The sun hung high above their heads, anchored at the zenith like an unblinking, merciless eye. The sky was as clear as the conscience of a child who has not yet known the world, no cloud, no stain to offer shade to body or soul. It was one of those days when even the wind seemed forbidden to breathe without permission, warm, with air saturated by the previous night’s rain, lingering in the soil like a suppressed secret. Everything was wrapped in a heaviness that pressed down thoughts and lulled the will.

  The course, flawlessly mown, geometrically perfect, as if each blade of grass had been preselected and disciplined, resembled a diplomatic document more than a landscape. No weeds, no chaos. As though the particles of a chaotic world had been halted at the edge of this space. A bunker, a sandy patch beside the fairway, stood like a warning: the barren trace of substance in nature’s artificial order, a yellow scar on green skin.

  The golf course was part of the President’s estate, closed to the public but known in narrow circles. It appeared in no official guidebook, yet all who needed to know - knew.

  No one but a chosen few was allowed to step onto the course that day. The Secret Service, silent and precisely positioned like chess pieces, was embedded in the landscape, all the more eerie for being nearly invisible. Dogs trained to sense danger before it was born sniffed around the edges of the trees. There was something ruthless and inhuman in that quiet, like the hush in a courtroom before the gavel falls.

  Senator Gordon Longley stood a few paces behind the President, beside an electric golf cart balanced on a barely noticeable incline, as if unsure whether to roll forward or backward. The vehicle was white, pristine, with glossy metal details that reflected sunlight like mirrors into Gordon's face. Inside lay neatly arranged clubs, gloves, towels, spare gloves, and a small cooler from which faint condensate fog drifted whenever it was opened.

  Gordon pulled a can of soda from the cooler. The label, in bold letters, read “Mr. President”, another brand under the President’s corporate umbrella. The soda was disgusting, sickeningly sweet, non?alcoholic, trying too hard to be something it wasn’t. What he really wanted was beer. Cold, bitter beer with the tang of chips on the tongue and the scent of old leather and tobacco in the nostrils. But this was no time for indulgence. The can rested in his hand, wet from condensation, cold as an autumn wound in Fayetteville. His finger hovered over the tab. The slightest click could shatter the President’s concentration, up there, centered on his ball like a sniper on a target.

  Gordon waited. His finger waited. The ball waited. A droplet from the slick can traced down his thumb, chilly and clear, lifting a few hairs in its icy wake. His throat was dry, nearly painful, but not even the thought of a noisy gesture crossed his mind.

  The President stood bent, club poised, eyes locked, but the swing never came.

  They stood by the twelfth hole. At first glance, nothing remarkable, mid?length, gently doglegging left, with a wide sand trap guarding the approach to the green. But the twelfth hole had history. Though never mentioned publicly, never acknowledged on camera, among those who knew, and Gordon Longley was always among them, it was the memorial site of a quiet scandal.

  Just over two years ago, the President stood in the same pose, mid?swing, when a high?frequency whine cut through the calm, almost imperceptible, then exploding into alarm. A small grey drone with a camera emerged from the woods and sped toward him. The Secret Service reacted instantly, agents leapt, shielding him with their bodies, others raised rifles, tracking the toy through the heated air.

  There was no shot. The electronic protection, the complex bubble of technology around the President, triggered in time. The drone faltered, lost stability, and crashed a hundred meters into the bushes by the road. The EOD team arrived within minutes, dogs scavenging every shrub in spirals. Tension peaked. Then nothing. No explosives, no advanced tech, just a hand?flown children’s drone with a message taped to it:

  “” - with a tiny hand?drawn heart over the “i” instead of a dot.

  The message was immediately classified and locked in the deepest digital vaults. It never reached the media. It never officially existed. But Gordon knew. Always knew, whether through informal party channels over whiskey and cigars, or from half?forgotten members of the Intelligence Committee.

  Of course, before the President, he played a man who knew nothing, heard nothing, and, most importantly, would never ask anything. Discretion was currency. Gordon Longley was very wealthy in that economy.

  He stood calmly, sweat trickling down his back, collar sticking to skin. The collar chafed his neck. His thoughts escaped to air?conditioned rooms and ice?cold beer. A persistent fly, indifferent to rank and title, kept landing on his forehead. He dared not shoo it, especially not with the President in his line of sight.

