In the Weeds

by M. L. Buchman

  The Pentagon dominated the view to the west. To the east, the Tidal Basin cherry trees bloomed like a bridal bouquet gone madly pink—past their peak but still radiant in early-May glory. Then the majestic turn that placed the Jefferson Memorial due east and the Washington Monument dead ahead.

  Pilots flew it a hundred times in the simulator before they were allowed to even fly as copilot. She had “ridden” along on twenty of those simulations herself so that she could witness all of the primary emergency scenarios.

  But to be able to fly the route itself, even as an observer, was like a miracle. Never expecting to command them, she’d been gunning for the post of Presidential pilot since boot camp, a fact she hadn’t even told Drill Sergeant McKinnon. Though proving that nothing ever got by him, just this morning she’d received a text from him, his first contact in years. He’d spared two whole words for her: Go Marine!

  She’d been shocked that her heart hadn’t blown right out the chest of her dress blues. In an excess of pride, she’d sent back four words that, of course, he hadn’t replied to: For the Corps, Sergeant. In hindsight, she should have sent Semper Fi! Short for Semper Fidelis, always faithful. Two words for two words.

  She’d broken McKinnon’s Law of: Never use extra words. They only serve to cloud the communication.

  Tough! She was damn proud of what she’d done and she was a major so she’d use four whole words if she felt like it. If McKinnon had ever laughed, she could imagine him laughing at her. But it was impossible to imagine he ever had, so she was safe on that account.

  They crossed the middle of the National Mall between the very top of the Washington Monument and the World War II Memorial at the foot of the Reflecting Pool three seconds behind schedule. No one but a Marine would notice.

  McKinnon had been right. Let the boys have a little fun when it didn’t matter and they’d perform all the better when it did. The pilots wanted this flight to be perfect as badly as she did.

  Nothing had prepared her for the real view of the White House from the air—something so few ever saw. In the simulator it had looked amazing: interactive video simulated from high-resolution 3D imaging. But that was nothing compared to the real thing. Now she was looking down on the South Lawn from above as the pilots eased between the trees, doing the trademark quarter turn down between the treetops to turn the President’s helo door so that it faced the White House. There it was, the center of government—the home of the Commander-in-Chief himself.

  And her new office.

  She’d probably never get to take this ride again, so she’d promised herself to pay attention to every detail, every moment. Yet between one eyeblink and the next, they were settling down on the lawn, landing on the trio of six-foot aluminum disks rolled out to protect the lawn.

  Of course, during the last few meters of the landing itself, the pilots were unable to see the disks themselves. But no Marine pilot would take that as an excuse to miss landing precisely on those hidden disks. No signalman stood by waving batons, just those two strips of canvas. Marine Corps pilots didn’t need anyone else’s help to nail a landing.

  Contact two seconds early—dead zero as the shock absorbers fully took the weight of the seven tons of helicopter, fuel, and extra armor. She thumped a fist on Captain Walters’ shoulder and she heard his pleased chuckle.

  They went through the full routine: cycling down the engines before the Marine crew chief opened the forward door and lowered the stairway. He then did a military march, three steps out, six steps to the rear, and three steps in to lower the rear door and stair. The front door of the helo was reserved for the use of the First Family and the crew chief. All others used the rear stairs.

  So she placed her white, field officer cover squarely on her head and walked down the length of the cabin. At the rear stairs she made her own neat right angle turn and descended down onto the grass of the immaculately manicured White House lawn. Per protocol, the crew chief had returned to stand beside the forward stairs. There he stood at parade rest with his hands clasped behind his back, ready to aid or honor the President. As she stopped two steps in front of him, he saluted sharply.

  She couldn’t resist looking down at the wheels first. The center of all three white crosses were hidden by the black rubber of the tires—hitting the marks within six inches in the blind on a six-foot disk. She returned the sergeant’s sharp salute, then shot a thumb’s up to Walters, who grinned in relief. Go Marines!

