The President’s Bitch

by Andy King

  “In Laemmle’s absence, I’m naming you National Security Advisor, as of now. Tom and Carmel are my witnesses.”

  “Pending Congressional approval.”

  “Laemmle’s been relieved on my order. You’re the boss, so go get ‘em.”

  I look around, hoping that things are ready for the rat to desert the sinking ship. Suddenly, I realize—where’s Jack? I’ve got to go, and he’s going with me. I say a two-word prayer: Please God, and remember one more thing.

  “The Commanders, Josh.”

  “They’re all in except NorthCom and CentCom, like before.”

  “Crap. NorthCom, still?” Northern Command at Peterson Air Force Base in Colorado must be the key to this revolution or coup or whatever it is. MacElvain’s got to be running all of his military operations through it.

  “Remember when I said I thought there was something happening, something with NorthCom and CentCom? We’re pretty sure that MacElvain and General O’Hara have transferred command of domestic operations from NorthCom to CentCom.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I blurt. “CentCom’s pretty much the Middle East, from Egypt up to Kazakhstan.”

  “Probably a diversionary tactic. We’ve lost valuable time, tracking it down.” Tom says.

  “So it’s at MacDill in Florida. That’s still an Air Force Base, for crying out loud!” I shout. “Can’t Jordan do something about it?”

  “It seems that they built up fortifications at MacDill over the last few months,” Tom says. “Air Force Special Ops have them surrounded at a distance. I’m sending in reinforcements, but nobody shoots until you say so.”

  “Can’t you just cut the cable?” I say, meaning squelch all communications. CentCom is a giant communications operation, not a big warfare unit.

  “They have a thousand Army personnel with heavy weapons, and the electronics have quadruple redundancy. They can hole up and do their dirty work for years. Madame President, you have to leave. Now.”

  I stare at the assembled group, Carmel and Susan, a half dozen key aides and Carmel’s staff. I close my eyes.

  “All right, let’s go, signing off for now.” I thumb the phone and hand it to my aide.

  There’s a commotion near an entrance. Jack barrels in, wide-eyed. He sees the entourage. His face shows that he understands what’s going on. One of his hands is bloody.

  “Some of the Secret Service has gone rogue,” he says between gulps of air.

  “We know, and we’re leaving.”

  He steps close to me. “All right.” His good hand inside his jacket on his gun, he scans the room for threats, and gestures for me to walk ahead of him.

  I feel safer already. Head high, I stroll to the door, taking my time. I’m not going to be run off the homestead by a pack of jackals without wearing the last shred of dignity I have.

  “We’re going out the front door,” I say to my Navy man.

  “General Shelby asked me to take you out the south entrance.”

  “General Shelby’s not here, and I’m going to stare down the traitors. I want to see their faces. Re-route transportation.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  When we reach the lobby on the north side, my throat goes thick. At least sixty people are jammed into the space, from Secret Service agents and high-level analysts, to cooks, housekeepers and landscapers. I know many of them by name, and greet some, shaking their hands.

  Applause breaks out. My eyes go moist, I can’t help it. As I approach the front door, I turn and face the assembly. “I will be back, I promise you.” Then I spin around and trudge out before I start crying.

  Dawn is breaking, although it’s hard to tell with the snow fluttering through the air. Beyond the clustered Marine Corps troops, as far as I can see up and down Pennsylvania Avenue and throughout Lafayette Square, hundreds of shadowy figures, infantry wearing helmets and holding weapons, stand at attention. Troop carriers are parked in the distance. I even see a tank. A tank? My God, what’s become of this nation?

  My hands are red from the cold, but my heart burns for revenge. I will hang MacElvain for treason if it’s the last thing I do.

  I wonder what I did to piss off God, but check it. Self-pity is not a solution.

  “Would you like a hat?” my aide asks halfway to the SUVs.

  I shake my head no. I want them to see my face. I’m tougher than this storm and tougher than the traitors. MacArthur’s words ring in my ears, “I shall return.”

  Looking up at Jack, I smile. “Nice day for a plane ride.”

  He’s scanning the silhouetted throng, and barely hears me. He looks back, his face a craggy etch. “This isn’t over,” he growls.