  With every glance from the President, Gordon’s face lit with a practiced smile, approval, attention, admiration. After each swing came muted applause. His applause. Poltroonery, someone might say. Gordon would say: experience. This was not his first President. Nor his last, if all went well.

  He played carefully, not for victory. He didn’t want to win, he wanted to stay. To not be forgotten. He was good at golf. Not a champion, but steady. He’d played for decades, and he’d learned that sometimes you miss on purpose to be noticed. He measured each shot, sometimes missed theatrically, cursed himself softly, loud enough to be heard, subtle enough not to be understood.

  He only scored when the President had a large lead, just enough so the President didn’t suspect Gordon wasn’t trying. Just enough to seem useful rather than dangerous. It was a multilayered game. Like all matters of power.

  The President finally swung. The ball sailed down the slope, bounced once at the edge of the green, then curved around as if deciding whether to stop. He shrugged, flicked imaginary dust from his trouser leg, and turned.

  “My dear Senator,” he said, voice blending trust and cold calculation, “how are things at home? I hope nothing is rotten in the State of North Carolina?”

  His smile was thin but sharp. His eyes hidden under brimmed shadow. He tilted back his cap with one hand, shaded his gaze with the other, as if aiming not at a ball, but at the face opposite.

  Gordon replied instantly, not too fast, not overly confident, exactly as needed.

  “Everything is in perfect order, Mr. President,” he responded with measured warmth. "All is well. People breathe calmly… And most importantly, the convention is on schedule. Your arrival will be the icing on the cake. They’re already planning the banners.”

  The President stretched, brushed sand from his palm, and strolled toward the cart. Over his shoulder he looked back.

  “Ah, banners… I love them,” he said, as one who says things learned through habit. “They’re fantastic. What will they say? I assume, our names?”

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  “Only your name, of course,” said Gordon, tone casual though each word was carefully balanced.

  The President nodded, climbed into the driver’s seat of the open cart, hand on the wheel, but paused.

  “You’re too modest, Gordon. That won’t do. You’re the one most responsible for ‘Land of the Sky’s’ strong results.”

  His gaze locked on Gordon. No blink. No softening.

  “Your name should be the only one on those banners.”

  Gordon understood immediately. Nuances deeper than words. He did not hesitate.

  “Please, Mr. President,” he bowed slightly, “this isn’t modesty. I’m only realistic. None of us is anywhere near you when the results matter. My name will never appear while you are present.”

  The President thumped the empty passenger seat with his open palm. A brief dull sound, invitation or command.

  “Come on, Gordon,” he said, a smile forming only in one corner of his mouth.

  Gordon approached, gripped the metal roof frame, and slid into the seat beside the President. The motion was swift, nearly military, just as they were taught at the academy.

  The President turned toward Gordon, posture relaxed but eyes sharp beneath the cap’s brim. He draped an arm across the seat back, less a gesture of command than forward familiarity, yet still an assertion of presence.

  “What do you think, Gordon? Maybe that’s enough for today. I believe I’ve worked you hard enough.”

  He paused, adjusted the cap with index finger and thumb, then resumed with a lighter tone:

  “Though you’ll need stamina. What about when you're my age, if you can’t keep up with me now?”

  Gordon tipped his head slightly forward in mock submission and smiled, shrugging.

  “As you say, Mr. President.” The practiced fatigue wove into his tone. "As far as I’m concerned, I am more than exhausted.”

  He looked down, his hand still resting on the cool metal armrest. With the other, he wiped sweat from his brow, one who knows that the struggle isn’t in exhaustion, but in the conviction you leave behind.

  The electric motor whispered to life again, and the cart slid over the manicured grass, leaving two narrow tire tracks, and then silence. They continued over the gentle slope, shadows from tree canopies dancing across its white sheen like ink on parchment.

  In the distance emerged the main building of the President’s estate, a two?story structure with two symmetrical wings, strong yet unassuming, as if it knew its worth without needing to shout. Walls of dark red brick absorbed sunlight, appearing aged but not dilapidated. Each row of bricks was carefully laid, like notes in a symphony. Framed between them, thick dark wooden beams ran in vertical, horizontal, and diagonal lines, massive, rough, unvarnished. The wood wasn’t ornament; it was structure, and one could see it.