  McKinnon’s Law: Let them know when they done good and you never have to tell them when they done bad. They’ll know. His corollary, which she’d also proven many times: Tell them about the second screwup. Third time ask yourself if they’re really Corps material.

  “Thank you, Sergeant Mathieson.” She automatically checked the crew chief’s uniform. He was one squared-away Marine. Too bad about the officer-enlisted gap, because he was also damn fine looking in his dress blues. He had three bronze hashes on his sleeve, marking twelve years of service. He’d earned his right to stand there and look magnificent.

  “A pleasure, Major.” His smile said that he might be thinking the same thing about her. Nothing would ever happen there, but it didn’t hurt her ego in the slightest.

  She almost wished the Press Corps was around so that someone would get a photograph of her striding this one time across the South Lawn in her uniform.

  When she turned to walk up the lawn, Ivy nearly tripped over one of the biggest German shepherds she’d ever seen. He was wearing a US Secret Service vest and a giant-sized doggie smile that revealed equally large teeth.

  “Hey there, Saint Ives!”

  Ivy sighed. Only one person had ever called her that.

  Colby had taken his normal station on the back side of the helo’s landing area, between there and the distant fence. This was his station, keeping an eye out for any last-minute fence jumpers. Once the helo was down and stopped, he’d circled around the tail, arriving just in time to see the back of the officious official.

  Except the officious official was a pint-sized Marine in full dress blues, a female one. As trim and perfect as a wind-up doll, complete with her hair wound into that donut-shaped bun that female Marines wore. They never had a single strand astray because that would be against regulations and even a Marine’s hair follicles followed regulations. She looked a hundred percent delectable and he no longer minded having to escort her to the White House. Maybe she’d like a personal tour of the White House.

  He hadn’t been ready for when she turned to salute the sergeant by the front stair. It was a profile he’d know anywhere. Moving closer didn’t change who it was. Their families were neighbors and her older brother was still his best friend. But when did Ivy Hanson start to look like this? She’d been overseas so much these last several years that he’d only seen her in passing.

  Rex moved in to sniff her just as she did a military about-face and almost trompled him.

  “Yipes!” Her cry of surprise as she stared down at the dog and fought for balance was pretty funny.

  “Hey there, Saint Ives.”

  She closed her eyes in a deeply pained expression.

  When she’d turned to face him, it was like being hit by a taser blast. Little Saint Ives transformed into a Marine Corps officer in her dress blues was messing with his head. She carried a dark blue leather-encased tablet computer that managed to make her look even more official and impressive.

  That’s when he noticed her shoulder insignia.

  “Major? Whoo-hoo! When did you get them pretty little leaves on your collar?” He had to say something to distract himself from the conflicting thoughts she was firing into his brain. Little Ivy and sexy Marine Corps major was a very weird juxtaposition.

  “Last week,” she heaved a sigh. Even the dress blues couldn’t conceal the very pleasant movement of her chest. Then she opened her eyes again, which were bluer than the DC springtime sky.

  “Would you mind getting your dog out of my way?” Rex had sat after giving h
er a good sniff.

  Colby looked down at her. He’d always remembered her as a little bit of a thing, three years younger besides. She’d always been cute as hell, but she was completely under the best-friend’s-little-sister rule: no touch, no look, no think. Hell, he’d practically helped raise her. It was a rule he’d always been fine with, mostly. He’d certainly never told Reggie about any stray thoughts to the contrary. Or Ivy. She’d have flattened him even if he could have picked her up one-handed.

  But she didn’t look like anybody’s kid sister in her Marine Corps uniform. She was breathtaking.

  “Colby,” she let a Marine growl into her voice, sounding almost as gruff as Rex, who cocked his head to listen to her. That was funny enough to give him back the power of speech.

  “Afraid not, Ives. Rex is sitting for a reason. Want to explain it to me or should I frisk you?”

