Peter's Christmas

by M. L. Buchman

  “I just tell them,” Peter saluted taxpayers everywhere with a tipping of his beer. “That I’m not going anywhere without my main squeeze along.”

  “Main squeeze?”

  “Sorry, American slang. Old slang from my parents’ youth, maybe even earlier. It means my main girl.”

  “And you have so many others that you are not telling me about? I maybe am part French which makes me understanding, but I am also part Vietnamese and that makes me possessive and dangerous.”

  Peter didn’t even have the decency to squirm. “You’re the main one for me.”

  “Tu es impossible!”

  “And proud to be.”

  # # #

  Despite Peter’s hints about his private cabin and an opportunity to join the Mile-High Club, Genny had decided that wouldn’t be a good idea with his staff so close by.

  She had defused part of it by making him explain just what kind of club it was, as if she didn’t know. He was far from the first man to proposition her in flight, though he might eventually be the first to succeed. So, she questioned him to evade the request, for now.

  Did one only have to claim to have had sex over a mile in the air or was some form of proof required? And where did one register for this club of his? Did it count to have sex a hundred feet in the air over Denver, the Mile-High city? Were there extra points for higher altitudes? What about over each different country?

  At least she had sent him to his rest with a laugh on his face and a kiss on his lips. But it had also left her at loose ends. She had worked some more, then watched part of a movie, but she was too agité from being on Air Force One to sleep. And, though she was reluctant to admit it, terribly nervous to be introducing Peter to her family.

  Even one of the comfortable chairs reserved for senior staff didn’t enable her to settle for more than a few pages into her latest novel. So she took herself on a tour of the plane. After all, if things went poorly in Vietnam, this might be her only chance.

  The communications room in the 747’s upper level was clearly off limits, the armed Air Force guard watching her expressionlessly from the top of the steps was an unnecessary emphasis on this point. Her interest in the galleys and storage on the lower deck was also minimal, and she had boarded through the forward galley, so she skipped the downward stairs just as she had the upward ones. Most people entered through the lower level, staff to the front and press to the rear.

  Only the President and the occasional special guest entered the plane from the long rolling ramp to the middle deck hatch. He had wanted her to join him for the long climb up those stairs in front of all the cameras. She was tempted, but her nerves had won out. If this didn’t work out between them, and she couldn’t imagine how it possibly could in the long term, then she would forever be “That Girl” in the photo, boarding Air Force One to sleep with the President in flight.

  Just outside the President’s on-board office, Frank and Beatrice of the Secret Service sat together in the two reserved seats. Agent Belfour stood as soon as she spotted Genny.

  “Everything okay, ma’am?”

  “That’s Genny to you, Beatrice. Or I will not answer when you speak to me.”

  “Right, sorry. That habit is going to die hard.” She offered one of her bright smiles. “Anything I can do for you?”

  “No. I am just touring the plane a bit. I’m tired of sitting and needed to move about.”

  “Yeah, these long flights are tough.”

  “I haven’t been causing you trouble, have I?”

  “Genny, you are a seriously easy charge. Besides, gives me a chance to travel with my husband which hasn’t happened much over the years.” Frank looked up at her. She hadn’t had much to do with him, though he’d always been pleasant enough. For some reason it took Genny until this moment to realize that these were the two people from whom Peter was specifically not asking for background information about her.

  Agents Frank Adams and Beatrice Belfour would know everything about her. From Genny’s first boyfriend, a lovely young lad named Huang who would carry her books as he walked her home from secondary school, to her politics, pretty much didn’t have those, couldn’t afford them in her job. Well, if someone had to know all about her, she couldn’t feel much more secure than these two. The Head of the Presidential Protection Detail and his wife were a force to be reckoned with.

  Frank had a file open in his lap. She could see the photographs of the Preah Vihear temple, one of the possible World Cultural Heritage Site visits Genny had suggested. She’d specifically suggested that temple as it was in Cambodia, offering him a high profile visit that might help the U.N. with the site’s preservation. It would also assist him with cultural relations with Cambodia by showing interest in their problems with their Thai neighbors. It was an area with some border issues that were still unresolved despite a hundred years of efforts at all levels, from the 1962 International Court of Justice ruling to her own minor efforts at the meeting where she had met the President last July.

  Genny waved Beatrice back to her chair. “Well, you clearly have a lot of planning to do. I think that I will continue my tour. I suppose I can’t get in too much trouble on an airplane.”

  “As long as don’t try climbing the stairs, you’re cleared for the entire plane.” Beatrice tapped the badge with the letter “Q” dangling about Genny’s neck.

  She looked down at the badge in surprise. She hadn’t really thought about it, though she hadn’t seen another like it. A foreign national at liberty aboard Air Force One. Sitting in the President’s on-board office as his assistants rushed in and out. It had felt normal, expected, not deeply unusual as it must be.

  Beatrice nodded as if reading Genny’s thoughts.

  “Not only did the President insist, but you also checked out as alarmingly apolitical, discreet, and trustworthy among many other unseemly habits. That badge gets you anywhere in the Residence or on the grounds unescorted, into the West Wing with minimal escort, namely me, and Air Force One, except up those stairs.”

