's your mess." The Presidential Voice made it clear where the blame fell and whose head was on the block. "You have a press conference scheduled in an hour I believe?"

"I do, Mr. President."

"Then Godspeed. Find whoever leaked that video!"

"I'll put the torch on everyone with access, rest assured."

"Christ Almighty!" The President looked away, the relieved cue for Balkan to leave.

Balkan met up with Lisbeth after leaving the Oval Office.

She studied his demeanor. Seeing the grim mask on his face, she said, "Let me guess, it's Caracas-gate he's interested in."

"Not only him. The PIP has sent a delegation."

"Only a matter of time."

Balkan nodded. "The President has provided some talking points I need to go over with you before meeting the press."

"I'm all yours," Lisbeth said, stepping into the PAV's cabin.

Fifteen minutes later, the autonav computer set the craft down on the Pentagon Heliport. A security detail in gray-dot fatigues gathered to escort the occupants. Pentagon security kept the corridors cleared to the press room. Rows of chairs, each one occupied faced a blue curtained wall. Floodlight arrays ran along the low ceiling, spotlighting the lone podium behind which an oval plaque of the five-sided geometric icon hung.

It was standing room only.

At the appointed time, the side door opened. Balkan entered with purpose and took the dais. Lisbeth stood against a wall, holding her hand terminal. Needing to interpret public reactions and disseminate the proper response, her aural devices and Lens were tuned to social media. The drones massed high above the stage, focused down on his face.

"Good morning," Balkan began. The press corps greeted him with faces eager for answers yet ready to pounce on the man on the hill. "Last night, the world watched a series of tactical videos from the camera views of individual soldiers purported to be North Americans. You heard English being spoken. You have seen people being killed. The deceased were terrorist leaders of a Venezuelan extremist group, the Bolivar Liberation Army. These events happened a week ago."

The mass of reporters stirred as a few hands stretched for attention.

"But let me assure the people of one thing -- North Americans did not lead the operation in Caracas . . . Rather, Venezuelan Special Forces who have made enormous sacrifices against militancy and terrorism conducted the raid. The voices you heard speaking English came from embedded observers, who were there to collect intelligence. As to the disturbing scene most have seen, it was a North American observer Alexis Marlboro who tried to save the young female victim while the shooter was Venezuelan . . ." The reporters exploded with questions. Balkan was steadfast. "There are many things we do not know, many we wish we know, but one thing we know for sure -- there are no North American combat troops involved in the operation. Let me repeat -- there are no American troops involved, leading or executing combat operations on Venezuelan soil."

More voices and hands surged at him, desperate for answers.

Balkan shook his head at the hounds; he had more to say. "What the world saw was taken out of context. As usual, it was edited in such a manner as to incriminate the administration. The accusations are baseless. I want to reemphasize: our relationship with the Caracas government of President Gonzales will continue as before, with great respect toward its sovereignty. Toward that goal, we commit to the stability of our allies in the region until they stomp out their insurgency.

"The leaks are doctored evidence, nothing more than edited videos. They will not deter the President's commitment to the eradication of terrorism, peace with our neighbors, and stability in the world . . ."

Desperate voices clamored over each other until one beat out the rest: "Secretary, how do you answer charges leveled by Midland Regent Augustine, quote -- 'the video reinforces a longstanding concern about the illegal wars perpetrated by the White House to support corrupt regimes that had ties to PIP interests?' In fact, many paramountcy leaders believe this -- that you sent North American soldiers into Caracas for this purpose. Are you prepared to answer these charges?"

"I'm no way surprised by Regent Augustine's claim. She will use this opportunity to further her fief's transparent agenda, so I will not deign to discuss his charges. My Deputy Secretary, Mr. Hershey, will answer your questions."

Balkan shook hands with his replacement and exited fast, trailed by Lisbeth and a male aide. Behind him, pandemonium exploded. Black-uniformed Praetorians formed up in front and to the rear in an escort.

"So, what do you think?" Balkan directed the question at Lisbeth, keeping his voice low during their walk.

"Effective. No-nonsense, and you didn't make a fool out of yourself," she said with brazenness. "I give you a 7.5 for sticking the landing."

"That's barely passing."

"One error," Lisbeth said. "Did you have to bring up Marlboro? This wasn't one of our items."

"They'll find out who she is soon enough, so I wanted to get in front of the curve. We need a hero to deflect the shock."

"Now they've got a face," Lisbeth said, looking at the shiny floor tiles in front of her. "What if she says otherwise?"

"Let's wait 'til we're in the air, okay?"

The trio arrived at the LZ where a PAV waited. Before getting in, he said to his aide, "When was this craft last swept?"

"Every night, sir," the young man standing guard replied.

"I'm angry."

"I'll have it done again," the guard stammered.

"No, not you," Balkan said, shaking his head and turning to Lisbeth. "He forced me to eat a mouthful of hornets today. I'm being hung out to dry."

"What will you do?"

"The media hounds are searching for the scent. If they catch just a whiff . . ."

"They'll rip you to pieces," she said.