THE NIGHT STALKERS
Daniel’s
Christmas
by M. L. Buchman
Dedication
To my lady who taught me that there is no place like Christmas especially when spent with those you love.
Chapter 1
Daniel Drake Darlington III pushed back further into the armchair and hung on for dear life. Without warning the seat did its best to eject him forcibly onto the floor. Only the heavy seatbelt, that was threatening to cut him in half he’d pulled it so tight, kept him in place.
“You never were the best flier.”
Daniel glared at President Peter Matthews as Marine One jolted sharply left. They occupied the two facing armchairs in the narrow cargo bay of the VH-1N White Hawk helicopter. The small, three-person couch along the side was empty. The two Marine Corps crew chiefs and the two pilots sat in their seats at the front of the craft.
“I’m fine,” Daniel managed through gritted teeth. “I just don’t like helicopters.”
President Peter Matthews sat back casually. Apparently all the turbulence that the early winter storm could hand out had not interfered with his boss’ enjoyment of Daniel’s discomfiture.
“And why would that be?”
The President knew damn well why his Chief of Staff hated these god-forsaken machines. Even if Marine One was probably the single safest and best maintained helicopter on the planet, he hated it from the depths of his soul along with all of its brethren of the rotorcraft category.
“My very first flight. I suffered—” a jaw rattling shake, “a bad concussion. Then we crashed.”
“Yes,” the President stared contemplatively at the ceiling less than foot over their heads.
Daniel kept his head ducked down so that he didn’t bang it there as they flew through the next pocket of winter turbulence.
“That was one of Emily’s finer flights.”
And it had been. If the helicopter had been flown by anyone of lesser skill than Major Emily Beale of the Special Operations Aviation Regiment, Daniel knew he’d have been dead rather than merely bruised and battered. Thankfully the Army trained the pilots of the 160th SOAR exceptionally well, even better than the four Marines flying the President’s personal craft. And Major Beale was the best among them, except for perhaps her husband.
The tape of that flight and the much more fateful flight a bare two weeks later had become mandatory training in the Army’s Special Operations Forces helicopter regiment. To this day he knew his life would have ended if he’d been aboard for that second fiery crash. The crash that had taken the First Lady’s life a year ago.
But that didn’t make him like this machine one whit better.
“There’s home.” President Matthews nodded out the window just like any tourist. Any tourist who was allowed to fly over the intensely restricted airspace surrounding the White House.
Daniel managed to look toward the window as the helicopter banked sharply to the left. Please, just let them land safely and get out of this storm. The White House did look terribly cheery. November 30th, she wasn’t sporting her Christmas décor yet, but she was a majestic building, brilliantly lit, perched in the middle of the most heavily guarded park on the planet. Another jolt and he squeezed his eyes shut.
He did manage to force his eyes open as they settled flawlessly onto the lawn with barely the slightest rocking on the shock absorbers.
In moments the door slid open and a pair of Marines stood at sharp attention in their dress uniforms as if the last day of November were a sunny summer day, and not blowing freezing rain at eleven o’clock at night.
Daniel stumbled out and managed to resist the urge to kneel and kiss the ground. For one thing, it would stain the knees of his suit. For another, the President would laugh at him. Okay, he’d laugh even more than he already was.
Both feet on the ground, Daniel found himself. Managed to pull on his Chief-of-Staff cloak so to speak. He grabbed his briefcase and kept his place beside the President as they headed toward the South Entrance. They each carried umbrellas of only marginal usefulness that the Marines had thoughtfully provided. Now that they were on the ground, Daniel didn’t mind the cold rain in his face. It meant he was alive.
“I’d suggest turning in right away, sir. We have an early start tomorrow.”
The President clapped him on the shoulder, “Yes, Mom.”
“Your mother is over in Georgetown.”
“Well, I’m not going to call you ‘dear’ so don’t get your hopes up there.”
Daniel had come to really like the President. Even at the end of a brutally long day, including a flight to Kansas City, then Chicago, and back, he remained upbeat with that indefatigable energy of his. He was easy to like. There’d now be no oil workers’ strike in Kansas City and his Chicago dinner speech had benefited the new governor immensely.
“You go to bed too, Daniel.”
“Just going to drop off this paperwork,” he held up his briefcase.
The President headed for the Grand Staircase and Daniel turned down the white marble hall and headed over to the West Wing.
Somewhere behind them in the dark, the helicopter roared back to life and lifted into the night.
Chapter 2
The phone hammered him awake. Daniel came to in his office chair with the phone already to his ear.
Someone was speaking rapidly. He caught perhaps one word in three. “CIA. Immediate briefing. North Korea.”
He must have made some intelligible reply as moments later he was listening to a dial tone.
Daniel rubbed at his eyes, but the vista didn’t change. Large cherry wood desk. Mounds of work in neatly stacked folders that he’d sat down to tackle after the long flight. His briefcase still unopened on the floor beside him. Definitely the Chief of Staff’s office. His office. Nightmare or reality? Both. Definitely.
