"Having seen her work, that's not so surprising. How about your breathing? You seem to be going a little faster than I would expect."
"I've had a little cough for about an hour or so, but it's almost gone now. Maybe I'm getting a cold."
"Not on my watch."
"Even you can't do much about a virus. Did Admiral Wright talk to you about the medical team?"
"Not a word, why?"
"I guess he went ahead and put the team together himself. From now on, if you want to select the team to accompany us for travel in the States or overseas, you just go ahead and do it. I'll make sure ol' Ramrod doesn't get in your way."
"Mr. President," Treat Griswold called out, "I think we'd best get a move on."
"Gabe, on the ride up to Baltimore I've got to go over the speech that's just been written for me. I thought there might be time for us to gab during the trip, but no such luck. You can still ride in Stagecoach with us, or you can go in Spare, that's the other limo, if you want."
"Attention all posts," Gabe heard Griswold say from close by and also through his earpiece, "Maverick moving to Stagecoach. Departure imminent. Over. . . . Okay, Doc, Mr. President, ready to roll?"
As Gabe stepped out into the bright sunlight, he couldn't help but be awed by the clutch of photographers and reporters lining the short walk to the motorcade, as well as by the motorcade itself, which, minus two limousines, was parked along the recently renovated stretch of Pennsylvania Avenue, closed to motorized traffic at all times except on occasions like this one. A dozen or more huge vans waited—nine- and twelve-seaters, Gabe guessed—along with eight D.C. motorcycle police on Harleys, with blue strobes flashing. In baseball, the glitter and crowds and private jets and plush clubhouses of the major leagues were often referred to collectively as The Show. At that moment, those words were the only description Gabe could think of.
The Show.
The two identical black Cadillac limousines were parked on the driveway that arced to the steps of the White House.
"Stagecoach is number one today," Griswold said, hurrying his party of three—Gabe, the president, and a young, lanky, bespectacled speech-writer introduced by Stoddard simply as Martin—to the lead limo.
As they reached the bottom of the staircase, over the roof of the limo Gabe caught sight of Tim Gerrity, an Air Force physician's assistant, whom he had gotten to know fairly well over the short time since his arrival at the White House and who seemed to know more medicine than most physicians but was unassuming enough not to show off. Gerrity was standing in front of what Gabe assumed was the medical van. Today the medical support team had been selected by Admiral Ellis Wright, but from now on, if Gabe so wished, the president had decreed he could pick his own team.
The notion led irrepressibly to thoughts of Alison Cromartie. Maybe somewhere down the line, if she managed to stick around and if things ever got straightened out with her, they could do one of these trips together. At that moment, as if on cue, Alison appeared beside Gerrity, talking amiably and gesturing to the van. Even at a distance, wearing a conservative navy blue pants suit, she stood out.
From the moment she pulled out her Secret Service ID after apparently saving his life, Gabe had gotten used to feeling bewildered and unsettled around her. Now, even at a distance, he felt awkward. Despite Ellis Wright's rant at her that evening in the medical office, the man apparently had enough regard for her to assign her to The Show.
Curious.
"Doc, come on. Duck on in here," Griswold ordered, standing by the open door to Stagecoach.
The last sound Gabe heard before he slid onto the seat across from Martin was the President of the United States coughing softly.
The last thing he saw, turning back toward the White House for one final look, was Vice President Thomas Cooper III, flanked by two Secret Service agents, looking down at them intently from the portico.
CHAPTER 22
Signal depart. All posts: We have a departure of Maverick. Over." Treat Griswold lowered the sleeve transmitter and turned next to him where Gabe was sitting. "You doin' okay, Doc?"
"Aside from being a little afraid I'm going to stretch my legs and blow my foot off, I'm fine."
He gestured to the submachine gun that was lying on the floor of the limousine.
"I told them we should build a gun rack in the limos for these things," Griswold said.
"Or else make your shoulder holsters a lot bigger."
