The First Patient

CHAPTER 21

Wrangler, Wrangler, do you copy? Over."

Treat Griswold's gravelly voice resonated through Gabe's earpiece. Gabe clicked on the microphone clipped to his sleeve, raised it to his lips, and spoke in the purposeful tone he had learned to use. During his first day of orientation to the White House, Griswold had given him a radio and a detailed in-service on its use. Rule Number One, Griswold said, was never turn the transmit switch on or leave it on by accident. The humiliations resulting from an "Open Mike" had become the stuff of Secret Service lore. Rule Number Two was never to forget who the system was in place to protect.

"This is Wrangler. Over."

"Everyone, Maverick is on the move from the residence elevator to the West Wing exit. Wrangler, do you have your medical bag? Over."

"Right here."

"The FAT kit with all necessary resuscitation equipment and supplies will be on the van with the medical team. Over."

"Wrangler copies. First Aid and Trauma kit on board."

"Roger that. Maverick has requested Wrangler ride in Stagecoach with him. Stand by your location and we'll get you loaded. Over."

"No problem," Gabe said. "Will Moondance be accompanying us? Over."

Gabe was still somewhat disconcerted over the odd exchange during which the First Lady had intimated she might be just as happy if her husband dropped out of the race. He would be more at ease at the moment if she weren't with them. As it was, he had been looking forward to his first trip with the chief executive, but the session with Tom Cooper had severely dampened his enthusiasm. More and more he was feeling like a man sitting on a keg of dynamite while passersby kept flipping lit matches at him.

"That's a negative," an agent other than Griswold said. "Moondance will be staying here. Liberty, too. Over."

"Roger that. I'll be waiting for you. Over."

Gabe double-checked that he had turned off his radio, then glanced outside to where the motorcade had formed. From his vantage point, he could see two black limousines parked by the steps leading up to the North Portico. Beyond them, on Pennsylvania Avenue, he could make out two of what he knew would be many vans. Communications… counterassault… press corps… White House staffers… medical unit… photographers… military aides… Secret Service. He remembered some of the groups Lattimore had told him the fleet of vans would be carrying, but not all.

"Attention all posts, Maverick moving toward West Wing exit. Maverick moving. Over."

Staccato footsteps echoed down the corridor toward Gabe just before the first two of the president's Secret Service men appeared, one of them expertly cradling a submachine gun. Seconds later, Drew came into view, surrounded by four more agents, each one looking as if he took his job very seriously. From the moment the entourage appeared, Gabe's attention became fixed on his patient-not without reason.

Though smiling and waving to those White House employees standing back against the wall, Drew Stoddard looked strained and slightly gray. Gabe moved toward him, but almost on cue, a petite makeup artist materialized and, with the skill of a master conjurer, performed a remarkable thirty-second makeover.

And just like that, Drew was the rosy-cheeked picture of health. As he moved to Gabe, the Secret Service agents fell away to give them space and something approaching privacy.

"Hey, cowboy," Drew said cheerily, "ready to join the Donner party for a little wagon train ride?"

"Don't even joke about that. You okay?"

"You examined me this morning. You tell me."

"Actually, I thought you looked a little gray around the gills just now, but your makeup girl fixed that problem right up."

"Amazing, huh? When she goes home and washes off her own makeup, she's actually a three-hundred-pound Samoan football player."

"Having seen her work, that's not so surprising. How about your breathing? You seem to be going a little faster than I would expect."

"I've had a little cough for about an hour or so, but it's almost gone now. Maybe I'm getting a cold."

"Not on my watch."

"Even you can't do much about a virus. Did Admiral Wright talk to you about the medical team?"

"Not a word, why?"

"I guess he went ahead and put the team together himself. From now on, if you want to select the team to accompany us for travel in the States or overseas, you just go ahead and do it. I'll make sure ol' Ramrod doesn't get in your way."

"Mr. President," Treat Griswold called out, "I think we'd best get a move on."

"Gabe, on the ride up to Baltimore I've got to go over the speech that's just been written for me. I thought there might be time for us to gab during the trip, but no such luck. You can still ride in Stagecoach with us, or you can go in Spare, that's the other limo, if you want."

"Attention all posts," Gabe heard Griswold say from close by and also through his earpiece, "Maverick moving to Stagecoach. Departure imminent. Over… Okay, Doc, Mr. President, ready to roll?"

As Gabe stepped out into the bright sunlight, he couldn't help but be awed by the clutch of photographers and reporters lining the short walk to the motorcade, as well as by the motorcade itself, which, minus two limousines, was parked along the recently renovated stretch of Pennsylvania Avenue, closed to motorized traffic at all times except on occasions like this one. A dozen or more huge vans waited-nine- and twelve-seaters, Gabe guessed-along with eight D.C. motorcycle police on Harleys, with blue strobes flashing. In baseball, the glitter and crowds and private jets and plush clubhouses of the major leagues were often referred to collectively as The Show. At that moment, those words were the only description Gabe could think of.

The Show.

The two identical black Cadillac limousines were parked on the driveway that arced to the steps of the White House.

"Stagecoach is number one today," Griswold said, hurrying his party of three-Gabe, the president, and a young, lanky, bespectacled speech-writer introduced by Stoddard simply as Martin-to the lead limo.

As they reached the bottom of the staircase, over the roof of the limo Gabe caught sight of Tim Gerrity, an Air Force physician's assistant, whom he had gotten to know fairly well over the short time since his arrival at the White House and who seemed to know more medicine than most physicians but was unassuming enough not to show off. Gerrity was standing in front of what Gabe assumed was the medical van. Today the medical support team had been selected by Admiral Ellis Wright, but from now on, if Gabe so wished, the president had decreed he could pick his own team.

The notion led irrepressibly to thoughts of Alison Cromartie. Maybe somewhere down the line, if she managed to stick around and if things ever got straightened out with her, they could do one of these trips together. At that moment, as if on cue, Alison appeared beside Gerrity, talking amiably and gesturing to the van. Even at a distance, wearing a conservative navy blue pants suit, she stood out.

From the moment she pulled out her Secret Service ID after apparently saving his life, Gabe had gotten used to feeling bewildered and unsettled around her. Now, even at a distance, he felt awkward. Despite Ellis Wright's rant at her that evening in the medical office, the man apparently had enough regard for her to assign her to The Show.

Curious.

"Doc, come on. Duck on in here," Griswold ordered, standing by the open door to Stagecoach.

The last sound Gabe heard before he slid onto the seat across from Martin was the President of the United States coughing softly.

The last thing he saw, turning back toward the White House for one final look, was Vice President Thomas Cooper III, flanked by two Secret Service agents, looking down at them intently from the portico.