  “Oh, all right. Thanks.” Beatrice returned to her seat and Genny took several steps away to peer into the next room. It was the medical room which included a doctor, a nurse, and a fold-down operating table that they were proud to tell her had never been used. Next, in their own small conference area, she nodded to three senior staff who she was beginning to recognize. Too bad Daniel wasn’t along, though he’d probably be even busier than the President.

  Again she looked down at the piece of plastic dangling about her neck. The red, white, and blue pattern and the letter “Q” which could have any number of meanings. Though, as the badges changed with each President, perhaps the “Q” badge was Peter’s handiwork. Did it mean she had James Bond-style clearance all the way to “Q” the exotic weapons specialist? Or…

  Then she had it. “Q” was a ten-point letter in Scrabble. It denoted that she was the highest value of visitor who still needed a badge. If Peter was involved there would be some meaning beyond the colors of the flag. Red for Residence, White for West Wing, and Blue for the color of Air Force One seemed likely. “RWB” would be worth eight points. With the Red being the color for Triple Word Score and Blue denoting Triple Letter Score, it would be worth, she calculated for a moment, forty-two points.

  Genny decided that someone should put her out of her misery now. If she stayed with Peter much longer, she would become a complete mental case. Then she wondered. The badge had several layers of those shifting-background-image hologram effects, so that it would be very hard to duplicate. She held it up to a light and twisted it around for a moment. Sure enough, the deepest layer was a large “42.” That did it. They should never be together. Two such nerds couldn’t be allowed to exist in the same space.

  With a sigh, she dropped the badge back to dangle about her neck and continue her tour. She really did like that man.

  Genny w
andered past the big conference and dining room without finding a soul to talk to. Most of the people in the staff and secretarial area were sleeping in their chairs, though one or two kept their eyes on the status of messaging to and from the aircraft. It was the dead of night in the middle of a seventeen-hour flight presently over the central Pacific, not much was going on.

  She had half hoped to chat with the U.S. representative to ASEAN, but both he and his assistant were asleep in their guest seats. She was beginning to feel like the Flying Dutchman, forever haunting her ghostly ship. She had to reach the end of this aircraft at some point. It was only a little over two-hundred feet long, even if it felt like two-hundred meters.

  Genny stepped through a doorway and discovered she had indeed reached the rear of the aircraft, and made a crucial mistake. Here at the rear were fourteen seats for the Press Corps. Most of the reporters were asleep, a few were eating a snack and watching a movie.

  One woman, who Genny recognized as being from one of the networks, glanced up. For a moment her eyes spread so wide that it was hard to credit, then she recovered.

  “Ms. Beauchamp.” The woman’s words galvanized the entire cabin into action. Fourteen people scrambled for cameras, recorders, even paper pads. They slapped seat neighbors to wake them up, pointing frantically toward Genny when they looked up in bewilderment.

  She had avoided the press, carefully not saying a word whenever they mobbed her at the train station or airports. She had watched Peter on national television state, “Yes, we are seeing each other. But, no, I will not be reporting to you on any of the details beyond that. Ms. Beauchamp is my guest and I shall respect her privacy. She may speak for herself if she so chooses, but I have promised not to invade her privacy any more than I already have.”

  Well, perhaps now was her moment.

  Looking out at the rows of faces, Genny nodded to the woman who had spotted her, granting her the first question. Knowing full well that all she had to do was take a step backward beyond the door if she wanted to get away.

  # # #

  When Peter had woken after a couple hours, more of a nap than he usually managed on these flights, he had to ask and wait while Geneviève was tracked down as being with the reporters who rode in the rear of the plane.

  He’d hustled down the length of the plane, Frank and Beat sweeping in behind him, but unable to overtake him. What had she been thinking?

  “How long?” he barked back over his shoulder.

  “Half an hour maybe,” Beat replied. “I didn’t think she’d go into the Press Corps area.”

  “Shit!”

  Frank and Beat had the good sense not to correct his language. Each area went electric as he hurried through and he didn’t give a damn. He ignored all questions, well aware of the consternation he was causing, and again couldn’t care less. Frank reassured the other agents as they moved along.

  Ten feet from the Press area, just at the head of the rear stairway, he stopped so abruptly that Frank actually ran into him, and had to grab his shoulders to keep from toppling him to the ground.

  “Sorry, Mr. President.”

  He nodded, not trusting his voice. Taking a deep breath, he moved up to the cracked open edge of the doorway…and heard laughter. Geneviève’s laughter, it was a sound he could pick out, even in the middle of a busy construction site. What had she… He listened without revealing himself.

  “Yes,” Geneviève was saying. “The French actually have this meal with three tablecloths and three white candles for the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost. Seven dishes without meat for the seven sorrows of the Mother Mary, and thirteen desserts for the Apostles and Jesus. No matter what you believe, if eating thirteen desserts does not make you want to celebrate the life of such a man, then there must be something broken in you. Though my family is from Languedoc region, we are very smart and we take this Provençal tradition with us when we return to Vietnam. That is a proper holiday feast. Where you get this Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding, this I do not understand at all. Where is tradition in such a thing?”

