by Pat Cunnane
In the very back of the plane, just in front of the last galley, is where the press pool sat—confined to the smallest corner of the plane—with me. There was no Wi-Fi,II so aboard the most technologically advanced plane in the sky, we kicked it old school. Literally. Old School, with Will Ferrell, Luke Wilson, and Vince Vaughn, was one of the popular movies we watched, along with Dodgeball, starring Ben Stiller and (again) Vince Vaughn, which, for a time, was played on almost every leg of travel. There were magazines covered in plastic binders, like the ones in your dentist’s office. They were just below overflowing bowls of candy, like the ones you’d never find in your dentist’s office. The food on board was wonderful, and we were fed every leg, no matter how short the flight. While we were often feted with fancy dishes and the alcohol of our choice, there was always a persnickety photographer or two who insisted on a peanut butter and jelly—no crust. Still, the food and drinks as well as the entertainment helped keep the press contented, because they were stuck in their cabin, not allowed to roam the rest of the plane.
Fortunately, I was granted more freedom.
As I exited the press confines, I’d find a separate, similarly small, cabin that housed the traveling Secret Service agents. This is about as casual as you will see the professionals of the United States Secret Service. Their jackets, for once, off. Their gun holsters often slung over the seat in front of them—a vivid reminder that this ain’t Delta.
To the left of the press cabin sit the members of the US Air Force, all impeccably—and uniformly—dressed in their blue AF1 bomber jackets. Ahead, the plane opens up into the guest cabin, which extends the full width of the behemoth 747. Eight reclining leather chairs—plush and brown—corner two wooden tables. Congressmen and congresswomen hitching a ride to their home districts settle into this area for the flights, as do other distinguished guests. Extremely distinguished guests, on the other hand—from the Bushes and Clintons to Bruce Springsteen—usually hobnob farther up front.
Ahead of the guest cabin is a small office with two of the slowest computers on or off Earth, as well as the staff cabin, similar in size and look to the guest cabin.
Then things get presidential. Walking forward on the right is the conference room, where Obama spent much of his time playing spades with trusted aides.
President Obama, presumably the busiest person on the plane, was never much for taking the opportunity to sleep. If he wasn’t reading briefing books, he was usually game to play cards. For hours. Sleep-deprived aides sometimes struggled to keep up. Jay was a frequent partner, which was a problem for me. You see, I often needed to talk to Jay about a reporter question or press issue, which necessitated me entering the Air Force One conference room and putting the game on hold as I chatted with Jay. I did not like interrupting the president’s card games. As he rose through the ranks, Schultz made his spades debut, too. Trouble is, he didn’t know how to shuffle, so for a few weeks, he kept a deck in his office and practiced behind closed doors.
In the front by the staff cabin is the doctor’s office, where we were free to drop in with whatever mundane maladies we faced. The president’s doctor, Ronny Jackson, as well as a nurse or two, were always nearby. I usually stopped by with a headache or a cold, but they were an ever-present reminder—along with the operating table and armed men on board—of the risks the president faces. The flight deck was on the second level, leaving the front portion of the plane available for the president’s office, his custom Air Force One jacket waiting for him on his deep-brown leather chair. And at the very front, the president’s private quarters, complete with a bed and an impressive bathroom.
But beyond the bedroom and bathroom, and forgetting about the fantastic food, which we passengers were charged for whether or not we ate (good government at its best . . . ), the greatest part of flying on Air Force One is the atmosphere. The rules are loose. Tray table down for takeoff? Sure. Want to change into pajamas and sleep on the floor? No problem. Folks who are typically spread across the White House’s eighteen-acre campus, and sometimes across Washington, DC, itself, are put together in one confined space.
There was a long-running prank pulled against the newest wrangler on Air Force One, whereby we were made to believe that we were responsible for the parachutes to be handed out to the press in the event of an emergency. I fell for it momentarily—but having read chapter 1, that shouldn’t shock you. More surprisingly, when it was my turn to pass the prank on to a newer wrangler—Velz—he fell for it too.
