The Sentinel

by Gerald Petievich

  "I've often thought the job of a Secret Service agent to be like that of a politician-a lot of split-second decisions," the President said.

  More like few decisions after maximum procrastination, thought Garrison.

  "Makes sense to me," he said.

  "Good decisions are based on values. That's what's been wrong in this country. Old-fashioned American values have been on a downhill slide. People don't think anything is worth standing up for any longer. American malaise is a product of television. It's degraded the thinking process of the nation. People don't know how to think for themselves any longer. That kind of brain-washing has half the people in this country wearing their baseball hat backwards because they've seen it on a sitcom."

  "Never thought of it like that."

  "Let's change the subject," Eleanor said coldly.

  "Certainly, dear," the President said, his eyes cast downward.

  Garrison mused that it was when couples were behind closed doors that the truth came out. Eleanor was dominant in the relationship.

  A waiter entered the room.

  "Excuse me, Mrs. Jordan. You have a priority call."

  Eleanor rose to leave. Garrison and the President stood.

  "Will you two please sit down," she said on her way out. "I'll just take a second."

  The President picked up his wineglass and took a swig. Pursing his lips, he swallowed. "A wonderful woman, the First Lady. I'm a very lucky man."

  "It's a pleasure working for her."

  Garrison's words sounded absurd. But what the hell was he supposed to say?

  The President offered wine. Garrison declined, though he felt like chugging down the entire bottle. The President was tipsy, but he always held his liquor like a true political professional, betrayed only by a slight rosiness high on his cheeks. The President's every action exuded that mixture of magnetism, ambition, and adroitness that people call leadership.

  Garrison recalled the President's unique ability to make his voice crack when he wanted to show emotion - a trait often mimicked by Secret Service comedians. Once, when standing beside him at a St. Patrick's Day party in the Diplomatic Reception Room, Garrison had noticed a distinct Irish brogue creep into the President's voice.

  Garrison and the other members of the White House Secret Service Detail judged Presidents by their manner and accessibility rather than by any political standard. They regarded President Jordan as a lightweight. Aloof and insensitive, Jordan allowed the members of his youthful, immature staff to tromp on Secret Service agents whenever they pleased. Like President Lyndon Johnson, being the most powerful man in the world still wasn't enough to satisfy his ego. Jordan relished demonstrating his power. Once, at an official dinner in France's Elysee Palace, Garrison had watched him stub his cigar on a gold-plated Louis XIV antique dinner plate, then smirk as his hosts squirmed silently in anger.

  "When I ran for President she put me over the top," he now said. "I owe that to her. But in politics, Pete, there is always a price to pay. Little favors, little price. And the big favors? They require endless payments. Sometimes the price is too great. Eleanor has had to put up with a lot since we came to D.C. It's not easy when I'm on the road half the time. Her being alone so often when I travel ... the media pressure. It takes a toll. The White House can be a real House of Pain-a pressure cooker. The reporters have been after her since we got here. Slime merchants, digging up shit from the past. Oh, I have a hundred friends. The big operators - network anchors. I'm talking about the so-called muckrakers. Like that prick reporter Joe Kretchvane."

  "No one likes newsies-"

  "Not even their own damn mothers." The President set his fork down on his plate, sat back, and looked Garrison in the eye. "You know, Pete, the strain the press puts on the First Family can lead to errors of judgment ... even by those who are otherwise strong and self-reliant. The First Lady and I are a team. If I found out someone was trying to take advantage of her, I'd bury him. You understand what I mean, don't you, Pete?"

  Garrison forced a guileless smile. "You're saying that person would suddenly be in a world of hurt."

  The President set his glass down. "How do you feel about that kind of thing? A user, a maggot who would take advantage of a woman's weakness?"

  "I feel the same way."

