“Hooah, sir,” I responded passively. And added a good-old-boys wink. While Hunter and I had never crossed careers in the military, I knew his reputation. He was known for riding a desk hard. The joke in Special Ops was that he had been awarded his Purple Heart for dropping a cassette of Saving Private Ryan on his big toe.

Like the man himself, his office was shipshape. He could have been in there for years rather than just a few days. His career was neatly framed and displayed on two walls, each photograph precisely the same few inches from those next to it or above and below. It took two entire walls to make the full impression, from West Point to a few doors down from the Oval Office, from Ronald Reagan to George Clooney. And just in case anyone doubted his toughness, eight large copper-jacketed projectiles were lined up in ascending order on the buffed mahogany cabinet behind his desk.

Hunter was generally considered Wrightman’s spine. The president was as firm as a feather in a nor’easter, bending with the winds. But the Hun fancied himself a tough Patton, who would force those winds to reconsider.

He settled into his desk chair, reminding me of Captain Kirk on the bridge of the Enterprise. Sunlight filtered through open blinds behind him, forcing me to squint. A power move. “This is impressive,” he’d begun, tapping his computer screen. “Captain Roland Stone.” Obviously he was looking at my military jacket. He nodded approvingly. “Yeah, yeah. Nice.” Glancing across the desk he added, “Your country’s proud of you, son.”

“Rollie,” I said, with an abundance of humility.

He smiled. “I know. Rollie Stone. The Rolling Stone.” He clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back into that nest. Body language for “We’re all guys here. Let’s just relax.” “I appreciate your coming by.”

I shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood.”

He tipped forward and clasped his mitts on his desk. “Let me be honest with you, Rollie.”

(Here’s my first tip to all you aspiring young journalists: Any politician who tells you he is about to be honest is not going to be honest.)

“That’ll be a nice change around here,” I responded.

A young aide entered carrying a silver tray. He laid a coaster bearing the Seal of the Vice President of the United States on the edge of the desk, then put a glass of ice water on it. He did the same thing for Hunter. I noted that he’d placed my glass just beyond my easy reach. Maybe he was just inconsiderate, but I thought more likely it was a subtle message. I’m sensitive that way.

The vice president picked up his glass and clearly enjoyed a long sip, then laid out the ground rules: “You understand this is off the record, but we have no objection to you discussing it with your colleagues. Here’s the thing, Cap … Rollie. You’ve already given more than most men to this country. We’re asking you for a little bit more.”