Martin Shapiro, the young speechwriter, glanced up from the passage on which he and the president had been working.
"I'm always looking for crisp, punchy lines, Doctor," he said. "Okay if I appropriate that one? If not for this speech, then for something down the road."
"I want to see it when you do," Gabe said.
"Here," Drew said, pointing to a spot in the manuscript. "Why make him wait? Right here where I'm talking about our Korean friend, President Jong, and his goddamn obsession with nuclear reactors. Let's say something like having him persistently claiming that the massive towers on our surveillance photos are for sewage treatment and not nuclear production is a little like our maintaining that the three-foot-long shoulder holsters we have just issued to the Secret Service—"
"Have nothing to do with submachine guns." Shapiro grinned as he finished the thought. "Give me a minute or two to get the wording and the timing right and I think we can use it."
"There you go, cowboy," Drew said. "Just like that, you're immortal."
"Just like that," Gabe said, genuinely impressed.
In spite of his long-standing friendship with the president, and the secrets he knew about Drew's mental imbalance and attacks of irrationality, throughout the ride from the White House to the Baltimore Convention Center, Gabe could not help but bask in the true greatness of the man.
Maverick.
Gabe knew the moniker had been chosen because Drew had been a stellar pilot. But now Gabe found himself thinking about the original meaning of the word—the meaning everyone from Wyoming understood: a range animal, usually a calf or steer, who had left the herd and would belong to the first person who could manage to capture and brand it. Over time, the meaning had been expanded to include people—specifically, a dissenter, who refused to abide by the dictates of a group.
It was an awesome privilege to watch and listen as Drew and his writer sculpted a speech that would be delivered to only two hundred or so well-heeled supporters but would be heard, instantly, around the world. The main focus this day was foreign relations, but over the course of the thirty-minute presentation Drew would touch on a number of the accomplishments of his first term in office, the progress that was being made in his Vision for America program, and several failures of the Dunleavy administration, which had preceded his. He would even manage somewhere along the line to comment on the evolving miracle of the Baltimore Orioles and Washington Nationals, local teams still leading their respective divisions in baseball and possibly headed to a million-to-one long-shot World Series match-up.
By the time the motorcade turned off Route 395 and headed into Baltimore, Gabe felt more committed than ever to get to the bottom of Drew's bizarre breaks with reality and to keep him in office if at all possible. A good deal of Gabe's resolve still depended on the findings and conclusions of Kyle Blackthorn, but as things stood, invoking the Twenty-fifth Amendment and effectively elevating Tom Cooper from running mate to presidential candidate was not a move he was going to make.
It wasn't as if the vice president had made that terrible an impression on him, although it did seem a bit naïve for a man of his stature to expect the president's doctor to share any information about his patient's medical condition. It was more that Cooper was just . . . eager. That was the most descriptive word Gabe could think of at the moment. Eager.
Drew Stoddard's dry cough quieted down for a time but then picked up again as they entered the outskirts of Baltimore. It was minimal and would not have been the least bit alarming had it been occurring in someone o
ther than the President of the United States. Because of the makeup, it was impossible for Gabe to evaluate Stoddard's color, but his respiratory rate was no more than slightly elevated at eighteen per minute and the beds beneath his fingernails looked reasonably pink—a decent sign that he was getting enough oxygen into his circulation. Gabe felt comfortable speaking about the president's asthma in front of Griswold, but not the speechwriter.
"You okay?" Gabe asked after a brief volley of hacking.
"Maybe a little wheezy, but no big deal," Stoddard replied.
"You have asthma?" Martin asked, ending whatever concern Gabe had about making the disclosure.
"Low-grade for years," Drew replied matter-of-factly.
"I have it, too. Used to be bad when I was a kid. But it seems to have gotten pretty much better as I get older. Now, I don't think I have it anymore."
"Burnout of childhood asthma is quite common," Gabe offered, not taking his eyes off his patient. "You feel able to go through with this speech, Mr. President?"