  Just when we reach my Suburban, a snowball lands on the hood. Some soldier who doesn’t approve of me, no doubt. I could care less, but Jack lunges toward the assembled mob, peering angrily, trying to locate the asshole.

  “C’mon, Jack,” I say.

  A snowball? The chill wind whips through my hair.

  MacElvain and O’Hara used the storm as a snare, trying to sequester me like I thought earlier. They used the weather to their advantage. So…

  Obviously Mac would be leery of getting trapped in the same blizzard. He wouldn’t risk being cut off, too.

  Where would he go? Someplace warm. Like MacDill Air Force Base?

  Let’s pretend MacElvain’s down in Florida huddling with O’Hara. Laemmle’s probably there, too, though he barely matters. If I can trap them together and smoke them out before I’m completely defenseless, I can turn this around. I’m in exile, but not without power. Yet.

  I climb in, grateful for the heat. Jack clambers in after me, and Carmel and Susan take the back row.

  My first thought is to call Josh and ask him about my idea, but then I decide to think it through a little more. The six vehicle caravan is driving to Andrews Field. In the snow, there’s plenty of time.

  Carmel leans forward. “After Air Force One, then what? You can’t stay in an airplane forever.”

  I nod, still thinking about Mac. He’s going to assume I’m headed for Air Force One or Camp David. What if I pull his trick, and disappear? The only challenge is how to separate me from the official entourage.

  “Please stay on surface roads,” I say to the driver. “I’d feel safer.”

  I put my lips to Jack’s ear. “You’re not going to like this.”

  19

  Cheri

  When I finish whispering my idea, he pulls away, his face chalky. “You’re not doing that, no way.”

  My tone is like cold-rolled steel. “It’s the only way.”

  “I’m coming.”

  “No, that’s the thing. No one can come. It’s got be perfect. We’re being watched and tracked.”

  “It’s my sworn duty,” his voice cracks, “and I’m your husband. I—”

  “Forbid me? We’re not married yet. I outrank you, bub.”

  I watch him calculate.

  His eyes flick to mine. “How the hell do you think you can pull it off?”

  “A bridge or a tunnel. What, you haven’t seen any movies? I’m assuming they’ve got satellite on us and they’re following at a distance, too. I would, if I was them. Drop me off, then drop you off. We meet somewhere.”

  I lower my voice further. “If I disappear completely, even for a few hours, maybe I can buy some time, confuse them and get an edge.”

  His jaw clenches as he thinks through the logic. The snow seems a little lighter. Our motorcade crawls along at twenty.

  “We don’t have much time to plan this,” he says.

  “So make some calls. I can’t.”

  He closes his eyes, thinking. “There are two bridges not that far from each other. They’re on this road, just past the Maryland state line.”

  “That’s the ticket. Now get us a ride.”

  “I’ll get two. It’ll be safer.”

  He pulls out his phone and taps a number. His voice now kind and concerned, he must be talking to his s
ister. The sentences are fragments, the kind you hear among family and intimate friends. She wants to tell him something, but he gently interrupts her, saying this is more important, and explains quickly. Without a goodbye, he taps off and presses another recent phone number.

  “Angeline, it’s Jack. I’ve got this really big favor to ask and I can’t tell you why. You have to trust me. Please drop the other thing.”

  I listen to him skate around the reason, focusing on the need to leave now, and the approximate location. Finally he ends the call.

  “Here’s how we have to do it,” he whispers. “My sister knows me by sight and Angeline knows you. She won’t be looking for you specifically, ‘cause I couldn’t tell her that. But she’s smart, and when she sees you, she’ll get it. Anna’s leaving now and she’s closer, so I get out first.”

  He describes the location of the second bridge. “You need to have them let you out on the far side, then take your time walking back. Do you have a scarf?”

  “I’ve got everything, I’m sure.”

  “Cover your head and face. I’m hoping our tail isn’t too close and doesn’t notice the quick dropoffs. You’re going to have to be smooth, and we’re going to need a lot of luck to pull this off.”

  “How are we going to meet?”