  Garrison read the President's expression as general suspicion rather than animosity. He might suspect something, but he didn't know for sure. Otherwise, even the President, with his practiced political nature, wouldn't have been able to mask his feelings so fully. The most shocking revelation Garrison had learned since entering the Secret Service was that whether Presidents were former football captains, Rhodes scholars, or business executives, the only thing that distinguished them from other men was the strength of their will to prevail. Garrison had sworn to give his life for Russell Jordan, a second-rate Rotary Club lunch orator.

  "That's what I'd thought you'd say, Pete."

  Eleanor returned to the room.

  "Everything okay, dear?" the President asked.

  "Just a minor scheduling problem."

  The President left a few minutes later after mentioning something about getting back to the conference center before his aides gave away all the gold in Fort Knox. Garrison followed him outside. As the President went out of sight, Eleanor joined Garrison.

  "Pete, did he say anything when I was gone?"

  Garrison stared down the road. "He suspects something."

  "Pardon me?"

  "I told him we were having an affair."

  "You what?"

  Garrison smiled.

  "Very funny. " She paused. "I hate him."

  Her tone surprised him. It was both strident and distracted, as if she were speaking to someone else.

  "Eleanor, look, you can't-"

  "He's sneaky. Pete, I deserve to be happy too. I've earned it. I've earned it the hard way by putting up with him. Pete, tell me we can handle this blackmail thing. We can deal with it, right? It's not going to blow up in our faces is it?"

  "We can handle it."

  But he didn't believe what he was saying. Getting involved with her had been a mistake, an error in judgment, and now there was no easy way out of it. The blackmailer would come back. They always did. It was the nature of the crime.

  "Pete, I want to go back to the White House,"

  "Tonight?"

  She took a deep breath and let it out. "I can't stand being here with him."

  Later, as the helicopter lifted off the Camp David pad, Garrison sat across from Eleanor as she busied herself making telephone calls. He had the feeling that he'd forgotten something, that there were last-minute errands he couldn't recall.

  Arriving at the White House, Garrison led Eleanor inside to the private elevator where Agent Ronan Squires was on duty.

  She looked troubled as she stepped into the elevator.

  Garrison wanted to ask her if she was okay, but said nothing because of Squires. She said good night, and the elevator doors slowly closed.

  "I hear you're riding some kind of a lie-detector beef." Squires said.

  "It's nothing."

  "Whatever it is, I wish you luck on it."

  Garrison said thanks.

  "Wintergreen was looking for you a few minutes ago."

  Garrison headed down the hall.

  ****

  CHAPTER 13

  BRECKINRIDGE PULLED UP to a guard booth near the front entrance of Fort McNair in southwest Washington. Rolling down the window, she held out her badge to a military police officer.

  "Can you direct me to Building 46?"

  "The Military Intelligence Corps building is to the right after you pass the Post Exchange, ma'am," the MP said before saluting.

  She drove inside. The rain had subsided a few minutes earlier and she'd turned off the windshield wipers. But there was still electricity in the air, indicating to her that a heavier rain might start at any minute.

  Kallenstien was eating sunflower seeds from a cellophan
e package.

  "Mr. MP has a Class A butt."

  "Go back and tell him."

  "No way. But sometimes I wish I was a major slut." Following the MP's directions, Breckinridge drove past the general officers quarters - brick Colonial homes nestled among drooping elms - and a wide lawn extending to the edge of the water. There is a well-kept, olive-drab uniformity to military installations, no matter where they are in the world.

  She parked in one of the marked spaces in front of Building 46, a prefabricated structure with a large air-conditioning unit on its metal roof. A sign read: 5 11 TTI MIC - RESEARCH. She and Flanagan got out of the car and walked to the door. A peephole opened. They held up badges. Lieutenant Mary Nicklanovich opened the door and led them inside. Breckinridge had called her earlier and asked for a briefing on the polygraph tests.

