by Jim Laughter
They spent the morning being fitted for their chauffeur uniforms which they would pick up from the tailor shop on Saturday. They were issued their White House credentials that included gate passes and limited lapel pins. The pins were color coded to indicate where they were allowed on the executive grounds, none of which included access to the main part of the mansion itself or anywhere near the President without Secret Service escorts.
After receiving their credentials, they were escorted to the barbershop where each of them received haircuts and manicures in line with proper White House dress code standards. Nothing was left to chance when it came to projecting the proper image of this President. Everything was geared to make him look good, right down to the shine on their shoes and the crease in their pants.
At noon they entered a small cafeteria called the White House Mess in the west basement where senior staff members eat during the week. The first thing Benjamin noticed was a detailed model of the USS Constitution and the 1790 gong from the ship hanging on the wall above a wood podium with the gold presidential seal.
Although decorated in handsome wood paneling, nautical trim, and ship paintings, the dining room wasn’t anything special. The largest of the three dining rooms looked like it would seat around fifty people at a dozen tables. To Cooper and Benjamin it looked very much like the mess hall at the FBI academy in Quantico, Virginia. Benjamin had read on a White House pamphlet that the mess hall was open to the public one weekend a month. It was part of the President’s commitment to opening the doors of the White House and truly making it the People’s House.
The agents sat at a linen-covered table in the corner and waited for a server to get to them. Benjamin had expected the dining room would be cafeteria style instead of ordering from a menu. At least they’d found a secluded table where they could discuss their mission and make any necessary plans.
“I have the sneaking suspicion finding out much is going to be more difficult than we thought,” Cooper said.
“They sure don’t leave much wiggle room, do they?”
“Wiggle room? You kidding? I’ve never seen tighter security, and that’s just in the damn garage. Can you imagine what it’s going to be like when we start snooping around the motorcade?”
“I think we’ll get a better idea this afternoon when we see the cars and take a test drive.”
“It’s gonna be like driving a damn tank,” Cooper said. “That damn car weighs twice what a normal stretch does.”
“I guess it’s not called The Beast for nothing.”
After lunch, the agents were taken to the main garage where the presidential limousines were cleaned and maintained.
The first person they saw standing next to one of the cars was Bob Toolie. Even beside the massive vehicle, Toolie looked huge, standing well over six and a half feet tall. He had a look on his face that said he really didn’t want to be there. He had better things to do than bring new drivers up to speed, especially since he didn’t expect either one of them to ever drive when the President was in the car.
There were other men for that job, specifically trained Secret Service agents. These two would only be in the way. But protocol was protocol and regulations were regulations, and right now the regulations said each car required alternate drivers in case anything were to disable the primary operator.
“You men getting settled?” he asked when they approached the vehicle.
“Yes sir,” they answered together.
“You get fitted for your uniforms?”
“Yes sir.”
“Had lunch?”
“Yes sir.”
“Haircuts look good and I see you’ve got your IDs and pins. Let me see your hands.”
The two agents held out their hands so Toolie could inspect their manicures. Benjamin felt like a grade-schooler holding out his hands to his teacher so she could inspect his fingernails after recess.
Toolie nodded. “Looks good.”
After inspecting their appearance, Toolie turned to the car. “This is The Beast,” he said, running a huge hand along the right front fender. “Most of the details of the car are classified for security reasons, and they don’t concern you anyhow. Anything you need to know, I’ll tell you.”
“Yes sir,” both men said at the same time which seemed to annoy Toolie.
“The Beast is secured at the Secret Service building,” Toolie said. “I had this one brought over here for the test drive. We’ll send it back later today.”
Benjamin didn’t like the direction this conversation was going.
After a moment, Toolie opened the back passenger door.
“These cars can seat seven people, including the President. The front seat will hold two and includes a console-mounted communications center. A glass partition divides front from back, which means the driver can’t see or speak to the President. Matter of fact, most of the time the driver doesn’t even know if he’s in the car or not.”
Benjamin and Cooper looked at the plush yet functional design of the passenger compartment.
“There are three rear-facing seats in the back with cushions that are able to fold over the partition,” Toolie continued. “The two rear seats are reserved for the President and another passenger and have the ability to recline individually with a folding desk between them.”
He pointed to a set of interior panels.
“These storage compartments contain communications equipment we call the Limousine Control Package and is operated by the White House Communications Agency. It’s a voice and data device that links the vehicle to the WHCA Roadrunner at the rear of the motorcade and allows command and control functions to be performed from the limo.”
“Looks secure enough,” Benjamin said.
“Damn right it’s secure,” Toolie said. “Each car is driven by a specially trained Secret Service agent. The President’s lead protective agent sits in the front passenger seat so he can operate the console communications equipment if needed.”
“So where do we sit when we’re not driving?” Cooper asked.
Toolie laughed.
“You two knot heads didn’t think you were going to be riding in the secure package, did you?”
According to the briefing they’d received at FBI headquarters that was exactly what they thought.
“Well, yes sir, we did.”
