Chapter 4 - The Grand Ballroom Protocol
The banquet hall was arranged with ruthless Washington protocol.
The head table, elevated on a mahogany dais beneath the presidential seal, was reserved for the Cabinet, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and visiting foreign defense ministers.
I took my seat between General Vance and the Deputy Secretary of Defense, my place card bearing the gold-embossed seal of the United States.
Below the dais, dozens of round tables radiated outward like concentric rings of political and financial influence.
The closer your table sat to the presidential platform, the more power you wielded in the capital.
Arthur, Evelyn, and Trevor had been escorted to Table Forty-Two, situated near the service entrance in the far corner of the ballroom.
Even with a quarter-million-dollar donor package, Arthur’s seat was nowhere near the center of power.
From my elevated vantage point, I could see Arthur adjusting his collar, his face flushed with a mixture of rage, anxiety, and desperation.
Every few seconds, he would crane his neck, staring across the room toward the head table where I was casually conversing with the Secretary of the Navy.
Trevor sat beside him, nervously downing champagne flutes while Evelyn furiously typed messages on her phone.
"Madam Secretary," the Deputy Secretary leaned in toward me, holding a black leather briefing binder.
"The President will deliver his opening remarks shortly, followed by the presentation of the defense technology initiatives."
"We need your final sign-off on the Project Cerberus procurement recommendation before the press pool enters."
General Vance leaned back in his chair, swirling the water in his crystal glass.
"Mercer Defense Tech has spent three years lobbying Congress for this deployment," Vance remarked, his tone dripping with skepticism.
"Arthur Mercer has been boasting to the Wall Street Journal that his drone platform is foolproof and ready for immediate global deployment."
"What is your assessment, Kate?"
I placed my hand over the leather binder, feeling the weight of the classified technical reports contained within.
"Mercer Defense Tech lied, General," I said smoothly.
General Vance paused, his eyes narrowing.
"Lied?" the Deputy Secretary echoed, leaning in closer.
"Their navigational systems failed three consecutive stress tests in the electronic warfare simulation chambers at Aberdeen Proving Ground," I explained quietly.
"The drone loses GPS connectivity within forty seconds of encountering Russian or Chinese frequency-jamming protocols."
"When the link breaks, the autonomous targeting algorithms fail to discriminate between civilian structures and designated military targets."
The Deputy Secretary’s jaw tightened.
"Arthur Mercer signed a sworn certification claiming all Aberdeen trials passed with ninety-nine percent combat efficacy," he whispered.
"I know," I answered.
"He falsified the data."
"Trevor Mercer, who serves as their Chief Technology Officer, personally ordered the engineering team to bypass the safety fail-safes so they could hit their quarterly delivery deadlines."
"They wanted the government to hand them four point two billion dollars before anyone realized their drones were flying coffins."
General Vance shook his head, a dark scowl settling over his features.
"Arthur Mercer is gambling with the lives of our warfighters to inflate his stock price," Vance growled.
"He thought that by buying expensive tables at White House galas and taking congressmen to golf resorts, no one would look under the hood," I said calmly.
"He forgot that when you sell weapons to the United States military, those weapons end up in the hands of sons and daughters on the front line."
"And I will never let a defective weapon reach a single soldier."
Across the ballroom, the string quartet concluded their performance, and a soft chime rang through the hall.
The guests took their seats as the President of the United States entered the room, greeted by polite, measured applause.
Arthur leaned forward at Table Forty-Two, his knuckles white against the tablecloth.
He wasn't looking at the Commander-in-Chief.
He was looking at me, watching as the President stopped at the dais, smiled warmly, and shook my hand with genuine affection.
The socialites sitting at Table Forty-Two turned to Arthur, whispering among themselves.
"Arthur," a wealthy aerospace lobbyist at his table asked, leaning over the floral centerpiece.
"Isn't that your estranged daughter sitting at the right hand of the Secretary of Defense?"
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"The one you told everyone dropped out of high society to become a nobody?"
Arthur looked down at his plate, unable to speak, his face burning with a shame no amount of money could ever wash away.