  “I’ll call Angeline as soon as Anna picks me up. With luck, we’ll be right in front of her, or behind her, or we can get there quickly.”

  He holds up a finger, presses his earbud and tells a trailing agent not to let his vehicle stop. Tell the tail car, too.

  My excitement is building. I haven’t been alone, out in the world on my own in over a year, almost two since the campaign got Secret Service protection. Desperate measures for desperate times, and all that.

  Jack waves front and back. “You’ve got to tell them. The first bridge is only a few minutes from here.”

  I raise my voice and announce my intentions. Instantly a hubbub breaks out, Carmel swearing and my aide protesting.

  “Shut up!” I yell. “Just shut up!”

  When everyone’s silent, I say, “We don’t have much time. I’m the goddamned President of the United States and you all work for me. Jack and I have figured this out. It’s our best chance to get away from the goons and fix this mess, so do what I tell you. It’s on me.”

  “You’re acting crazy, Cher,” Carmel grumbles.

  Susan’s working her phone feverishly, still carpet bombing, her red curls swinging in her face.

  “Maybe, but we’ve got to do it,” I reply.

  “See that bridge?” Jack says. “Slow down, ten yards from the other edge, don’t even stop. I’ll jump out. Like I said, keep rolling.”

  He’s on the passenger side. As soon as he’s out, I have to slide over. I make sure that the driver knows where the second bridge is.

  We’re under the first one. The driver slows down, to about one mile an hour like Jack said, not that close to the curb.

  Suddenly Jack’s out the door. It slams, and the driver picks his speed back up to ten, then fifteen, then twenty, about what we were doing to begin with. I look back.

  Jack’s nowhere to be seen. Good, I guess. I turn around and glance at Carmel, who’s glowering at me.

  Taking care not to smirk, I ask my aide for a scarf and hat. He produces a thick grey woolen muffler that looks like it’s from Bloomingdale’s, and a Navy blue watch cap that I can tuck my hair in and roll low. I get to work, and in seconds I’m decked out for winter.

  “Gloves?” He holds up Alpine mittens and a pair of leather Thinsulates.

  I choose the latter for dexterity. Flashing on secret agent movies I saw when I was a kid, I’m ready. My butt tingles. “It’s that bridge, right?”

  “Pretty sure,” the driver says.

  “Slow down like you did for Jack, don’t stop.”

  “You break your leg it’s not on me,” Carmel growls.

  I just grin, electric with nerves. Picking the spot I think I’m going to hit, I suddenly wish I had gymnastics training. Oh well.

  Without pause I swing the door open. My foot hits the ground, and I stumble a little. But I get my other foot under me and slam the door. I skip over to the sidewalk and start walking the way we were going, scarf covering as much of my face as possible, my head turned away from the road.

  Don’t look, don’t look, I tell myself. Traffic crawls past. I’m out from under the bridge, and decide I’d better just keep walking, let Angeline find me.

  There are stores ahead, wood frame buildings with tall windows. An electrical smell, plastic burning in a garage machine shop or illegal drug lab, rides on the biting air. Head down, I trudge along, hoping that Angeline pulls up soon. I reach a side street. There’s a red light, so I wait.

  On the other side, a couple of tough-looking guys are ambling up to intersect my path. My coloring is fine for this neighborhood, but my clothes are a several cuts above the norm. I’m not wearing jewelry and I only have a little cash that Carmel insisted I take, “just in case.” I’ll gladly fork it over to get out of a jam.

  The light turns green. The men stare at me. I start toward them.

  As soon as my foot hits the far curb they shuffle in front of me. Menacingly. My feet stop. There’s nowhere to go. I stuff down fear.

  “Hey baby,” one of them says. I keep a blank face, not looking at them, but not looking away.

  “I said hey baby.” The man steps closer.

  Forcing a casual slouch I look up at him. He’s dark, and has pits all over his nose and cheeks. Fumes roll off him, cheap wine and stale sweat. He’s probably thirty, but looks fifty. I can’t help but think that he’s a person I swore to serve when I took office. I don’t speak, just stare.

  “Any spare change?” the second one asks. He crowds me from the side.