Phone. He’d been on the phone.
The words came back and, now fully awake, Daniel started swearing even as he grabbed the handset and began dialing.
Maybe he could blame all this on Emily Beale. In the three short weeks she’d been at the White House, Daniel had risen from being the First Lady’s secretary to the White House Chief of Staff and it was partly Emily’s fault. As if his life had been battered by a tornado. Still felt that way a year later.
Okay, call it mostly her fault.
As he listened to the phone ringing in his ear, it felt better to have someone to blame. He rubbed at his eyes. A year later and he still didn’t know whether to curse Major Beale or thank her.
Maybe he could make it all her fault.
“Yagumph.”
“Good morning, Mr. President.”
“Is it morning?” The deep voice would have been incomprehensibly groggy without the familiarity of long practice.
Daniel checked his watch, barely morning. “Yes, sir!” he offered his most chipper voice.
“Crap! What? All of 12:03?”
“12:10, sir.” They’d been on the ground just over an hour.
“Double crap!” The President was slowly gaining in clarity, maybe one in ten linguists would be able to understand him now.
“Seven more minutes of sleep than you guessed, sir.”
“Daniel?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Next time Major Beale comes to town, I’m sending you up on one of her training rides.”
“Sounds like fun, sir.” If he had a death wish. “Crashing in the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool is definitely an experience I can’t wait to relive.” The Major was also the childhood friend of the Pre
sident, so he had to walk with a little care, but not much. The two of them were that close.
“Time to get up, sir, the CIA is coming calling. They’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be there in ten.” A low groan sounded over the phone. “Make that fifteen.” The handset rattled loudly as he missed the cradle. Daniel got the phone clear of his ear before the President’s handset dropped on the floor.
Daniel hung up and considered sleeping for the another fifteen minutes. There was a nice sofa along the far wall sitting in a close group with a couple of armchairs, but he’d have to stand up to reach it. All in strong, dusky red leather, his secretary’s doing after discovering Daniel had no taste. Janet had also ordered in a beautiful oriental rug and several large framed photographs. Even on the first day she’d known him well enough to chose images of wide-open spaces. He missed his family farm, but the photos helped him when D.C. was squeezing in too hard.
If he didn’t stand and resisted the urge to seek more sleep, all that remained was to consider his desk. Its elegant cherry wood surface lost beneath a sea of reports and files.
Fifteen minutes. He could read the briefing paper on Chinese coal, review tomorrow’s agenda which, if he were lucky, might stay on schedule for at least the first quarter hour of a planned fourteen-hour day. Or he could just order up a giant burn bag and be done with the whole mess.
He picked up whatever was on top of the nearest stack.
An Advent calendar.
Janet, had to be.
Well, the woman had taste. It was beautiful; encased in a soft, tooled-leather portfolio and tied closed with a narrow red ribbon done up in a neat bow. He pulled a loose end and opened the calendar. Inside were three spreads of stunning hand-painted pictures on deep-set pages. He took a moment to admire the first one.
It was a depiction of Santa and his reindeer. Except Santa might have been a particularly pudgy hamster and the reindeer might have been mice with improbable antlers. One might have had a red nose, or he might have had his eggnog spiked; the artist had left that open to interpretation. A couple of rabbits were helping to load the sleigh. Little numbered doors were set in the side of the sleigh, as well as in a nearby tree, and in the snow at the micedeer’s paws. The page was thick enough that a small treat could be hidden behind each little door.
He shook the calendar lightly and heard things rattling. Probably little sweets and tidbits to hit his notorious sweet tooth.
The day Janet retired he’d be in so much trouble. Not only did she manage to keep his life organized, she also managed to make him smile, even when things were coming apart at the seams. Midnight calls from the CIA for immediate meetings didn’t bode well, yet here he was dangerously close to enjoying the moment.
He started to open the little door with a tiny golden number “1” on the green ribbon pull tab. The door depicted a candy-cane colored present perched high on the sleigh.
“Don’t do that.”
He looked up.
A woman stood in the doorway, closely escorted by one of the service Marines. A short wave of russet hair curled partly over her face and trickled down just far enough to emphasize the line of her neck. Her bangs ruffled in a gentle wave covering one eye. The eye in the clear shone a striking hazel against pale skin. She wore a thick, woolen cardigan, a bit darker than her hair, open at the front over an electric blue turtleneck that appeared to say, “Joy to the World.” At least based on the letters he could see.
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t open it early,” she nodded toward the calendar in his hands. “That’s cheating.”
He double-checked his watch. “It’s twelve-eighteen on December first. That’s not cheating.”
“Not until nighttime, after sunset. That’s what Mama always said.”
“And your Mama is always right?”
“Damn straight.” Though her expression momentarily belied her cheerful insistence.
He glanced at the Marine. “Kenneth. Does she have a purpose here?”