“There’s not one chance in hell you newbies are going to be in the same car as the President of the United States. As far as I’m concerned, you boys are dead weight and you’re here because somebody somewhere pushed through some bullshit paperwork without clearing it with me. So until I’m convinced that you’ve received all of the proper training, you’ll stay in the background and don’t get in the way.”
This is going to be more difficult than we figured, Benjamin thought.
Toolie pointed at a black Chevrolet Suburban across the garage.
“See that truck?”
“Yes sir,” Cooper answered.
“That’s the vehicle you two will be riding in.”
He laughed again.
“Unless a terrorist drops a nuclear bomb on this car and takes out the primary driver, which is about the only thing that could stop this vehicle, and you’re able to crawl from the truck to the car, chances are with exception to the test ride we’ll take this afternoon, neither one of you peckerwoods will ever sit behind the wheel of The Beast.”
Chapter Forty-One
The Boeing C-17 Globemaster III transport aircraft took off from Andrews Air Force Base at 4:30 a.m. eastern time on Monday. Only the pilot, co-pilot, and select senior staff members knew their destination, at least, that was what they believed. Cooper and Benjamin also knew but weren’t about to let anyone else know they were privy to the President’s itinerary. That was one sure fire way of ending their new careers as alternate motorcade drivers.
Benjamin was amazed at the gargantuan size of the aircraft. He’d learned it only required a crew of three—a pilot, copilot, and a loadmaster. I
t looked big on the outside with a length of 174 feet and a wingspan of 170 feet. But once they got inside, it was absolutely cavernous, stretching to infinity with a compartment 88 feet long and 18 feet wide by a little over 12 feet high. The floor was inset with rollers for palletized cargo that could be flipped to provide a flat surface suitable for vehicles and other rolling stock.
Although the C-17 isn’t designed with a designated passenger compartment, this particular aircraft had been reconfigured with a very comfortable seating arrangement for the motorcade crew and support personnel. Reclining passenger seating like those found in commercial passenger liners had been installed in a pressurized compartment near the front of the bay. There were no windows to look out of but Benjamin and Cooper found the seating comfortable enough. It wasn’t exactly the luxury of the Director’s jet like they’d had while investigating the Apostle Murders case but it would do.
They’d watched the Presidential limousines being loaded aboard Air Force One at Andrews Air Force Base, so they knew they wouldn’t be close to either car on their flight. Among the vehicles loaded aboard their transport was the MCCV communications Suburban and the motorcade ambulance. Benjamin was surprised to see a second C-17 being loaded with the remainder of the motorcade vehicles. He didn’t know why he’d only expected one plane but two made more sense to him now that he thought about it. They knew the President and his immediate entourage would fly to Andrews in his personal helicopter, Marine One, and would leave on Air Force One an hour or two after the C-17s lifted off.
Of the vehicles loaded onto their Globemaster, Benjamin wondered why a black Lincoln Town Car had also been included. He didn’t recall seeing any mention of a Town Car being part of the motorcade. Who, he wondered, would drive that car? Was it a specially equipped escape vehicle that could be deployed in case of emergency? Did it have some significance hidden from plain view, something the report given to them by Wheeling and Truck didn’t include? Why would a vehicle be included in the motorcade and not be listed in the official manifest? He mentioned the discrepancy to Cooper.
“Thing is,” Cooper said, “I saw that very same car parked in the west parking lot at the White House when we were leaving on the bus for Andrews.”
“You saw that car parked at the White House when we left?”
Cooper nodded.
“You sure?”
“Damn right I’m sure,” Cooper answered. “It was parked in that lot near the west entrance. I wonder how they got it to the base ahead of us?”
“Beats me,” Benjamin said.
He scratched an invisible itch on his chin. That was a good question. How did they get it to the base before they got there? It would have been one hell of a fast trip across town to beat the bus there.
I wonder who it belongs to?
The flight smoothed out after reaching a cruising altitude of 32,000 feet, and before long the passengers were allowed to get up and move around the cabin. There wasn’t much to do on the flight except read or sleep, and they’d learned there would not be an in-flight movie. This was a working trip, not a vacation.
Benjamin and Cooper looked around them at the myriad of personnel packed into the passenger compartment aboard the C-17. People of every description filled the seats, both men and women, each as diverse as the person sitting beside them. There were blacks and whites, Native Americans, Latinos, and people of Asian and Middle Eastern descent. They detected accents from around the world, not just the voices you’d associate with the United States. If America was indeed the great melting pot, this eclectic gathering of people was a prime example of it.
Among the voices echoing around the passenger cabin they recognized that of Jake, the black mechanic they’d met their first day in the garage. He huddled among a number of other black members of the motorcade and mechanic staff and seemed to be sharing a private joke among his peers.
After thirty minutes, the lights in the cabin dimmed and brightened several times. Benjamin looked around and saw the rest of the passengers returning to their seats or putting away their reading materials. He realized this was apparently a common signal that something was about to happen.
“Take your seats everyone,” a voice boomed over the din of people talking. “Hurry up, now. Take your seats.”