"Of course. I'm really fine. You brought an inhaler for me, right?"
"Actually I have several of them—both bronchodilators and cortisone. They're in the FAT kit in the medical van."
"Griz," Stoddard asked, "do you have one of my inhalers with you?"
"Right here, as always."
The Secret Service agent patted over the inside breast pocket of his suit coat.
"Okay, then. If I feel like I need a puff of that stuff, I'll get it from you until the doc here unlocks the medicine case in the van and gets me whatever he has there. That okay with you, Doc?"
"I . . . um . . . guess so," Gabe said, reflecting on his conversations with the chief executive's father and the vice president and wondering if he should find a way to warn Drew to be a bit less cavalier with information regarding his medical status. "I would like to have a listen to your chest before we do anything, but somehow this doesn't seem to be the place for that."
"We have a screened-off prep area backstage," Griswold said. "A place for the president to sit down, get his makeup refreshed, and get ready for his speech."
"Good," Gabe said. "That'll probably be fine. Mr. President, grab a water bottle from the fridge there and drink at least half of it. You want to stay well hydrated."
"Got it."
"Doc, I'll get you and the president up to the screened-off area as soon as we arrive. Meanwhile, Mr. President, if you need any of this Alupent inhaler just ask."
"Roger that. Mr. Shapiro, I think we've done as much as we can with this puppy. You've done a great job as usual. Stanford, right? What was your major there?"
"Creative writing."
Before anyone could comment, the limousine stopped in front of a side entrance to the Baltimore Convention Center.
"Attention all posts," Griswold said to his sleeve, "Maverick moving toward BCC entrance. Over. . . . Okay, sir, Doc, we're going in that door, then up to the third floor. Stairs or elevator?"
"Stairs will be fine," Stoddard said.
"Let's do the elevator," Gabe countered before he had even processed the significance of overruling the most powerful man on the planet.
There was a moment of absolute quiet.
"We're going to head directly for the elevator," Griswold announced through the radio, scooping the submachine gun off the floor with his free hand. "Over."
The limousine doors were opened simultaneously, and the four occupants stepped out to be immediately engulfed by a buffer of Secret Service men. Griswold, ever observant, remained positioned next to the president, sunlight glinting off the balding area of his pate and the perspiration on the fold of his thick neck. Gabe flashed briefly on an image of the man, looking a bit like the mutant comic book hero the Thing, exploding through a massive cement and fieldstone wall to get at the source of danger to the president.
When they were inside, Gabe switched on his transmitter, pleased again to be playing the radio game.
"This is Wrangler to medical team, Wrangler to medical team. Over."
"We're here, Wrangler," Alison's satiny voice replied. "Unloading now. We'll meet you on three. Over."
"Be sure you have the FAT kit, an IV stand, and an oh-two tank. Over."
"Roger that. FAT kit, IV stand, and oxygen. Everything okay? Over."
"Better to not need it and have it," Gabe said, feeling the comfort and security of being a practicing doc once more. "See you on three. Over."
"Three."
"Breathe in . . . now out. . . ."
Cloistered behind a ten-by-ten-foot barrier of dark blue velvet drapes, Gabe conducted as thorough an exam of his patient as he could manage in the twelve minutes that had been allotted him. He wasn't all that alarmed by what he was seeing and hearing, but neither was he totally at ease. The president was wheezing—the sine qua non symptom of asthma. The sound, in this case not audible without a stethoscope, was caused by narrowing of the man's bronchial tubes, the result of a combination of spasm in the muscular wall of the tubes and plugging of the tubes themselves with mucus.
"So, how do I sound?" Stoddard asked.
"The more important question is: How do you feel?"
"Not bad, really. Something like this happens every other day. I think it's mold. Mold in the limos, mold in the residence, mold at Camp David, mold in my cabinet."
"How did they let you fly jets with this?"
