Take Over at Midnight (The Night Stalkers)

by Buchman, M. L.

  Appetizers, soup, and salad all passed before Lola’s nerves quieted enough for her to taste anything. Her mouth told her that she’d missed richness, sweet flavors, and had apparently eaten some food too hot even for a Creole to eat unnoticed as her lips still burned though she had no memory from what.

  All she’d been able to do was listen and keep her right knee hard against Tim’s left under the table. He anchored her in place, helped her find her center with his presence alone. He reached for her hand under the table a few times, but she jammed her heel down on his toes. There was no way that she’d be holding hands in front of the Commander-in-Chief.

  The conversation rolled around her, teasing and sharp ripostes shimmering back and forth between Emily and the President. Daniel tossing in a few of his own lobs that Emily or Mark or Tim caught and shot back without hesitation.

  During the swordfish course, Lola finally unwound enough to get Tim’s attention by brushing his abused pec in apology, under the guise of dusting away some crumbs.

  “‘Emily’s friend, Peter. That’s the only way we refer to him in public’?” His phrase from earlier in the day finally made sense.

  Tim shrugged. “It is. Makes it easier to talk about him. Less security risk.”

  It made sense. It didn’t make her happy, but it made sense.

  “Enough with the goddamn surprises. In the future, just tell me.”

  Tim’s shrug was easy. “Sure.” He pressed his hand briefly against his chest, right where she’d just brushed, to show she was forgiven for abusing him.

  Then he smiled wickedly. “It only works for so long anyway. I had the unit going nuts trying to figure out who the practical joker was until I was shot in the arm. Just a meat shot, but I was a month in R and R for recovery. They were all waiting for me in a line when I came back. Had to kind of expand my target range outward after that.”

  Lola poked her spoon into a crème brûlée that crackled easily beneath the light pressure of her spoon, the warmed vanilla wafting upward through the broken crust and promising delight for her taste buds.

  That’s when it sunk in, as the custard melted in her mouth, delivering on its promise. She’d just negotiated a relationship rule for the first time in her life. Always before, the only two rules that existed had remained unspoken, known by both parties going in: for the fun of it and no commitments.

  Now with Tim she was making relationship decisions, ones that she knew he would honor until the day they died. It was the kind of man he was, a good man that you’d only have to tell once.

  Until the day they died.

  How in the world could she even have a thought like that? Give it another week or two, and it would all blow up and they’d go their separate ways with no bad feelings. But that wasn’t right. This time she’d signed up for it, this time there would be hurt feelings.

  And not just Tim’s.

  She might feel safe around him, rubbing knees once again under the table, but she was also flying fully exposed, no armor left. It scared the crap out of her.

  “Ms. LaRue.”

  She jumped a little in her seat before turning to face the President.

  “Heads up! Incoming!” Emily called out and they all ducked and spun to look around. At least everyone at the table except Daniel and the President. Even the Secret Service agents had a hand in their jackets and were scanning rapidly.

  “Sorry.” Emily turned to the agents on one side. To one in particular she said, “Sorry, Frank. Wasn’t thinking.”

  He grumbled an acknowledgment. Some signal passed to the others in the room, and they settled back into invisibility.

  Emily raised her glass of ice tea in a toast to Lola as if wishing her luck. “Here comes his favorite question.”

  The President grimaced at her like a teenage boy would at a girl who’d just stolen his thunder. All she did in turn was wave her glass for him to continue with his question.

  He huffed out a breath and turned to face Lola.

  “Why?”

  “Why what, Mr. President?” She’d missed the preceding topic.

  “Call me Peter.”

  “Sorry, sir.” She swallowed hard, the smooth crème brûlée suddenly sticking in her throat. “I can’t do that, Mr. President.”

  He harrumphed, but Emily was hiding a smile in her ice tea, so Lola would assume she was doing okay so far.

  “Let us then for the moment pretend that we’re on a first-name basis.”

  “If you wish, Mr. President.”

  That got a bit of a laugh as he accepted some decaf coffee from Mark who’d ended up sitting on his far side.

  “You know that I never served in the military.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Emily chimed in, but the President ignored her.

  “Why do you?”

  “His other favorite question is, ‘Who wants to play poker?’” Emily offered up.

  “You play poker, sir?” Lola shot for the subject change but could see it wasn’t going to stick.

  Mark leaned in to offer a loud whisper in the President’s ear. “Don’t even think about it, sir. She cleaned Connie’s and my clocks on the flight over. I’m not even sure I want a rematch, though I am a sucker for punishment, which is why I married Emily.”

  He winked at Lola as his wife punched him on the other arm.

  “Seriously, Ms. LaRue. Why?”

  “Why do you, Mr. President? What made you want the all-consuming job that you have? One that pretty much guarantees that you’ll never be employable again.” Lola could think of few harder jobs on the planet and none that could interest her less.

  That actually stopped him. The President leaned back in his chair and inspected the distance. She’d wager he wasn’t watching the ordered chaos in the kitchen that was only now winding down with the tail end of the dinner rush.

