“The kids need clothes for the funeral,” Cathy said finally.
“Tell Andrea?”
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“Okay.
“Do you know when it’ll be?”
“I should find out today.”
“I’ll still be able to work, right?” With Price gone she could allow her concern to show.
Jack looked up. “Yes. Look, I’m going to try my best to keep us as normal as we can, and I know how important your work is. Matter of fact, I haven’t had much chance to tell you what I think of that prize you just bagged.” He smiled. “I’m damned proud of you, babe.”
Price came back in. “Dr. Ryan?” she said. And, of course, both heads turned. They could see it on her face. The most basic of issues hadn’t been discussed yet. Did they call her Doctor Ryan, Missus Ryan, or–
“Make it easier on everyone, okay? Call me Cathy.”
Price couldn’t do that, but she let it slide for the moment. “Until we figure things out, we’ll fly you there. The Marines have a helicopter on the way here.”
“Isn’t that expensive?” Cathy asked.
“Yes, it is, but we have to figure out procedures and things, and for the moment this is the easiest thing to do. Also”–a very large man came into the room–“this is Roy Altman. He’ll be your principal agent for a while.”
“Oh,” was all Cathy was able to say at the moment. Six feet three and 220 pounds of Roy Altman came into the room. He had thinning blond hair, pale skin, and a sheepish expression that made him seem embarrassed by his bulk. Like all Secret Service agents, his suit coat was cut a little big to help conceal his service automatic, and in his particular case hiding a machine gun would have been fairly easy. Altman came over to shake her hand, which he did with considerable delicacy.
“Ma’am, you know what my job is. I’ll try to keep as much out of the way as possible.” Two more people came into the room. Altman introduced them as the rest of her Detail for the day. All of them were temporary. They all had to get along with their principal, and that wasn’t all so easy to predict, even with amiable principals, as all the Ryans seemed thus far to be.
Cathy was tempted to ask if all this was really necessary, but she knew better. On the other hand, how would
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she shepherd this mob around the Maumenee Building? She traded a look with her husband, and reminded herself that they would not be in this unhappy predicament had she not agreed to Jack’s elevation to the vice presidency, which had lasted all of–what? Five minutes? Maybe not even that long. Just then came the roar of the Sikorsky Black Hawk helicopter, landing up the hill from the house and creating a mini-blizzard on what had once been the site of a small astronomical observatory. Her husband looked at his watch and realized that the Marines of VMH-1 were indeed operating off a short fuse. How long, he wondered, before the smothering attention drove them all mad?
I
“THIS SHOT IS live from the grounds of the Naval Observatory on Massachusetts Avenue,” the NBC reporter said, cued by the director. “That looks like one of the Marine helicopters. I suppose the President is going somewhere.” The camera zoomed in as the snow cloud settled down somewhat.
“An American Black Hawk, extensively modified,” the intelligence officer said. “See there? That’s a ‘Black Hole’ infrared suppression system to protect against ground-to-air missiles that track engine heat.”
“How effective?”
“Very, but not against laser-guided weapons,” he added. “Nor is it useful against guns.” No sooner had the aircraft’s main rotor stopped turning than a squad of Marines surrounded it. “I need a map of the area. Wherever that camera is, a mortar would also be effective. The same is true of the White House grounds, of course.” And anybody, they knew, could use a mortar, all the more so with the new laser-guided rounds first developed by the British and soon thereafter copied by the rest of the world. In a way it was the Americans who showed the way. It was their aphorism, after all: If you can see it, you can hit it. If you can hit it, you can kill it. And everyone inside of it, whatever “it” might be.
With that thought, a plan began to form. He checked his watch, which had a stop-watch function button, plac-
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ing his finger there and waiting. The TV director, six thousand miles away, had nothing better to do than keep on that long-lens camera. Presently, a large vehicle approached the helicopter, and four people got out. They walked right to the aircraft, whose crewman held the sliding door open.
“That’s Mrs. Ryan,” the commentator said. “She’s a surgeon at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore.”
“You suppose she’s flying to work?” the reporter asked.
“We’ll know in a minute.”
Which was about right. The intelligence officer pushed the watch button the moment the door closed. The rotor started turning a few seconds later, building power from the two turbine engines, and then the helicopter lifted off, nose-down as they all did, gaining altitude as it headed off, probably to the north. He checked his watch to see the elapsed time from door-close to liftoff. This aircraft had a military crew, and they would take pride in doing everything the same way every time. More than enough time for a mortar round to travel three times the necessary distance, he judged.
IT WAS HER first time in a helicopter. They had Cathy sit in the jump seat behind and between the two pilots. They didn’t tell her why. The Black Hawk’s rugged airframe was designed to absorb fully fourteen g’s in the event of a crash, and this seat was statistically the safest in the bird. The four-bladed rotor made for a smooth ride, and about the only objection she had to the experience was the cold. No one had yet designed a military aircraft with an efficient heating system. It would have been enjoyable but for the lingering embarrassment, and the fact that the Secret Service agents were scanning out the doors, obviously looking for some sort of danger or other. It was becoming clear that they could take the fun out of anything.
“I GUESS SHE’S commuting to work,” the reporter decided. The camera had tracked the VH-60 until it disappeared into the tree line. It was a rare moment of levity. All of the
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networks were doing the same thing they’d done after the assassination of John Kennedy. Every single regular show was off the air while the networks devoted every waking hour–twenty-four hours per day now, which had not been the case in 1963–to coverage of the disaster and its aftermath. What that really meant was a bonanza for the cable channels, as had been proven by tracking information through the various ratings services, but the networks had to be responsible, and doing this was responsible journalism.
“Well, she is a physician, isn’t she? It’s easy to forget that, despite the disaster that has overtaken our government, outside the Beltway, there are still people who do real work. Babies are being born. Life goes on,” the commentator observed pontifically, as was his job.
“And so does the country.” The reporter looked directly at the camera for the transition to commercial. He didn’t hear the voice from so far away.
“For now.”
THE KIDS WERE shepherded away by their bodyguards, and the real work of the day began. Arnie van Damm looked like hell. He was about to hit the wall, Jack decided; the combination of grueling work and grief was about to destroy the man. All well and good that the President should be spared as much as possible, Ryan knew, but not at the cost of wrecking the people upon whom he depended so much.
“Say your piece, Arnie, then disappear for a while and get some rest.”
“You know I can’t do that–”
“Andrea?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“When we’ve finished here, have somebody drive Arnie home. You will not allow him back in the House until four this afternoon.” Ryan shifted his gaze. “Arnie, you will not burn out on me. I need you too much.”
The chief of staff was too tired to show any gratitude. He handed over a folder. “Here are the plans for the funeral, day after tomorrow.”
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Ryan flipped open the folder, his demeanor deflated as suddenly as he had exercised another dollop of presidential authority.
Whoever had put the plan together had been clever and sensitive about it. Maybe somewhere there had been a contingency plan for this sort of thing, a question Ryan would never bring himself to ask, but whatever the truth was, someone had done well. Roger and Anne Durling would lie in state in the White House, since the Capitol Rotunda was not available, and for twenty-four hours people would be allowed to walk through, entering through the front, and exiting from the East Wing. The sadness of the event would be muted for the mourners by later exposure to the Americana and presidential portraits. The Durlings would be taken by hearse to National Cathedral the next morning, along with three members of the Congress, a Jew, a Protestant, and a Catholic, for the interdenominational memorial service. Ryan had two major speeches to give. The text of both was in the back of the folder.