  My hands are in my jacket pockets. I pull out the bills. I just want to move on.

  “Bitch got bank,” the first one says. “Bet she got a fine pussy.” He snatches the money.

  “Yeah, we could give her a ride, she be paying us.”

  They bump fists and guffaw. The first one counts the bills.

  “Sixty bucks and we get laid. Sweet. You give good head, honey?” He turns to the second man and winks. “Bet she’s good. She be gagging on my big old johnson.”

  The second one takes my arm in a hard grip. “C’mon, Pretty. We going back here, see what you got.”

  I’m sweating, even though it’s freezing out. I haven’t said a word yet, hoping Angeline drives up and I can jump in her car.

  But things aren’t looking good.

  The first man swings around behind me while the second one pulls me down the sidewalk.

  “Better not. You’re gonna be in a world of shit,” I spit out.

  “Haw haw haw, don’t think so.” The first one’s bumping my back, like he’s fumbling with his fly.

  They pull me into an alley. There’s a discarded iron bed frame and piles of trash and debris. Asshole Number Two digs his fingers into my arm and drags me toward the bed.

  The toes of my shoes scrape across the crumbling asphalt. I screech, “Help! Help me!”

  “Fuck you, bitch!”

  He raises his hand to slap me, but I slice away. His glancing blow stings. Suddenly his hand’s around my ankle, I’m in midair. My butt hits the asphalt. I roll away.

  Number One’s got his thing out, half-hard. He careens into the bed frame, bounces off and steadies himself against a dumpster. Two grabs me by a leg and wrist, picks me up and throws me on the rusted bed springs.

  One’s wide, broke-tooth grin is hollow, his eyes dead as he shuffles toward me, stroking himself. “You a fighter, baby? Fight this bad motha.”

  I try to wriggle away, but Two’s grip is too strong. He jams an elbow against my windpipe, his forearm forcing my chest down, a hand pinning my hip, the other trying to pull down my sweatpants.

  My feet are free. I squirm and kick, but only find air. One straddles the narrow bed as Two feverishly
tries to claw my pants down. I twist my hips, panicked, and force my fists open, hoping for an opening to gouge his eyes.

  “That’s it, baby. Now open up wide.” One is hard. He steps closer, holding it inches from my face.

  My mouth is like sand, and my eyes bulge out from the force of Two’s elbow cutting off my air. Spots dance in my vision. I’m going to pass out.

  “You don’t take it, I’m-a jam my fist up your pussy,” Two spits in my ear. “Now open your damn mouth, bitch!”

  I fight my urge to struggle, making myself go limp. Play submissive, wait for a chance to bite. I’m going to puke, picturing biting him there, but I’ve been through worse when I was younger. Screaming at myself in my head, I command my mouth to open. Just pretend it’s squirrel.

  I hear the screech of tires. Two’s head whips around. The pressure of his arm lets up. My eyes shoot over.

  A car’s pulled up across the street. Jack is running, flying at us with murder in his eyes.

  Two lets go of my pants and starts to get up. One tucks himself back in, steps over the bed and holds up his fists as if to fight. Jack punches him in the throat. The guy goes down, gurgling.

  Jack grabs Two by the neck, forcing him away from me. Like a machine, he presses the man to his knees. I spring up, wriggling, struggling with my pants.

  Two holds up his hands, pleading. Jack’s pressing his gun to the man’s temple.

  “No!” I shout. “We have to get out of here!”

  Jack kicks the guy in the nose. Blood sprays everywhere.

  Without a word Jack scoops me up like I’m a feather and carries me across the street in big strides. Opening the passenger-side door, he rips back the seat and flings me, then jumps in. “Go!”

  The blonde behind the wheel punches it. We speed away down the side street. My saliva’s thick with blood and stomach acid, a rusty paste of terror. My feet are dank with sweat.

  I’m close to shock after seeing Jack in action, seeing what he’s capable of, how fast he moved. I force myself not to speak. His face is crimson, his lips white.

  “Hi, I’m Anna,” the blond girl says brightly.

  “Cheri. Nice to meet you.”

  I glare at Jack. “You were going to kill him.”