  "So far we've completed polygraph examinations on about ninety percent of the agents assigned to the White House Detail," Nicklanovich said opening a notebook. "I've had six operators going hucklety-buck night and day to get through the list. The long and short of it is none of the agents showed deception to the questions relating to terrorism or espionage. On the questions relating to protection work, the only deception to any question was shown by Agent Garrison." Nicklanovich turned a page. "He had a problem with two questions: 'Have you violated Secret Service protection protocol during the last thirty days?' and 'Have you done anything that could harm Presidential security?'"

  Breckinridge was secretly stunned. "How experienced are your operators?"

  Nicklanovich took off her eyeglasses. "All are warrant officers with at least ten years' experience on the polygraph machine. Three have actually taught polygraph at Military Police School."

  "Is there any possibility that it could have been something in the machine?" Kallenstien asked.

  "I'll be happy to show you the charts."

  "That's not necessary," Breckinridge said. "What was Garrison's reaction?"

  "He had no explanation for the deception - nothing he wanted to clear up anyway," Nicklanovich said. "I got the impression that he had something to hide. Whether it's about what you are investigating remains to be seen. But one thing is for sure. He wasn't comfortable with the questions."

  "Sounds like your pal Garrison does have something to hide." Kallenstien said when they returned to the car.

  "He isn't involved in any assassination plot."

  "Stranger things have happened."

  "He once was recommended for the Medal of Valor. Pete Garrison isn't an assassin and he's not involved with the Aryan Disciples."

  "I hope you're right."

  Breckinridge told herself to ignore the test as she mulled over the facts of the case. Surely Garrison had some explanation for the deception. Hell, everyone in security work had seen false results from the polygraph at one time or another. The test itself was nothing more than modern witchcraft based on the assumption that telling the truth had something to do with one's fingertips perspiring. But why did Garrison fail the test?

  ****

  CHAPTER 14

  GARRISON SAT IN wintergreen's office, facing him across a shiny desk and wondering why Wintergreen called him in.

  "I understand you had a one-on-one with the Man."

  "Not exactly. He asked me to join him and the First Lady for dinner."

  "What did he have to say?"

  "Nothing more than small talk."

  Wintergreen tapped a pencil on the desk. "He didn't have to invite you to dinner to do that."

  "It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. He just asked me to join them."

  Garrison figured Wintergreen was being mindful of the power of a bureaucratic end run. He wanted to make sure he wasn't being left out of anything - that Garrison wasn't plotting to take his job. Wintergreen required agents to write a memorandum to him delineating any non-official contact with a protectee. The policy was ostensibly to discourage problems that came with fraternizing with protectees, but Garrison knew the real reason. Wintergreen wanted to monitor agents who might be trying to ingratiate themselves with a protectee to help them get a promotion in the same way Wintergreen had maneuvered himself into the Directorship by getting next to President Jordan. Wintergreen swiveled his chair to the right, stared out the window for a moment, and then swiveled back.

  "It's unusual for the Man to want to break bread with an agent like that, wouldn't you say?"

  "I didn't feel I could decline his invitation without being rude."

  "Sometimes, when an agent gets assigned to a Family detail, when he comes in close contact with the First Family, he forgets his role is nothing more than bodyguard. When that happens is when problems start. I call it the disease of distorted self-image."

  "As far as the job goes, my self-image is that of a barking seal."

  Wintergreen stopped glaring at him, and the edges of his mouth rose in mirth.

  "Barking seal. I like that." Then Wintergreen abruptly stopped laughing. "The Jordans, just like the Bushes and the Clintons and before them, are nothing more than politicians who convinced the right fat cats to bankroll their campaign. A few months from now, they'll be on a golf course and two other sets of capped teeth will arrive to take their place. In the meantime, you and I will still be here. We outlast these people, Pete. Keep that in mind."

  "I read you loud and clear, Mr. Director."

  "Thanks for stopping by, Pete."

  Garrison walked out the door and moved past desk partitions labeled with government-issue brass nameplates designating members of Wintergreen's staff: Assistant Directors Houlihan, Kennedy, O'Keefe, and Shanahan.

  After stopping at Blackie's Lounge for a martini and a hamburger, Garrison walked to his apartment and went to bed. The booze and food had been exactly the right mix. He closed his eyes and immediately dropped into sleep.

