One of Charlotte’s gifts was the art of extreme compartmentalization. After the ride from the White House to Andrews that night, she’d contemplated Dale Smith from an objective perspective and decided that she was a good fit for Peter. Charlotte could see how he’d have been attracted to her. She wasn’t self-important like so many of the other White House reporters, and she seemed smart.
Charlotte stretched her arms above her head and looked around her cabin on Air Force One. She’d logged a lot of hours on the plane, and it was one of the only places where she felt protected from the mounting threats to her political and personal well-being.
Charlotte appreciated that Dale had done her homework on Afghanistan. She knew about the setbacks the Afghans had experienced over the years in taking on the Taliban and dealing with Pakistan. In another part of her mind, Charlotte hated Dale for having the energy and the time to give her husband the things he needed and obviously wanted, but she pushed those feelings aside. Melanie had arranged for Charlotte to do a sit-down interview with Dale to be shared with all of the television networks. Charlotte had made a mental list of the points she wanted to make to help the generals get the funding they needed from Congress for more training and equipment.
She’d just kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the couch when Roger entered her cabin—without knocking, as usual.
“What will you do the day you barge in here and I’m half-naked?” she scolded.
“Do I have to answer that, or can I take the Fifth?” he said, grinning.
She made a place for him on the couch and handed him the plate of cookies that her personal steward had placed in her cabin. He took two.
“I know it didn’t go over well at home, but I wouldn’t have wanted to do this trip without you,” Charlotte said.
“And I wouldn’t have wanted to miss it,” he said, brushing cookie crumbs from his sweater. “What was Melanie so worked up about before we left?”
“I’m not sure. I bet she’s getting heat from some of her press contacts. I feel bad for her—for all of them, really. They think that if they come up with the right message or policy or line of attack, they can turn things around and get my numbers up. But it’s not that easy. Sometimes circumstances dictate an outcome that you can’t escape, you know?”
“If the voters are stupid enough to vote for Fat Frankie, then fuck them. Let them have her. She’d fuck things up so royally she’d be impeached in six months. Stupid cow,” he said, shaking his head in disgust.
Frankie was Senator Fran Frankel, Charlotte’s likely opponent in the November election. She was a former Miss Texas who, at fifty-two, was more than twice the size she’d been in her beauty pageant days. Roger and Melanie had given her the nickname “Fat Frankie” to make Charlotte smile. It worked.
“Can you imagine her over here?” Charlotte smirked.
“No, and neither will the voters once they sit down and think about it. Just be patient,” Roger said.
“I’ve got nothing but time,” Charlotte said, smiling and stretching out her legs so her feet touched Roger.
Roger took her feet into his lap and leaned back. “We should get some rest,” he said.
Charlotte closed her eyes and fell asleep.
The crew woke her up an hour before landing for a final briefing in the conference room on Air Force One.
“Madam President, there’s a lot of fighting around the U.S. bases and the polling stations we were planning to visit, so we’re going to cut two or three of the stops from the itinerary,” said Albert Dawson, her deputy national security advisor.
“Doesn’t that send the wrong signal? If the polling station is too dangerous for me to visit, how do we make the case that the Afghan people should feel safe to exercise their right to vote?” Charlotte asked.
“The truth is that in parts of the country, it actually isn’t safe, Madam President,” said the intelligence briefer who traveled with her.
“You guys really think we need to scrap that much of the trip?” Charlotte complained. “I hate to do that.”
“It’s the only way to be in the country without taking unnecessary risks,” Albert said.
“Bullshit,” Roger said, looking up from the intelligence report. “The fighting is unchanged from two days ago, two weeks ago, and two months ago, and if the president was going to fly to Afghanistan to spend her whole time in heavily fortified bases, I would have told her not to waste her time. This trip is about being on the ground for their first real election—the first one that isn’t tainted by corruption or intimidation. She needs to be seen moving all around the country if the people are ever going to trust us.”
“Roger, we understand the objectives for the trip, and we did the advance work for all of the stops you specified, but we’re getting intelligence that suggests a real uptick in chatter and activity since we left Washington,” warned the CIA briefer.
“Can I see some of the actual intelligence reporting?” Charlotte asked.
“Of course, Madam President,” he said, handing her photos of insurgents running up to the perimeter of a U.S. base near Kandahar.
“All of the insurgents were taken out, but two U.S. soldiers were hit in this attack. One died last night in surgery.”
“Roger, this is pretty daunting. They don’t even pretend to be afraid of us anymore,” Charlotte said.
“And they never will be if we land in the country and never see any of it,” Roger said, pounding his fist on the desk for effect.
Charlotte was quiet.
“Madam President, the final decision is yours. Your national security team is divided on this, obviously, and the Secret Service agrees with me that the risks outweigh the benefits, but the final decision is yours,” Albert said.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Charlotte said. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”
“Yes, ma’am.” They filed out of the conference room.