When I came clean, he offered an interesting perspective on how someone as innately skeptical as he is could fall for such a ludicrous lie. “Well, if you told me two years ago when I graduated college that I’d be taking my first trip aboard Air Force One, I wouldn’t have believed you,” he said. “Because it’s completely insane. But I am, so I mean, yeah, if you tell me there are parachutes, why wouldn’t I believe you.”
We were already at 99 percent unbelievable—in rarefied air—so parachutes seemed plausible.
And each journey took on a surreal, adult field trip feel. You came back knowing just a little bit more about the people you work with. After all, there’s no better way to get to know folks than to travel with them. Or fall asleep next to them, as I once did with Brian Williams. I thought it best not to tell him that his photo hung over my desk alongside David Cameron’s.
And Air Force One is where I got to know President Obama a little bit better. From his casual wear to his habits to kill time, Air Force One was the perfect place to get a sense of Barack Obama off the clock. Up in the air, this plane, filled with the most powerful people on Earth, is momentarily disconnected from Earth, deaf to the drone of cable news. Alienated.
But as we descended, our disconnection slowly evaporated. BlackBerrys began to ping as we returned to Earth and picked up television reception again. We sometimes turned to CNN or the local news, which often covered the president’s arrival live. Watching Air Force One descend on television while aboard is trippy. It’s a slap-yourself moment. Hard to comprehend. Seeing the plane touch down, like you’ve seen in movies and countless clips from the news, it’s hard to conceptualize—hard to believe—every time.
I remember one trip, as we closed in on the runway and CNN kicked to life, airing our landing live, I turned to one of the grizzled photographers. He’d done thousands of flights. He just smiled.
“It never gets old.”
“I’m still trying to wrap my head around it,” I said. But there’s never any time to do that. Because the moment the wheels halt and the familiar arrival bell tolls, the men and women of the air force—just one cabin over—jump to their feet, the Secret Service secure their weapons, and the men and women of the press ready their cameras. The president is wheels down, and the trip’s about to begin.
• • •
We got our money’s worth out of that plane. We had to. After all, the president needs to be in a lot of places for various reasons, from domestic travel and foreign trips, to vacations and campaigning, to disaster visits and funerals.
DOMESTIC TRAVEL
Official domestic and campaign trips were, not surprisingly, the most prevalent form of presidential travel. From rallies and factory visits to diner drop-ins and hikes through national parks, we crisscrossed the country in service of the president and his vision for America. But when things hit close to home, many staffers—myself included—tried to kill two birds with one stone. Hometown visits are a good opportunity to introduce the president to your family, which is exactly what I planned to do when I heard we would hold an official event just outside Philly, not far from where I grew up.
I’ll never forget spotting my in-laws’ house from the window of a helicopter trailing Marine One through the air as we flew to the event. I’ll also never forget the way the president looked at me that day.
Like I was a moron.
Stephanie hadn’t yet met my boss. And because I knew the Africa trip I mentioned earlier was on the horizon—and dangerousl
y close to our wedding—I thought POTUS’s visit to the suburbs of Philadelphia early in 2013 was the win-win moment to make the meeting happen. She and my mom had waited backstage all morning. Marie, who arrived at the event site early with the press charter, got them situated. I was traveling with the president and the smaller White House press pool, which always arrived a few hours behind the charter. Eventually the rumble of our helicopters overtook the venue. The folks in line bounced back to life and out of the haze of a long wait as our helicopter came in for a landing. With additional helicopters touching down all around us—rotors vibrating, blades ratcheting off, and our engine freshly cut—I disembarked our helicopter, Nighthawk 4, and darted toward the warehouse. Let’s be real: getting off of a helicopter in a suit—it’s a good look. So, I was confident; ready to make a good impression on the president and my fiancée and to smooth the way for the Africa announcement.