When everyone had settled down, Bob Toolie stood at the front of the passenger compartment and faced the back of the plane. Even as large as the compartment was, Toolie filled the space leading to the cockpit at the front of the airplane. He held up his hands, his enormous palms outward; the universal signal for everyone to shut up and pay attention.
The lights dimmed again and a hidden projector screen lowered from the ceiling.
No in-flight movie my ass, Cooper thought. They’ve got a projector and screen, so why not a movie?
No one else seemed to pay any particular attention to the projector screen. They were apparently all accustomed to whatever was fixing to take place. They’d all been on these trips before. He and Benjamin were the only newbies on the plane.
Toolie cleared his throat again in an effort to gain everyone’s attention before finally shouting for everyone to shut the hell up and sit down.
Morris, Benjamin thought. He knew Toolie reminded him of someone, and now he knew who it was—Morris. Dear God in heaven.
When everyone was quiet and paying attention, the projector came on and the presidential seal appeared on the screen.
“You department heads already know our destination is San Francisco,” Toolie began. “Our flight time is just under five hours assuming we can maintain 500 miles an hour. For you Navy pukes that’s around 435 knots.”
A smattering of laughter swept the compartment. Cooper couldn’t believe it. Did Toolie actually have a sense of humor?
“We left DC at approximately 4:30 a.m. which is 1:30 a.m. in San Francisco. If we stay on schedule, we should land in San Fran at approximately 6:30 a.m. local time.”
Everyone checked their watches and scribbled in notebooks that seemed to magically appear in their hands. Neither Cooper nor Benjamin had a notebook, nor had one been issued to them.
“Air Force One is about two hours behind us,” Toolie continued, “which gives us that amount of time to get our shit together before POTUS lands. So I don’t want to see anybody dragging his or her feet or you’ll feel my boot up your ass.”
The screen changed to show a map of San Francisco.
“We’ll land at San Francisco International this time instead of Travis Air Force Base in Fairfield like we usually do when we visit the west coast,” Toolie said. “Once the motorcade is assembled, we’ll exit the airport onto Highway 101 North and take the coast road into San Francisco proper.”
A red line appeared on the map and followed the highway northward.
“We’ll stay on the 101 until we reach Fell Oak where we’ll exit and turn west to Golden Gate Park. The President has a 9:30 a.m. speaking engagement at the Academy of Sciences.”
The red line followed the route outlined by Toolie.
“When he’s finished there, we’ll exit the park north via Park Presidio Boulevard and turn back east on Richmond to the University of San Francisco where the President has a meet and greet with the school faculty and select honor students.”
Again the red line followed the course.
Benjamin began to wonder what all of this had to do with the President’s visit to shore up the California economy. Cooper was just amazed that the government would expend this kind of manpower and money for what seemed to him a meaningless jaunt across the country.
Maybe the son of a bitch plans to play 18 holes at The Presidio Golf Club and just needs an excuse to get there.
“From the university, we’ll head northeast on Interstate 80 to Sacramento where the President is meeting from 10 am to 2 pm tomorrow with the governor and senior members of the state senate to talk about saving California from the economic disaster brought on by their dumb-ass governor.”
Another snicke
ring of laughter swept through the passenger compartment.
“We’ll stop at Travis Air Force Base at Fairfield to refuel and for lunch along the way,” Toolie continued. “The President is also planning to visit a unit deploying overseas, so we’ll be on base for a few hours. The planes will take off from San Francisco later today and wait for us at Sacramento International Airport. We’ll leave for home around 3 pm Wednesday. Any questions?”
Cooper raised his hand.
“Cooper?” Toolie said.
“So we’ll be spending Monday and Tuesday nights in Sacramento, not San Francisco. Is that right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What hotel are we staying at?”
Toolie didn’t like explaining himself to rookie drivers. Everyone else on the motorcade already knew what to expect. They’d receive their accommodation information when they reached their destination city.
“The President and his party will be staying at an undisclosed location that ain’t none of your damn business, Cooper,” Toolie said. “You, me, and everyone else will stay wherever the booking office arranged before we left DC. That is unless you require a 5-star resort and need us to call ahead for you.”
“No sir,” Cooper answered. “Just wondering.”
Benjamin and Cooper settled back in their seats to wait out the rest of the flight. This detail was getting more complicated every minute. Perhaps they’d be able to ferret out more information once they got checked in at their hotel and had time to mingle with the rest of the motorcade staff. One thing was for sure. They weren’t staying at the same hotel as the President, which meant unless the Jack the Ripper killer was a member of the immediate motorcade crew, they would not be in a position to catch him if he were to strike again on this trip.
Morris isn’t going to like this, Benjamin thought. He’s not going to like it one bit.
Chapter Forty-Two
The C-17 Globemaster III transport planes landed at San Francisco International Airport exactly two hours ahead of Air Force One. Cooper and Benjamin watched from the sideline while the Suburban and other essential vehicles were unloaded from the massive aircraft. It was just as well The Beast wasn’t on their plane. If Toolie’s word was true, neither of them would have been allowed near the limo anyway. Along with the support vehicles, an agent drove the mysterious black Lincoln Town Car off the plane and parked it in a hanger near the ambulance and black Suburban.