  “You. Wouldn’t. Dare!” She shifted her weight to her back foot. The Secret Service had given him enough hand-to-hand combat training to recognize a fighter’s stance when he saw one. That’s when he remembered that one teased Saint Ives at their own risk. She’d been a taekwondo black belt by junior high and judo black belt in high school. Or was it jiu-jitsu? Dangerous as hell either way. More than once she’d taken him down despite the age and size difference. Even before she’d become a Marine, she’d always fought like a girl—to win.

  “It was range work and you damn well know it. He’s looking right at my sidearm.” And Rex was staring at her holster. Detection dogs triggered to spent powder. Then she pulled out her White House ID, looped the band over her head, and held it out for Colby to see. She had full Proximity Clearance—which meant that not only could she stand beside the President unescorted, but she was also one of the select few outside the Secret Service who were authorized to be armed in his presence.

  He should read her badge, but he couldn’t look away from her photo. Not even for a White House badge had Ivy been able to lock down that brilliant smile of hers. It was like she was looking right at him, as if he was a ray of sunshine on a winter’s day.

  Then he managed to look up from her photo and into her face. Not so much with the smile—sunshiny or otherwise.

  His leaning down had placed their faces entirely too close together. She didn’t get this close to anyone.

  Typical jerk, leaning in so close. Colby knew he was a handsome SOB, but the emphasis was on being a son of a bitch—and not in the good, Marine Corps sense of the word. He looked really good and…she’d clearly lost her mind.

  The last year that she’d spent with HMX-1 had been brutally hard, trying to live up to the impossible standards that challenged every single jarhead in the squadron. General Arnson drove his Marines just as hard as he drove himself. She’d never served with such an exceptional team before. But it had also meant she’d had no time for more personal liaisons.

  And now Colby stood so close that she could smell—

  McKinnon’s Law: Marine first, second, and third. Everything else comes fourth.

  “Back off, Thompson.” He jolted away as if she’d slapped him, his eyes a little wild.

  So much for her dignified arrival at the White House.

  She glanced back and caught Sergeant Mathieson’s smile as he marched the six steps from closing the rear door of the White Top and returned to the forward stairs. He turned to climb the stairs himself and his smile was hidden from view. Then she spotted Captain Walters’ grin through the pilot’s side window. She really didn’t need this.

  Ego don’t mean shit in the Corps. And McKinnon’s wisdom wasn’t helping her ego at all.

  “What are you doing here?” Colby said it as a whisper.

  “I’m the new HMX-1 liaison to the White House Military Office.”

  “The WHMO?” That earned her a whistle of surprise. “You know that those guys are a little freaky, right?”

  Hard challenges are what Marines live for!

  “Damn straight!” Ivy wasn’t sure if she was answering Colby or an imaginary McKinnon. Though Colby was right. The WHMO was one of those quiet agencies that almost no one had ever heard of. Yet Marine One, Air Force One, the ceremonial Marine sentries, the Nuclear Football with the President’s launch codes—all that was only part of what they did.

  “What are you doing here?” She tried to step around Rex, but he shifted to keep giving his warning signal. Colby put on his best innocent look, which never fooled anybody.

  “Any landing of the Marine helos on the South Lawn is part of Rex’s and my patrol. We secure the passage, the landing area, then act as backup on standby. If I’m right there,” he pointed off to the side as if she cared what he did, “then I’m not in any Press Corps photos either.”

  Overhead, the helo’s engines began whining to life. The rotors swung through their first lazy turn. Then another. Burning kerosene replaced the smell of fresh-mown grass.

  When Ivy again tried to step around Rex, the low growl that emanated from his chest was loud enough to be easily heard despite the escalating noise of the twin turbine engines. She froze in place. In fact, she was fairly certain that she stopped breathing entirely. He really was huge; his shoulders practically reached her waist.

  Colby flickered a hand sign to Rex to ease off. But the dog was too busy pointing his nose at her sidearm. He tried again. Still nothing.

  Ivy offered him a smirk. Still the same old Colby, never having his act together.