  ****

  CHAPTER 15

  IT WAS TWO A.M., and the woods surrounding Camp David loomed as a vast blackness, lit only by an occasional security light.

  "Circuit breakers."

  "Checked," said Marine Captain Thad Delgarian responding to his copilot, Lieutenant Fernando Gomez, as they went through the preflight checklist in the cockpit of Marine One, the President's personal helicopter.

  "Controls."

  Delgarian moved the stick. "Cleared."

  "I don't know about you, but I'm tired of sitting around here all damn day and night."

  "Just one more day toward twenty, Fernando."

  Having received word that the President had decided to motorcade back to the White House with the Russian President rather than fly, Delgarian had charted a flight to Andrews Air Force Base. Delgarian was glad to be wrapping up the mission after shuttling passengers back and forth from the White House all day and being on standby since eight P.M. the night before waiting to fly the President back to D.C. Delgarian's chopper was the last craft at Camp David and he would have left earlier, but the overly cautious Secret Service had ordered that a chopper remain on standby in case the Presidential motorcade broke down. Now, Delgarian had finally been released from duty.

  "Fuel."

  "Check."

  Finally, the checklist was completed.

  "Start the auxiliary, Fernando. We're outta here."

  The engine started. After going through another checklist, Delgarian maneuvered the controls to develop airspeed. After liftoff, he waited a few moments before pushing the stick forward. Marine One swept in an upward arc over the tree line, heading nose-down south into blackness. Delgarian glanced back at Camp David, its perimeter security lights giving off an eerie, greenish glow. He was proud to be a Marine and proud to have been chosen as one of the pilots of Marine One, also known as Angel One, the President's helicopter. He'd been flying the President for seven years, and had chosen his pal Gomez to be his copilot. As far as Delgarian was concerned, he had the best job in the Marine Corps. He was part of the elite of the elite. The benefits definitely outweighed the inconveniences of submitting to a compl
ete Secret Service physical examination every four weeks and undergoing a background investigation every year. He was on his own, and didn't have to put up with the inspections and other routine bullshit he'd experienced during his last assignment, running back-to-back training missions at Parris Island.

  "I'll bet that bride of yours will be happy to see you home, Fernando."

  "That is, if she hasn't filed for divorce."

  Because of a recent crisis in Albania, Fernando had had to cut short his honeymoon to fill in on the White House helicopter squadron. They'd been on flight duty, away from home for two weeks.

  Delgarian laughed. "You'd better buy you some posies and a box of Almond Roca."

  Delgarian had been married for more than twenty years and his wife, Harriet, was used to him being gone for long periods of time. But Fernando and his spouse had a lot to learn about the military life.

  "I'll tell you one thing. The second time I'm going to make love to her is after I put down my suitcase."

  "I roger that."

  Delgarian looked below into a blue and black forest and could see stretches of Interstate 270, a fuzzy glowworm cutting through inky black. On either side were the lights of farmhouses. There was nothing better than being a chopper pilot - except, of course, being a Marine. He was tired and he would be glad to get back to Andrews Air Force Base and catch up on his sleep. Nothing was more tiring than long days at Camp David killing time on standby flight duty. And he hadn't even gotten to fly the Man back to the White House.

  Suddenly, there was an explosion. The craft rocked violently to the right.

  Delgarian fought the stick as the helicopter spun out of control.

  "Fernando!"

  Delgarian struggled to manipulate the controls. Fernando was bleeding and unconscious, slumped forward in his safety harness. And there was smoke in the cabin and a spray of red on the windscreen. The radio ...

  "Marine One to Control! Declaring an emergency five minutes southwest of Camp David. Explosion on board."

  "Roger your emergency, Angel One," someone said.

  Blood gushed from Delgarian's left leg. There was a hole in the fuselage and cold air blew into the cabin. The craft spun wildly, pulling him back and forth. He was going down.