The line kicked into gear, moving in fits and starts. After greeting my mom and Stephanie as well as a few other familiar faces in line—one more excited than the next—I jumped ahead to the front of the line and checked in on the president. He seemed to be in a great mood. Just what I needed. Smiling and laughing. Glad-handing, in the best sense of the word. Perfect for an introduction. I returned to my mom and fiancée as they inched closer to POTUS.
“What should I say to him?” Stephanie asked anxiously.
“Anything. Just be cool.”
“Not exactly helpful, Pat,” my mom interjected.
After a bit more nervous small talk, we were ushered closer, his laugh was more booming, and his unmistakable voice became clear. The president was just beyond the dark blue drapery, which the White House advance team piped throughout the warehouse. We slipped into the slit in the drape. He greeted us warmly, exuding his cool, comfortable vibe. Like they’d all been friends for ages. Stephanie—who had been a wreck—was immediately at ease. After making introductions, I stepped off to the side.
My mom had recently been elected to the Pennsylvania State Legislature as Madeleine Dean, her maiden name. Turns out “Cunnane” doesn’t fit as well on a lawn sign. She told the president of her priorities for the state. He listened graciously, and—as if everyone in the building didn’t know his entire personal history—he offered, “The state legislature is how I got my start in politics.”
My mom smiled wryly. “You know, I heard that somewhere . . .”
Next, the president pulled Stephanie in and put his arm around her. Pete was about to take the picture, when the president waved me over: “Jump in.”
I demurred. “Oh, that’s all right.”
The president’s beloved “body man,” a six-foot-nine-inch all-around good guy named Marv, piped up.III “C’mon, you gotta be in it.” I politely declined once more, but POTUS waved me over yet again, and I made my way to them.
Looking at Stephanie, I tried to explain myself.
“I thought you should get your own . . .”
I should have shut up then. Enough said. The president and Stephanie sort of glanced at each other. My mom gave a puzzled look from the other corner. I finished the explanation.
“You know, just in case things don’t work out.”
FOREIGN TRAVEL
President Obama was remarkably popular around the world. Despite arguments to the contrary, the data—from both Pew Research Center and Gallup—show that America enjoyed a steep upward shift in the way the world regarded us with President Obama at the helm. Pew’s spring 2016 “Global Attitudes & Trends” survey is striking. Confidence in the US president to do the right thing regarding world affairs bottomed out around 10 percent to 20 percent among our close allies in Western Europe and skyrocketed almost overnight into the 70 percent, 80 percent, and 90 percent range as Obama took over.
I saw it firsthand, from South Africa to Saudi Arabia. It sometimes felt like folks around the world were even more excited to catch a glimpse of America’s president than so many of the citizens we interacted with across our own country.
Once in a while, in the very last seat of the president’s plane, my empty mind would flash back to my 2009 voyage around the world on Semester at Sea; the trip felt like a strange underlayer, like worn flannel, beneath my trips around the world with Barack Obama. The theme for our semester had been the South African word ubuntu. It was an abstraction back then as we crossed the Atlantic and didn’t impress me much as we set sail—sort of kitschy—meaning the “oneness of humanity,” but its imprint came into clearer focus as we arrived in port after port, starting with Marrakesh, Morocco.
To my young self, the city seemed in a constant state of motion. A cosmopolitan town made up of people with modern places to be. But just through a narrow passage and around a tight corner or two, Stephanie and I entered the souks. It was like stepping back three centuries: utter pandemonium. Men with monkeys tried to collect our money. A black cobra stared me down from his mat in the middle of the market. There was welding and weaving, hawking and bartering. Not much English, but one man did offer a few camels in exchange for Stephanie, who was by my side. I thanked him but politely declined. Stephanie punched me in the shoulder. Hard.
The man with the camel offer then asked if we were American. We nodded reluctantly. His eyes lit up: “Obama!” he yelled. A local passerby chimed in without breaking stride: “Obama!” It was the same exclamation we received as we made our way down and around the continent. In Namibia, men and women honked their horns and chanted “Oh-Ba-Mahhh!” and “welcome to Africa!” You would have thought I was already traveling with Obama. Instead, we were Americans benefiting from his global glow. Ubuntu was beginning to dawn on me.