  Ivy’s smile wasn’t all happy and friendly like the one on her ID—it was more, What a goon!

  He signaled Rex one more time, but he was too busy looking at Ivy. Who could blame him? Somewhere over the last few years while he hadn’t been paying attention, she had tipped over from being a cute, feisty, pain-in-the-ass to being a gorgeous Marine warrior. He finally had to call out, “Gute Hund.” Rex looked up at him but didn’t move until Colby remembered to fumble out a dog treat.

  Once he had happily chomped it down, Rex sprang to his feet and let Ivy step past. She didn’t scowl at the dog, but she did scowl at him. Not his best day’s work.

  Behind them, the helicopter’s rotors wound up to full speed. But he didn’t look. He was too busy trying to catch up to the striding Marine a head shorter than he was.

  “Such,” he told Rex with the hard German ch. Seek. And they were alongside Ivy in a moment.

  “Because of course a German shepherd speaks German,” Ivy didn’t ease up from her military perfect posture as she strode across the lawn. Her voice carried easily over the roar of the departing helo. She’d never been soft-spoken, but the Marine Major carried an authority that he wasn’t sure what to do with.

  “Of course,” he agreed amiably. Actually, it was a very common practice among military and Secret Service dogs to train them in German. It avoided confusion in a crowd. The number of German words spoken by the Secret Service in general conversation were few and far between, so it also decreased the chances of a false signal to the dog.

  But what Colby was wondering about was if Ivy’s perfect posture was a leftover from all the ballet she’d done as a kid or martial arts as a teen? Or was it pure Marine? Whichever it was, she was making it damn hard to remember the best-friend’s-little-sister rule at the moment. Major Ivy Hanson was a serious woman who looked amazing in her dress uniform.

  “Don’t you have something else to do?”

  “Nope, can’t think of a thing.” Rex was tugging ahead, sniffing the air that he’d just checked coming the other way before the helicopter had landed. Unlike the friendly, floppy-eared dogs who patrolled among the tourists on the outside of the White House fence line, Rex was eighty-seven pounds of hard-driven canine who had never learned to be easy on the leash when he was on the job. He’d dump someone as small as Ivy right on her face as he charged ahead.

  Then Colby looked over at her again.

  Marine tough. Not a button or hair out of place. Enough ribbons on her chest to tell him that she wasn’t good at what she did—she was exceptional. O
f course he wouldn’t expect anything less from Saint Ives.

  Maybe she’d be just fine handling Rex.

  “Colby, I know how to walk to the damn White House alone.”

  “You can try, but it’s not gonna happen.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because for roughly the next ten minutes, I’ve been assigned to be your liaison to the White House.”

  “For reasons beyond understanding.”

  “For reasons of security. You’ve entered the White House grounds without passing through Security. Just because they let you onto the Anacostia airbase and aboard a White Top helo doesn’t cut it with the United States Secret Service. That means that you have an escort until you’re registered as being on the grounds. Think you can put up with me for that long, Saint Ives?”

  “I don’t know. It will be hard. But we Marines are used to shouldering heavy burdens.” She delivered it in a flat tone, but that smile of hers slipped out and lit up her face.

  It was a good thing the White House kitchen was in the basement of the Residence. That’s where her brother, Reggie worked—so he wouldn’t be able to see what was going on.

  What was going on?

  Colby didn’t know. But he knew he wanted to see Saint Ives smile at him like that again—really soon.

  Then Rex swung left as Colby stumbled off to the right. He was thinking of Saint Ives how? Reggie would kill him.

  Off balance and looking the wrong way, Colby went down on the South Lawn—face first. Leftover grass clippings were plastered to his face and he brushed at them frantically.

  Rex spun to look at him in surprise. He heard a sharp laugh from one of the Delta snipers on the roof of the West Wing.

  Saint Ives didn’t even break her stride, but it was easy to imagine her eye roll. Easy money said she’d make a point of rubbing in his clumsiness as well.