“Roger, it seems like a silly risk to take. Why don’t we visit the troops and make one other stop to rub shoulders with some locals and then get out so we don’t give the rest of the team a heart attack?” Charlotte suggested.
“Because, Charlotte, this is exactly what the enemy wants. They want to create a climate that is so unstable, unpredictable, and inhospitable that nothing ever really changes,” Roger argued.
“But the rest of the national security team understands our objectives. They want the same things. And we’ve been here half a dozen times. I’ve never seen our guys this rattled, Roger.” Charlotte frowned.
“Charlotte, you have to go with your gut, but mine says that we execute the itinerary as we planned it. You’re protected by the best military in the world. Nothing is going to happen to you.”
Charlotte looked at the photos of the attack from the day before. She made a note to call the families and then looked up. Roger was watching her.
“Send the guys back in here, will you?” she asked.
They landed quickly in the usual corkscrew. Charlotte liked to watch the landing from the cockpit. They got off Air Force One minutes before sunrise. Charlotte looked around and was amazed, as always, by how green everything was. In the early morning light, it looked almost beautiful.
She proceeded to Marine One to make her first stop at a polling station. The stop was designed to congratulate the Afghans on their first truly free and fair elections. It had taken years to rid the country of its corrupt leaders, but Charlotte was confident that either one of the two leading candidates for president would be the best partner America had had to work with since the original invasion years earlier.
The next stop was a meeting with local leaders, which went better than expected. Charlotte was feeling good. She was glad she hadn’t abbreviated the schedule. She had involved herself in planning every meeting on her schedule, and these interactions informed her thinking on the overall strategy. Achieving stability in Afghanistan was proving far more difficult than their work in Iraq had been. She relied on her trips to th
e region to fill out the pictures painted by her various military and diplomatic advisors, as well as the allies that were still working alongside U.S. troops in the region.
From the meeting with local leaders, they traveled to the first of two bases they’d visit to thank U.S. and coalition troops. She gave a rousing speech to the troops and moved to a separate part of the base for her sit-down interview with Dale. She was feeling so good she allowed Dale’s ten-minute interview to go long. She knew that Dale had been affected by what she’d seen so far that day. Charlotte had seen enough reporters make their maiden voyages to the front lines. They either loved it or were too scared to really see it. She could tell that Dale loved it. She’d seen her face when she interviewed the troops, she’d seen her nodding when they spoke about staying until the job was complete, and she could tell that Dale was touched by the soldiers who spoke movingly about their fallen comrades and their loved ones at home. After the interview, Charlotte posed for pictures with Dale’s crew. She was heading to where Roger was huddled with officials from the base when she heard the first shots. Suddenly, her Secret Service agents were at her side.
“Let’s go, Madam President,” they said, surrounding her and half running, half dragging her toward Marine One. They shoved her onto the Blackhawk helicopter like a sack of potatoes.
The agents were still climbing in when Roger started shouting at the pilot to get the helicopter into the air. But Marine One didn’t go anywhere at first.
The propeller was struggling to rotate in the dust that surrounded them. Two of Charlotte’s agents were on top of her to protect her.
“What the fuck is happening?” Roger shouted.
“We had some dust in the prop, but it’s clear now. We’re on our way, sir,” the pilot said as Marine One lifted into the air.
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
After about ten seconds, Roger started screaming at the pilot again. “Put it down! Put the helicopter down on the ground now!”
“I can’t do that, sir,” the pilot said, climbing higher.
“Land this fucking helicopter now!” Roger shouted. “That is an order.”
“The helicopter is fine, sir. It was just dust in the prop,” the pilot protested.
“I said land it!” Roger roared.
“Yes, sir,” the pilot said.
The helicopter returned to the ground. Roger stood up and jumped out of Marine One.
“Roger, what are you doing?” Charlotte screamed.
“Marine One isn’t working properly, Charlotte,” Roger said.
“Put the president on the other helicopter!” Roger barked at the agents.
They hoisted Charlotte off Marine One and started running toward the next helicopter.
“Who rode over in this helicopter?” Charlotte yelled as they got closer. “How will they get out of here?”
The agents didn’t say anything. Charlotte stopped and grabbed Roger’s arm.
“I am not leaving anyone here. Who rode in this one? How are they getting out of here?” she asked.
“They’ll get Marine One off the ground, Charlotte. Just get on this one. Everything will be fine,” he said.
Roger pushed her into the Chinook and climbed in after her. They lifted off the ground before all of her agents were even onboard. Two of her agents climbed in as the aircraft swerved violently from side to side to avoid sniper fire.
“They are trying to get the fuel tank,” she heard one of them say.
“Go, go, go!” she heard Roger yell.
She couldn’t see anything.
She could barely breathe.
She freed her hands and wiped her hair from her mouth.