Foreign trips with Obama were grueling. The days were jam-packed, the hours were mad, and the flights were long, which made for some laxer-than-usual encounters on Air Force One. Since leaving the White House, it’s hard not to notice how stylish President Obama has become. As he gets farther from the buttoned-up demands of the presidency, more and more of his shirt buttons go undone, and, clearly, it works for him.
But he wasn’t always so fashionable. On overnight flights, he frequently changed into his flight-casual gear. Athletic zip-up sweatshirt (okay), unusually tight sweatpants (not okay), and, of course, sandals—with white socks (really not okay). Had America seen this version of Obama, the infamous tan suit would have seemed a step in the right direction. It was a disconcerting vision of our very cool POTUS. But it seemed to keep him loose, because he kept it real on those flights.
Late in the administration, as news was leaking of Trump’s plans, or lack thereof, to adequately address cybersecurity in the wake of the 2016 elections, Obama, aboard Air Force One, disposed of his measured rhetoric and let fly with a more concise than typical appraisal of the situation: “That shit cray,” he said, strolling out of the conference room.
Speaking of cybersecurity and shit being cray, Russia proved one of my more memorable foreign trips with the president. The G-20, an international economic summit made up of nineteen countries and the European Union, was in Saint Petersburg. It was a long day and a half. Vladimir Putin played host on the immaculate, massive grounds of the Konstantin Palace, across a small sliver of the Gulf of Finland, where staffers and the press were staying in a local hotel.
We took advantage of a high-speed ferry to usher us across the gulf, where we took part in some more heated than usual pool sprays and spent a good deal of the day waiting around in a series of large tents the Russians had set up for us. We were each given a goody bag, which included a teddy bear and a zip drive (the zip drive went immediately into the trash for fear of spying). During the day, wandering around the G-20, I was struck by how familiar such a heightened international gathering could feel. It wasn’t so dissimilar from the bicycle trade shows I had attended as a kid with my dad, who’s been in the bicycle business since he started sweeping floors at a local shop when he was twelve—shuttling in and out of booths, reconnecting with folks you haven’t seen in a year.
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sp; At night, the stakes became clearer as we trailed Obama’s motorcade to Peterhof, once the Russian emperors’ country residence, where now the globe’s leaders debated what to do in the wake of a chemical attack in Syria, presumably undertaken by my supposed doppelgänger, Bashar al-Assad.
We waited in our parked pool van for more than five hours as the leaders failed to come to an agreement on a way forward in Syria, with Putin a major obstacle to progress. Then suddenly we heard a series of booms, and our car rumbled and shook. “A light and music show,” our press lead assuaged me. It was Hunger Games–esque. I always found it odd—and somewhat comforting—that the world’s leaders, having argued vehemently over dinner, would come together to watch a bizarre performance. It was like a cooling-off period, and it turns out they may have needed one. I learned that President Putin, after Obama had made his strong case, said to our president: “You’ve got some big balls.”
So the cultural celebration was a reminder that, for these men and women in power, whatever your agreements or disagreements, having just manifested themselves in personal interactions, what mattered was your representation of country, not yourself or who had the biggest balls. Best not to let anyone storm off angry.
And so we didn’t get back to the ferry dock until around two in the morning. We sprinted to catch the last boat. I slumped in my seat, ready to sneak in a nap, when my BlackBerry lit up. Who would call at this time of night? A reporter would. A pool TV producer was losing his mind, lighting into me. He had stayed behind to do stand-up shots, and there were no more ferries. How dare I let that Russian ferry depart? I think I would have had a better chance of diving overboard in Africa after that fallen adapter than I would have had stopping the Russian authorities from letting the ferry leave. Turns out the press pool and boats don’t jive.
It wasn’t the best way to end the trip, but at least I got a teddy bear out of it.
