Fallen Angel by Jeff Struecker

that once belonged to Admiral Nimitz occupied an area near the windows and looked over two padded yellow sofas and several other chairs. This was his working office. He, like VPs before him, had a set of ceremonial offices in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building near the West Wing. It was where he held interviews and meetings.
    He had no need to visit those offices. They would only sprinkle salt in his wounds. He loved his role in politics and his current job. Bacliff made no secret of his desire to be president. The Washington Post once called him an ambitious man with a heart. Power never tempted Bacliff. Power for him was a tool to be used to help others. Now he needed help.
    He rose from his executive chair and paced the deep pile, blue carpet, his hands clasped behind his back. Not one given to visible displays of nerves, he was surprised to notice the clenching and unclenching of his hands, hands moist in the palm.
    Around him were the trappings of power. A short walk down the hall and he could be in the Oval Office, consulting with one of the most powerful men on the planet. He could pick up the phone and summon generals and admirals into his presence. He could preside over the Senate or ring up almost any world leader, and they would feel obligated to take a call from America's second in command. A few days ago he took pride in all of this, satisfaction that he earned such luxuries and influence. That seemed a lifetime ago. Where once his mind was filled with global concerns and how best to represent his office, that of the president, and the American people, his thoughts were now riveted on his captured son.
    For the briefest moment, he envied "normal" parents; mothers and fathers who might know a son or daughter went missing while overseas but knew nothing more. Bacliff not only knew his son was missing in action, he knew he was captured. The intelligence agency sent a blizzard of paper his way.
    That would stop soon. The president promised to keep him in the loop, even letting him attend meetings in the Situation Room. It was a stretch of protocol, perhaps even illegal. President Huffington assured Bacliff that anyone trying to keep the VP—former VP—out would have a fistfight on their hands. Such statements were fine bravado but lacked teeth. What Huffington planned on, and what Bacliff hoped for, was time. It would take weeks for anyone to raise a big enough stink to force the president's hand.
    Not that such an objection was without merit. Technically, he became a private citizen the moment he resigned his office. His office would remain vacant until both houses of Congress confirmed Helen Brown as required by the Twenty-fifth Amendment. That would take a little time, but he had no doubt she would win approval easily. He would pull whatever strings and twist whatever arms necessary. Not that it mattered. He was already out.
    The desk phone sounded. He punched the speaker button. "Yes."
    "Your car is ready, Mr. Vice President."
    Shirley Potts, his longtime, long-suffering secretary hadn't been told yet. "Thank you, Shirley. Please have the staff come into my office. You too."
    There was a long pause. On more than one occasion, Bacliff would have raised his right hand and sworn the woman was psychic. "Yes, sir."
    Time to say good-bye.

    THE SECRET SERVICE DRIVER pulled the 2009 Cadillac—dubbed "Cadillac Two" because of its similarity to the president's limo and as a nod to the VP's airplane, Air Force Two—onto the grounds of the United States Naval Observatory and stopped at the front of a mansion built in 1893. The residence of the vice president looked as if it were built last year, not over a century before. The house at Number One Observatory Circle in northwestern Washington, D.C., served as home to vice presidents since the mid-1970s. It would be his home for a few more weeks, then, for security reasons, Helen Brown would move in.
    Was it possible he'd lose his son, his career, and his home in the