She sauntered into his office as if it were her own living room and an armed Marine was not following two paces behind her. More guts than most, or a complete unawareness of how close she was to being wrestled to the ground by a member of the U.S. Military.
“Remember what they say about the book and the cover?”
“Sure, don’t judge.” He inspected her wrinkled black corduroys and did his best not to appreciate the nice line they made of her legs.
She dropped into one of the leather chairs in front of his desk and propped a pair of alarmingly green sneakers with red laces on the cherry wood. At least they were clean. All she’d need to complete the image would be to pop a bright pink gum bubble at him. And maybe some of those foam slip-on reindeer antlers. He offered her a smile as she slouched lower in the chair. In turn, she offered him a clear view most of the way to her tonsils with a massive yawn.
She managed to cover it before it was completely done.
“Sorry, I’ve been up for three days researching this. Director Smith said I should bring it right over.” She waved a slim portfolio at him that he hadn’t previously noticed.
CIA Director Smith. Well, that explained who she was. Whatever lay in that portfolio was the reason he’d only had forty-five minutes of sleep so far tonight. And he’d spent that slumped in his chair. He did his best to surreptitiously straighten his jacket and tie.
“You’ve been researching.” Maybe a prompt would get her to the point more quickly.
“Yes, Mr. Darlington. I’m Dr. Alice Thompson, with dual masters in Afghani and Mathematics at Columbia. Which makes me a dueling master. PhD in digital imaging at NYU and an analyst for the CIA. Which means something, but I have no idea what. The reason you’re awake right now is to meet with me.”
“No, the reason I’m awake right now is to meet with both you and the President.”
“The President?” She jerked upright in her chair, her feet dropping to the floor. “No one said anything about that to me.” She twisted right and left as if seeking a place to hide.
“And it’s Dr. Darlington of Tennessee. Degrees in agriculture at University of Kentucky—”
“Go Wildcats,” she mumbled automatically without losing her somewhat frantic expression.
Daniel wondered how a New York girl living in D.C. would know that, but didn’t sidetrack to ask.
“Poli Sci at Yale, and socio-economics at Princeton where I had the great opportunity to study cooperative economic game theory with Dr. Nash.” And why he felt the need to brag to this lady once again settling in his office chair like she was hanging out in a college dorm room remained a bit of a mystery. He didn’t feel sleepy anymore watching her across the mess that he called a desk. Instead he found himself truly smiling.
“You didn’t really wake the President for this meeting, did you?” Her voice was little more than a whisper as she struggled to fight her body upright in the chair. She leaned forward far enough for the cardigan to fall open and reveal that the front of her turtleneck actually read “Oy to the World.”
Daniel offered her his blandest smile and would have admired how snugly the material clung to her frame, but he couldn’t look away from those hazel-green eyes.
“You did wake him?” her whisper more than a little panicked.
“I wish he hadn’t.” The President entered as she spoke. “Does this mean I can I go back to bed?”
# # #
Alice spun around to face the man who had come up beside her unnoticed. Tall, even more handsome than on TV. Stained sweat pants and a faded sweatshirt from Oxford didn’t detract from the image in the least.
The President held out a hand. She offered her own in some ingrained social response mechanism, like a trained puppy, only to find her paw shaken and released before she had a chance to do more than allow her arm to be moved up
and down.
He settled into the chair beside her before she belatedly remembered you were supposed to stand when the President arrived. He propped his sneakered feet on the edge of Dr. Darlington’s beautiful cherry wood desk right where hers had been. What had she been thinking when she’d done that? Had she hoped to fluster the man and his immaculate three-piece suit behind the desk? Or had she felt so comfortable around him she hadn’t cared? Must have been the first but it felt like the second.
Daniel leaned forward, “Don’t worry. The complete intimidation wears off eventually. He’s not all that important really; it only feels as if he is.”
“Hey, I’m the one who they elected President. And I’m not a ‘he.’ I’m a POTUS to you.”
“Right, and I’m just the guy who makes sure that the all-important President of the United States doesn’t screw up at 12:30 in the morning.”
“True, true.” The President nodded sagely and the guys traded smiles. The mutual respect and friendship was clear between them.
They made an interesting contrast. The President had all of the magnetism she’d seen on TV, and more again in person. Even sleepy-eyed and wearing sweats, dark hair ranging loose down to his collar, he looked as if he should be framed up on a wall. Most popular President in recent history, probably all the way back to JFK. The world’s ultimate bachelor since his wife’s tragic death in the helicopter crash.
Whereas Dr. Darlington was perhaps the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Yale and Princeton; Bulldogs and Lions. Along with the Wildcats that made two cats and a dog, that part of her mind that collected useless garbage offered up. The White House Chief of Staff looked like a classic surfer bum with those sparkling blue eyes and gold-blond hair, despite the short cut of it and his sharp three-piece suit that he filled really, really nicely.
She’d always been a nerd, only comfortable with other analyst nerds, but even her few moments with Daniel had been easy.
Before she could stop herself, she caught herself glancing over at his hands.
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