“Madam President, take these, please,” the White House medic said to her, shoving three white pills in front of her face.
“What are they?” she asked.
“It’s Cipro—in case of a bio attack, it might help a little bit. Just take them,” he said, smiling sympathetically.
He handed her a bottle of water, and she swallowed the pills. She looked over the medic’s shoulder and saw Marine One. It was still on the ground. She was relieved when a minute later, she saw it lift off the ground and begin to rise into the air behind them. She saw people running toward Marine One. She thought they were going to help, but seconds later, she saw one of them load something onto his shoulder and take aim. She tried to scream, but when she opened her mouth, nothing came out. Everything slid into slow motion.
She kept trying to scream at the pilot to go down and help whoever was on Marine One, but she couldn’t scream. She could only watch.
“Get her the fuck out of the area, now!” Roger yelled at the pilot.
“All cars, all stations, Wayfarer depart,” Charlotte heard over the radio system.
She turned her gaze to Marine One and saw smoke coming out of it. Seconds later, there was an explosion, and it struggled to stay airborne.
“Go help them!” she screamed at the pilot. “We need to go help them. They’re going to crash!”
“Charlotte, we need to get back to Bagram right away,” Roger said. He got on the radio and started barking orders.
“Please go help them!” she pleaded. But they were speeding away in the opposite direction. No one was talking to her. She had never felt more helpless in her life.
She watched everyone aboard the helicopter as they worked quietly and efficiently. After a couple of minutes, one of the military officers came and sat next to her.
“Ma’am, our guys took out the enemy, and a recovery mission is under way,” he said.
She nodded. “Who was on Marine One when it went down?” she asked.
“It was the news crew, Madam President,” he said.
Charlotte felt as if she might pass out. “And it went down from the missile, right?” Charlotte asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Were there mechanical problems with Marine One?” she asked.
“Not that registered in the logs, Madam President, but we need to do a full AAR,” he said.
She looked at him blankly.
“After-action report, Madam President. Standard procedure for an incident like this,” he said.
“Of course. And the crew?” she asked.
“We’ll take care of them, ma’am,” the officer said.
“Are they—I mean, did they survive?” she asked.
“We don’t know their status yet, ma’am, but we’ll get an update as soon as we get back to the base.”
“Thanks,” Charlotte said, wrapping her arms around herself and praying as she’d never prayed before.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Melanie
Melanie dug around in her lingerie drawer for the lacy black bra-and-panty set her sister had sent her for her thirty-fifth birthday. It had never been worn, and while she didn’t plan to go to bed with Brian on their first date, she figured it didn’t hurt to be prepared. He’d e-mailed her the morning after their White House tour to say that he’d forgive her for not telling him about Charlotte’s secret trip if she’d meet him for coffee. At the Starbucks across the street from the White House, he’d insisted that she promise him that the next time Charlotte ventured to Iraq or Afghanistan, they’d both be on the trip. “Deal,” she’d committed.
And tonight they were going on their first real date. He was taking her to Bistro Lepic, a tiny French restaurant on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. It was Melanie’s last night of freedom before Charlotte returned from Afghanistan. Having Charlotte out of the country had allowed Melanie’s anxiety to ebb a bit. In the days since her confrontation with Charlotte in the Rose Garden, she’d come to see Michael’s affair rumor as less catastrophic than it had initially felt. If Charlotte was having an affair, which Melanie doubted she was, they would deal with it, she decided. She’d convinced herself that the rumor would prove false and that she and Charlotte would laugh about it when they finally discussed the topic again. She also had come to terms with the fact that it was time t
o step off the treadmill and get out of politics. Her sister had urged her to come live in New York, and Melanie was considering it. As much as she didn’t want to admit it after knowing him for only a week, she wanted to see if there was any potential for something real with Brian.
Melanie had struggled with the wardrobe decision. She didn’t want to wear a suit, but it was a graver sin to overdress than to underdress in Washington. She’d settled on a black wrap dress that flattered her small waist and gave her a little bit of cleavage. Brian wore dark slacks and a button-down shirt. Melanie thought he looked even younger and more attractive in his casual attire than he had in a texedo. They were seated in the corner, and they shared a laugh about the brusque French service. They drank two bottles of wine with their entrees and shared a chocolate mousse for dessert. The conversation between them was easy and comfortable, and Melanie found herself wanting the night to go on longer than she knew it would. D.C. had no nightlife to speak of for adults over twenty-eight years old.
When they were done with dinner, Brian paid the bill, and Melanie thanked him.
“I have a live shot in the morning, and I know you have to be at the office at the crack of dawn, so I should probably let you go home and get some sleep,” Brian said.
Melanie was disappointed, but she smiled. “Sounds like a plan,” she said.
She stood up and felt the effects of the wine. She put her hand on the chair to steady herself, and Brian put his arm around her waist. They walked to the car like that.
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