“Certainly,” he said and jotted down a note to himself. “I take it, then, you’re dead-set against any retaliatory action against Iran for their actions the past few weeks?”
McHugh looked up at him, surprised. “That’s right. I thought I made my position perfectly clear.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “One other thing, Mr. President, an article in this morning’s paper concerns the interview one of their reporters did with you back in May about the global warming initiative. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
“Oh?”
The chief of staff walked behind the president’s desk, reached over his left shoulder, and placed the newspaper article in front of him.
McHugh put on his glasses and picked up the copy.
Donald Wright slowly reached for the black pen inside his jacket pocket. I’m sorry, Charles, but you’ve left us no choice.
He raised the pen and fired the tiny projectile into the back of McHugh’s neck. It broke the skin just below the top of his loosened collar. Instantaneous, deadly, undetectable.
McHugh winced and reached behind his neck, as if stung by a wasp. Seconds later he spun his head around and stared at his chief of staff.
His eyes widened in terror. “What the–?”
Wright wrapped his arm in a crushing grip around the president’s neck and stifled a cry with his hand. He was well aware of the Secret Service agent stationed nearby in the kitchen, and of multiple listening devices around the compound.
McHugh struggled but couldn’t match Wright’s strength. The president clutched his heart and slumped over in his chair.
Wright checked McHugh’s pulse. Faint.
He pulled the hair-width size needle from the president’s neck, and slid it back inside the pen. Once he’d clipped it back inside his jacket pocket, he ran to the adjacent living room screaming. “Agent Thomas! Agent Thomas!”
Vincent Thomas, the Secret Service agent closest to the president, rushed into the room. He stared at the immobile figure in the cushioned chair, his head slumped over on the desk.
“He was clutching his chest!” Wright stammered.
Agent Thomas quickly grabbed the two-way on his belt. “Double Play is down!” he barked. “I repeat, Double Play is down. All agents and medical staff to the sun room immediately!”
Thomas moved to the president’s side and searched for a pulse. Feeling none, he quickly lowered him to the floor. He ripped open McHugh’s collar and started CPR. Seconds later, three more agents dashed into the room. Two knelt next to Agent Thomas and the president; the third repeated orders to on-duty medical staff to get to the scene immediately.
Navy Captain Ronald Braden, former head cardiologist at Bethesda and now chief physician to the president, rushed up the steps from the Lower Terrace to the sun room. He’d been with the president nearly every day since inauguration three years ago, accompanied him on all foreign trips, and even followed him in a golf cart when McHugh was able to squeeze in an occasional round. He always thought a medical emergency involving the president would be from overexertion, not simply sitting at his desk at Camp David.
McHugh’s recent comments about experiencing occasional chest pain raced through Braden’s mind. He regretted not being able to convince the president to adopt a more healthy lifestyle and diet. Now, he found himself frantically trying to save his life.
He felt the president’s pulse and shook his head. “Keep up the CPR,” he ordered. “Harder! Three of you rotate in and out every few minutes.”
The doctor reached into his leather bag for the manual defibrillator he carried with him at all times. He cut McHugh’s plaid shirt wide open and attached the electrodes to his chest… then studied the rhythm pattern. Slight pulse, erratic rhythm–shockable.
The agents backed away. Braden grabbed the paddles and pressed them against McHugh’s chest. “Clear,” he said and fired the charge. The president’s body twitched for a moment, then again lay still. The agents switched places, and the next agent took over CPR. Dr. Braden again studied the heart’s rhythm pattern. No change... come on, Charles. You can make it.
He reached for a vial of epinephrine and syringe from his bag. As he was filling the syringe, the vice president rushed into the room. He’d been on the phone in his cabin with the Joint Chiefs when he’d received word about McHugh’s attack. He walked slowly to the president’s side and muffled a gasp with his hand. “My God,” he whispered.
Braden again checked the president’s rhythm pattern before injecting the epinephrine into his jugular. He hoped to encourage electrical activity in the heart to start it beating, even if only faintly… but there was nothing. He checked his watch. The epinephrine should become effective in one or two minutes, he reminded himself. “Keep up the CPR,” he urged the young agent, who was still pumping hard.
Braden continued looking for encouraging changes in McHugh’s heart pattern.
The agents again changed places, while Braden applied a second charge. He looked at his watch. Five minutes since the first epinephrine. He loaded another dose into the needle and stuck the vein in the president’s arm.
The agent accompanying the vice president started ushering observers out of the room. Attempts to save the president’s life grew more tense every second. Braden, sweating profusely now, tore off his jacket. He swore at the inanimate rhythm indicator, urging it to show life and return to normal. But the more he urged, the more frustrated he became.
After an excruciatingly long fifteen minutes, he slumped back away from the body. “It’s no use,” he said, barely able to utter the words.
The agents working over him were hesitant to get to their feet and leave the president’s side. For three years, they’d protected President Charles McHugh. During that time they had grown close to the president and his family. Now he was dead, not from disease or an assassin’s bullet, but at routine work in the serenity of the Aspen Lodge. That it was through no fault of their own made it no easier to accept.
Chief of Staff Wright stood nearby as, one by one, those still in the sun room and adjacent living room left in stunned silence.
Dr. Braden made a phone call to Bethesda Hospital advising them of what’d happened. He asked that appropriate personnel fly to Camp David immediately to attend to the body. As the president’s chief physician, he also viewed it his responsibility to notify the president’s wife–and planned to do that as soon as he was able to compose himself.
As the last agent left the room, the silver-haired navy doctor knelt to murmur a brief prayer over the president’s body. He then gathered his medical gear and rose to his feet.
Chief of Staff Wright looked around the room at the sobbing faces of cabinet and staff members reluctantly leaving the scene.
Once Braden had gone, Wright slid his personal papers into a leather briefcase and turned toward Vice President Decker standing silently off to the side of the room.
The vice president nodded confidently… and returned the chief of staff’s broad smile.
* * * * * * * * * * *
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m indebted to my editor, Emilie Vardaman, who went through the manuscript with patience and an eagle-eye, with many suggestions that only helped the finished product. Thanks also to my writing critique partners, Laura Starks and Gary Vineyard, who did a critical first reading and offered ongoing encouragement throughout the entire process.
Thank you to the members and experts at CrimeSceneWriter. In a world of Internet overload and useless clutter, information we receive on a daily basis can be entirely too much, but these folks are the greatest. Keep up the good work! And much appreciation to friends Don Edom for his help on Hawaii cruise ship travel, and John Stark for much-needed information about helicopter procedures.
Finally, to Missy, always loving, supportive and understanding. How did I get so lucky?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Richard Holcroft is a pseudonym for Arthur Bauer, a retired airline pilot, former Marine Corps
pilot, and retired attorney in the Dallas-Fort Worth area.
Mr. Bauer’s writing credits include numerous articles in such magazines and journals as Carte Blanche, Air Line Pilot, Houston Law Review, and California Living, and a medico-legal book on fetal tissue transplantation. He is a member of International Thriller Writers.
Mr. Bauer received his B.S. in Electrical Engineering from Clarkson University, an M.S. in Mass Communications from San Jose State University, and a law degree from Southern Methodist University.
Born and raised in New York, Bauer currently lives with his wife and cat in Fort Worth, Texas, and Lincoln City, Oregon. You can visit his website at: http://richardholcroft.com.
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