  The slate?dark shingle roof sloped gracefully, and large stone chimneys rose from each wing. Terraces with black wrought?iron railings stretched along the front like open arms. A flight of stone steps led up to massive front doors, their bronze handles shaped like eagles.

  Though built modestly, without pomp, the building carried something that could not be easily expressed, an authority that needed no proof. It was a house built for quiet decisions, for conversations that would never make transcripts, for those whose power was everyday, not metaphor.

  Staring straight ahead, as if he were genuinely watching the path before them, the President spoke:

  "You know why you were called, I assume?"

  Gordon remained silent for a few seconds. An old internal mechanism of caution stirred within him.

  What should I say? I suppose I know what this is about. Then again... who knows what's on his mind.

  "I'd rather not speculate, Mr. President," he said at last, calmly.

  The President shook his head and let out a soft huff through his nose.

  "Come on, don’t play coy. The budget, obviously. We’re not on the same wavelength, Gordon. You know what I promised during the campaign. Those funds you're pushing, they don't exist."

  Of course he knew. He knew every number, every calculation, every line of the report. But he also knew something else, money could always be borrowed. The world was awash in easy money.

  What’s he trying now? To be the one President who actually cares about spending? Ridiculous. Pointless.

  "You understand, of course," Gordon said in a calm tone, "that what I’m doing is protecting you."

  The President gave him a brief glance, expressionless.

  "Force does not pray to God," Gordon continued. "I see nothing wrong with bombs and missiles. The bigger, the better. After all, what kind of message are we sending? That we want peace?"

  He paused briefly, then concluded:

  "Hell no. We want them to be afraid of us. And fear, fear breeds respect."

  Gordon leaned forward slightly.

  "You may not see it now, but you’ll understand, this is for your own good. And, of course, for the good of the party."

  He paused again, then added with a modest smile:

  "Let me ask you something, who do you think is paying for our beautiful convention, with all the banners bearing your name? Bombs."

  At that moment, the vehicle pulled up in front of the building. The electric motor fell silent.

  "So we’re not going to find common ground," the President said, still looking straight ahead. "That’s what you're telling me?"

  Gordon responded immediately, his tone free of both remorse and defiance.

  "You know I have nothing but the utmost respect for you, Mr. President. But this is about my base. I'm not asking for this personally. Honestly, it makes no difference to me. But believe me, it's for our own good."

  He paused and smiled cheerfully, as if he had just wrapped up a light conversation about the weather.

  The President looked at him sideways. He said nothing. He just stared for a few seconds. Gordon’s smile slowly withered, then returned, a pale, rehearsed version of its former self.

  Without a word, the President stepped out, no goodbye, and walked toward the entrance.

  Gordon noticed immediate commotion as they neared: preparations in full swing. Technicians and staff moved like ants in an uprising. Someone called orders over speakers; others carried chairs, cables, tables draped in flag?colored cloth.

  At the entrance, a huge arch of balloons spanned the doors, hundreds of red balloons, all identical. Two young men stood on tall ladders on either side, fastening the plastic rails that held them.

  Gordon watched one of them. The ladders were very tall. The youth leaned too far trying to reach a dangling string atop the arch. Gordon felt a sudden flutter in his stomach.

  He's going to fall, he thought.

  At that moment, the President's voice cracked the air.

  “What is this now?”

  Gordon turned his head. The President stood beside the balloon arch, holding one balloon that stood starkly out of place. It was blue, the only blue balloon among hundreds of red.

  He pointed at it with his finger, brow furrowed, gaze locked under his cap’s shade. The two workers on the ladders looked down at him dumbfounded, as if they didn’t understand the question, or its implication.

  “What does this mean?” the President repeated, irritation creeping in as he spun the balloon in his hand.

  Gordon stepped forward, curious. The President tilted the balloon toward him: a silent question - ?

  Gordon looked.

  On the blue balloon, an intruder, misplaced, was printed the message:

  “Dumbo, why did you do this to me?