"I didn't really have it back then, but as far as I know, most properly treated medical conditions, including asthma, will still allow a pilot to get a license—even a commercial one. I'm not sure of the military, though."
"You need a puff or two from your inhaler?"
"Actually, that stuff makes me feel a little speedy. I'd prefer to avoid it if I can. There's a couple of million in potential donations to the cause sitting out there. That'll make me speedy enough as it is."
Gabe considered his findings and the situation.
"In that case, knock 'em dead, pal."
CHAPTER 23
It is time, my friends. It is time we joined together with a vision for this country and its people. It is time the children of our poor and disenfranchised stop seeking out drugs as the only way to cope with the perceived hopelessness of their situations. It is time they seek out their teachers and advisors, and hopefully, even their parents. It is time they learn to use the computers that will be on every desk, and work through their fears and concerns and curiosity and dreams in classes that are of a reasonable size.
"It is time there were enough hospital and halfway-house beds for our mentally ill and addicted, and there were government-mandated insurance programs to pay for their treatment.
"It is time there were jobs for everyone and anyone who wants one, as well as incentives to keep individuals off of public assistance.
"Yes, my friends, it is time for the people of this country to come together with a vision. . . ."
Gabe had never had much interest in politics or much faith in politicians and their promises. Now, though, he stood off to one side of the third-floor hall in the beautifully renovated Baltimore Convention Center marveling at the skill, intellect, and charisma of the man who had once been his drinking and studying buddy—at the time, little more than just one of the guys at the Academy. In the limousine Gabe had sat quietly as the president and his bright young speechwriter reviewed the lines of this speech quickly and analytically. Now he listened to the words again—notes he had seen written on a page, now transformed by a virtuoso into a concerto—mesmerizing and very special.
"I believe him."
Alison Cromartie had materialized at Gabe's elbow.
"I've seen video of Kennedy speaking," Gabe whispered, still focused on the podium but well aware of the scent of her. "I'll bet the feelings in the audience back then were the same as here."
"We're all set up the way you wanted," she whispered.
"Good. Thanks. It doesn't look like we're going to be needed."
"Amen to that."
He
and Alison had exchanged a few words during the fifteen minutes before the president headed up to the podium but no sentiments. Gabe still couldn't, or wouldn't, get past the lies she had told him on the evening they first met, her anxiousness to learn about the president's health, and especially the fact that she was on duty in the office around the time the tubes of the president's blood disappeared.
During Gabe's time backstage with her, there had been no mention of the visit to Jim Ferendelli's place or her cryptic statement that things were not as Gabe thought, and this was clearly not the time or place for him to ask her about it.
"I want to say a few words," the president was saying, "about the Middle East peace proposal of ours that's currently being considered by—"
A brief volley of coughing cut the sentence short. Gabe instantly went on high alert. Stoddard drank from a glass of water, then started speaking again. More coughing. Gabe looked across to where Treat Griswold was standing, and instantly they connected.
"This may be trouble," Gabe whispered to Alison. "Go ahead back and make sure the FAT kit is unlocked and the IV and oxygen are ready."
"Got it," she said.
Stoddard apologized. Muttered something about a little cold and began speaking again. This time Gabe could almost hear the wheezing.
"Wrangler, Wrangler, are you on top of this?" Griswold's urgent whisper asked.
"I'm not going to let it get any worse before I pull the plug," Gabe replied.
He noticed that several of the attendees were watching him as he spoke into his sleeve, and sensed an instant change in the mood of the room.
". . . Our envoy, Mr. Chudnofsky, is in Amman at this . . ."
The president took a sip of water and glanced over at Gabe. Without hesitating Gabe crossed over to him.
"Mr. President," he whispered, "let's go backstage and sit down before we have a big problem. Excuse us, please," he said to the deathly silent audience.
"All of a sudden," Stoddard whispered hoarsely as Gabe led him away, "my chest just got real tight."
The First Patient Page 13