  “It tastes good,” some reporter piped up.

  “Okay,” Geneviève replied merrily. “Yes, this I will grant. It tastes wonderful, but for Christmas in France or among the eight percent of Vietnam peoples who are Christians, it is not.”

  Peter moved through the door. The space was narrow, the rear of the plane had been cut into two sections. On the port side, it was an area for Secret Service and other flight security personnel. On the starboard side, were fourteen comfortable seats in pairs to either side of a narrow aisle. A lavatory on his right was the limit to how far the Press Corps were allowed to wander from their seats.

  In the midst of the room, perched comfortably on the arm of a chair, sat Geneviève, looking as if she were entertaining casually in her own living room. Her thick hair pulled forward over one shoulder. The green turtleneck, just the shade of her eyes, hugged her amazing figure. Again that tiny silver Chinese character medallion was her only adornment. He couldn’t imagine a more photogenic woman, and apparently neither could the Press Corps who appeared totally captivated.

  Those nearest the entrance to the Press Cabin had their backs turned toward him, facing their guest. Those to the rear didn’t notice his arrival.

  She did though, the very second he entered. Just the briefest sidelong glance from those almond eyes, and a slight brightening of her smile.

  “Well, it has been a pleasure to meet you all.”

  The sounds of disappointment that washed around the room sounded deeply genuine.

  Then her smile turned wicked and she carefully didn’t look at him. “I did tell you that I would answer no questions about the President and me. That was because, how would you like to have your fellow reporters and their news cameras in your bedroom?”

  One of them actually shuddered theatrically eliciting a laugh from the others, as relaxed as Peter had ever seen the White House Press Corps.

  “But perhaps I could tell you something, how do you say, off your record?”

  They were so enamored of Geneviève, that they didn’t even bother to correct her.

  “You must promise.”

  They raised hands. Some as if swearing in on a Bible, a couple of Boy Scout and Girl Scout salutes, a Vulcan hand sign, and two traditionalists with a hand over their heart. He knew as President of the United States never to trust the Press Corps, but he’d half wager they’d keep a secret for foreign national Ms. Geneviève Beauchamp.

  “Good. I will tell you one thing that I have learned. Your President Matthews has never made love to a woman in the Oval Office of the White House. He is afraid, as if he would be first in your history to do so.”

  Then she looked right at him. The reporters followed her gaze and then startled to find the President standing in their company.

  “I think,” Geneviève’s eyes were positively sparkling as she spoke loudly enough to be heard over the bustle of everyone turning to face him. “I think we need to convince him it could be fun.” Her smile, now for him alone as all of the reporters were turned in his direction, acknowledged that it would scare the daylights out of both of them to make love right in the center of that bloody carpet with the portraits of the past Presidents looking on.

  Peter did his damnedest not to blush as they all looked at him with knowing smiles.

  He was sure he didn’t succeed.

  Chapter 10

  “Are we really sure this is the best option?” Peter looked at the itinerary Frank had worked up. They sat at Noi Bai Airport in his office aboard Air Force One after the second long day of ASEAN meetings. He had slept aboard, as it had offered him the best secure communications as well as being highly defensible. Geneviève had stayed in the city until now, far busier than even he was, and he had missed her terribly.

  “There are two ways to approach this, sir. We can let everyone k
now the President is arriving at an old French plantation in the Northern Highlands of Vietnam far too close to the Laotian border for my taste. We can do this after taking three to six months to plan, then insert heavy U.S. and Vietnamese forces to lock down the entire area.”

  Peter looked at Geneviève who merely shrugged. Clearly the woman had enough sense to know when she was out of her depth, but so was he.

  “The second option,” Frank continued, “is to mimic the flight you made last year to Nevada with Majors Beale and Henderson. Simply don’t let anyone know you’re there and move with a minimal force. To this end, we have taken advantage of an offer from Vietnam’s Prime Minister. He is quite pleased that Ms. Beauchamp, a Vietnamese national, is ‘your guide’ for this trip to visit one of their most successful farming collectives and only regrets that he will be unable to join you himself.”

  Frank glanced at Geneviève, but his expression was unreadable. Perhaps he worried that the Prime Minister’s careful word choice would offend her. Then Frank continued.

  “The moment you authorize this, a body double will climb aboard the Marine One helicopter we brought from the States and will fly him to a quiet evening at the Prime Minister’s personal residence. Ten minutes later, you will climb aboard Major Beale’s helicopter, presently in the country on a training and goodwill exercise, and we will proceed to the Beauchamp plantation with a minimal guard force.”

  Peter knew he was unqualified to make the final decision on this one, he was far too biased in favor of going.

  “What do you think, Frank?”

  # # #

  It took twenty minutes, rather than ten, before Peter was clambering aboard a Black Hawk helicopter of the 160th SOAR. He wore a standard flightsuit and survival vest as did Geneviève and their two Secret Service agents. They blended in easily among the busy goings-on at the area of Noi Bai airport that had been reserved for the use of the visiting Americans.