  “You’d think that question would have an easy answer.”

  The table had gone silent. Emily rested her elbows on the table. Lola could feel Tim lean forward to be able to see the President clearly.

  “Maybe—” Daniel stopped when Peter Matthews raised his hand.

  “My deceased wife is the one who made it happen.”

  No need to ask, the events of her death had been international news. The pilots miraculously survived the helicopter crash and the resulting fireball that had scorched the face of the White House for the first time since the British invasion during the War of 1812, but the First Lady had not survived. Everyone knew Emily Beale had been one of the surviving pilots. Something clicked in a shared glance with her husband, and Lola realized that Mark Henderson had been the other pilot.

  Suddenly, what had been a tragic accident mourned round the world took on different shading. SOAR’s two best pilots had somehow both been on the helicopter that had killed the First Lady. With the slightest shake of her head, Emily warned her off the topic. Lola shoved it aside for future consideration as the President continued speaking.

  “She pushed and shoved and drove. Wanted the power and prestige. That’s how it happened, but not why.” He toyed with his coffee a bit, shook in a tiny spoonful of brown sugar and stirred it idly.

  “I—Hmm, not really inspiring confidence as the leader of the free world, am I? I can see it, but I’m finding trouble tracking down the words.”

  “That was a cheat, anyway, Chief Warrant.” Major Henderson again aimed that smile at her. “The President asked first.”

  “Right.” Peter sat up straight and turned quickly to face her directly. “I did. You answer. And if I like your answer, I’ll unravel this mess I call a coherent thought process and answer yours.”

  Lola looked over at Tim, who nodded. Not as if she needed help, but as if he had absolute confidence in her answer. She turned back.

  “Do you sleep well at night, sir?”

 
“Reasonably. Except when Daniel calls at the strangest hours with the next crisis, but yes, I sleep pretty well, considering.”

  “Good. That’s why I fly.”

  He frowned at her.

  “My life changed on September 11th, 2001. Vastly for the better. I was headed right down that proverbial highway to hell, one step from falling off the damned edge. Probably that very day.” Lola briefly considered that the girl who’d skipped school to hang with a bunch of hookers, trying to get her nerve up before the first john showed up, was now sitting next to the President of the United States. Just more proof of what was possible.

  “Except the world changed and I stepped up instead of down. I fly so that you can sleep. So that Americans can sleep. It makes me feel…” She looked around searching for the words. Looked at Tim as he squeezed her hand as if she were speaking for both of them. She returned the gesture, wondering at what moment he’d snagged her hand, and faced the President once more without letting go.

  “It makes me feel strong. Powerful. Who knows? I may have already helped stop the next jet plane before it crashed into another building. I’ll never know, but it feels amazing that maybe I have that kind of power in my hands. I like that a lot. Guess it strokes my ego, but in a much healthier way than I’d been doing it up until that time.” She considered for a moment, but it was the best she’d ever been able to explain it to herself. Part of that was sharing stories with Tim through the morning and afternoon.

  “I like flying the world’s most kick-ass helicopter and, well, kicking some ass with it. But I like what that results in even better. Tim’s got a nice family here. I like being a part of protecting that.” She spooned up some more of the custard and savored the sweet taste. Then she grinned at the President a little wickedly.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Your turn, President Peter,” she let the first name linger for a tantalizing moment before continuing, “Matthews, Commander-in-Chief, sir.”

  Chapter 40

  The President scowled at Emily across the table as she burst out laughing at him.

  Lola figured that scowl could stop most other world leaders, but it did no good on Major Emily Beale.

  “She got you, Sneaker Boy. One for the home team, Chief Warrant. Now pony up, and make it even half as good or we’ll make you stand out on the Ellipse in your underwear and recite the poetry of Theodore Roethke, maybe the one about the biddly bear. And don’t think we can’t do it.”

  “I’d have you court-martialed.”

  “You can try, Peter, but the judge will be too busy laughing himself sick to put us away. Besides, it will be our word against yours as to why you’re doing it. We tried to stop you, honest.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him in a very un-Emily-like fashion. “Didn’t we, Frank?” she called to Agent Frank Adams where he stood behind the President.

  The head of the Presidential Protection Detail didn’t even try to hide his smile while he spoke as if talking to a room of reporters. “The Secret Service does not comment on the actions of the President.”

  “Crap.”

  “It’s our job to keep you safe, sir.” Adams continued, clearly enjoying the moment. “Our job does not require that we keep you from making a fool of yourself by reciting poetry in your underwear, should you suddenly find it necessary to do so. The choice of underwear is completely up to you. Personally I’d recommend something with color. White doesn’t play as well on camera.”

  The President glanced back at his senior agent, who shrugged.

  “Man’s gotta have some fun, Mr. President.” Adams’s grin revealed exactly who would be enjoying himself.

  “I get to take pictures,” Lola piped up.

  Tim started giggling. “Does it have to be in English? Can you read Spanish, Mr. President? Bobbi,” he turned to the service line and called out to his sister. “Do you still have that collection of erotic poetry?”

  “Under my pillow every night,” she chimed back before heading out into the dining room with a tray of desserts.

  Daniel’s phone rang.

  The President swore just loudly enough for Lola to hear while the others at the table still bandied back and forth suggestions of appropriate hats to be worn with underwear while reciting risqué Spanish poetry, and perhaps patriotic socks.

  Daniel stood and stepped aside for a quick whispered conversation lost in the various sounds of the kitchen.

  She could see the President keeping a weather eye on his Chief of Staff.

  “Bad news, Mr. President?”

  He faced her with a long-suffering sigh. “It’s never good when his phone rings. Damn, I was actually enjoying the evening.”

  Daniel came over and tapped the President on the shoulder. He leaned forward to whisper in Peter’s ear, but Lola could hear.

  “President Javad Madani would like to speak with you. In thirty minutes if that is convenient.”

  Lola felt the shock ripple through her. The president of the Islamic Republic of Iran was the last person on the planet she’d wager the U.S. President wanted to hear from. Not mere days after SOAR and Delta had just run a clandestine operation deep into his country.

  “Of course.” The President looked grim, then nodded to Daniel. “Yes, of course, it would be our pleasure to speak with him.”

  Daniel moved off to finish the call and the President started to stand.

  Major Henderson clamped a hand on his shoulder.

  The President jolted, probably not used to being touched by anyone, certainly not restrained.

  “Sorry, folks. I have to—”

  “Answer the lady’s question,” Henderson finished for him.

  Lola could see Frank Adams moving forward and the other agents rising to their toes.

  The President held up a hand to wave them off.

  “And then if there’s anything my team can do to help, we’ll go with you.”

  The President considered for a moment, then nodded. He took a deep breath and turned to Lola.

  “I have to be quick. And I wish I could say this better, but I can’t. And the reason that I can’t? You already said it for me. I am President so that my country can remain a unified country. Not fractured under a thousand vying demands by a hundred times that many special interests. I try to make small bits of peace where I can. I seek a balance between oil demand and ecologists, foreign trade and domestic production, and so on across more venues than you can imagine. That’s what lets me sleep at night, knowing that I tried my best to help. That I made our country run even a little better than it did the day before.”

  Lola waited until he finished. His words slammed home. That’s why she flew. So that someone could try to do just that. Here was immediate proof of the rightness of her choice to fly with SOAR. The President was the ultimate search-and-rescue pilot, definitely in full combat, even if not down in the frontline skirmishes.

  She leaned in and hugged him briefly and whispered in his ear, “Thank you. Thank you for doing what you do, Peter.”

  Chapter 41

  Lola looked around the Situation Room and tried to figure out how in hell she’d ended up here. You’d expect to find the President and his Chief of Staff in the White House Sit Room. General Brett Rogers, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, made sense, even if there was no way Lola would be speaking in the man’s presence. Couldn’t if she wanted to.

  Brett Rogers had started in Special Forces in Vietnam. Been instrumental in dozens of operations that had helped maintain peace through the Cold War years. Led Special Operations Command for almost a decade, right through Iraq and into Afghanistan, and now sat as the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. He was the senior-most soldier on the planet. It would be like a first-year acting student trying to have a nice sit-down chat with Meryl Streep.

  That the Majors had been invited didn’t seem completely odd, especially con
sidering the history between them and President Matthews and their knowledge of the operation. When Emily had insisted that her copilot be included, Lola had freaked. All of her protestations had been to no avail, not even the silent but desperate plea she’d aimed at Tim had saved her. Her protests had died when Major Beale rested a hand on her still flat belly. Right. Lola was backup coverage for a “what-if” scenario.

  Tim had managed to toss her a light windbreaker which she’d slipped on over her dress before boarding the presidential motorcade. It looked utterly ridiculous, the flirty red skirt popping out below Tim’s worn, dark blue windbreaker. But it was better than sitting in a red cocktail dress in the Sit Room. Major Henderson had worn a jacket and had likewise wrapped it around his wife’s barely more modest dress.

  Lola tried to concentrate on the images being flashed up on the screen. She recognized many of them but hadn’t seen the drone’s footage of their departure from the Iranian desert. Hadn’t known there was a drone overhead watching. Her move with the helicopter to build the dust cloud captured in perfect, night-vision detail.

  Major Henderson whistled. “Slick move, honey. Damn slick.”

  “That was all Lola.” Emily nodded in her direction, sounding at perfect ease in a room that was about to cave in and collapse on Lola’s head.

  “Nicely done, Chief Warrant. A damn fine piece of flying.”

  In any other circumstance, Lola might have brushed it off or sent back some dismissive riposte. Instead, she found herself inspecting the table’s surface and blushing. Not something she ever did.

  A figure slipped in the door, unnoticed by those farther away, and sat beside Lola. She glanced up and recognized Colonel Michael Gibson of the D-boys. They shook hands in silence and exchanged simple nods. His handsome face was grim, the scar along his chin deepening as he frowned at the film, perhaps remembering his own narrow escape. This just kept getting uglier by the moment.