The First Patient

CHAPTER 22

Signal depart. All posts: We have a departure of Maverick. Over." Treat Griswold lowered the sleeve transmitter and turned next to him where Gabe was sitting. "You doin' okay, Doc?"

"Aside from being a little afraid I'm going to stretch my legs and blow my foot off, I'm fine."

He gestured to the submachine gun that was lying on the floor of the limousine.

"I told them we should build a gun rack in the limos for these things," Griswold said.

"Or else make your shoulder holsters a lot bigger."

Martin Shapiro, the young speechwriter, glanced up from the passage on which he and the president had been working.

"I'm always looking for crisp, punchy lines, Doctor," he said. "Okay if I appropriate that one? If not for this speech, then for something down the road."

"I want to see it when you do," Gabe said.

"Here," Drew said, pointing to a spot in the manuscript. "Why make him wait? Right here where I'm talking about our Korean friend, President Jong, and his goddamn obsession with nuclear reactors. Let's say something like having him persistently claiming that the massive towers on our surveillance photos are for sewage treatment and not nuclear production is a little like our maintaining that the three-foot-long shoulder holsters we have just issued to the Secret Service-"

"Have nothing to do with submachine guns." Shapiro grinned as he finished the thought. "Give me a minute or two to get the wording and the timing right and I think we can use it."

"There you go, cowboy," Drew said. "Just like that, you're immortal."

"Just like that," Gabe said, genuinely impressed.

In spite of his long-standing friendship with the president, and the secrets he knew about Drew's mental imbalance and attacks of irrationality, throughout the ride from the White House to the Baltimore Convention Center, Gabe could not help but bask in the true greatness of the man.

Maverick.

Gabe knew the moniker had been chosen because Drew had been a stellar pilot. But now Gabe found himself thinking about the original meaning of the word-the meaning everyone from Wyoming understood: a range animal, usually a calf or steer, who had left the herd and would belong to the first person who could manage to capture and brand it. Over time, the meaning had been expanded to include people-specifically, a dissenter, who refused to abide by the dictates of a group.

It was an awesome privilege to watch and listen as Drew and his writer sculpted a speech that would be delivered to only two hundred or so well-heeled supporters but would be heard, instantly, around the world. The main focus this day was foreign relations, but over the course of the thirty-minute presentation Drew would touch on a number of the accomplishments of his first term in office, the progress that was being made in his Vision for America program, and several failures of the Dunleavy administration, which had preceded his. He would even manage somewhere along the line to comment on the evolving miracle of the Baltimore Orioles and Washington Nationals, local teams still leading their respective divisions in baseball and possibly headed to a million-to-one long-shot World Series match-up.

By the time the motorcade turned off Route 395 and headed into Baltimore, Gabe felt more committed than ever to get to the bottom of Drew's bizarre breaks with reality and to keep him in office if at all possible. A good deal of Gabe's resolve still depended on the findings and conclusions of Kyle Blackthorn, but as things stood, invoking the Twenty-fifth Amendment and effectively elevating Tom Cooper from running mate to presidential candidate was not a move he was going to make.

It wasn't as if the vice president had made that terrible an impression on him, although it did seem a bit naïve for a man of his stature to expect the president's doctor to share any information about his patient's medical condition. It was more that Cooper was just… eager. That was the most descriptive word Gabe could think of at the moment. Eager.

Drew Stoddard's dry cough quieted down for a time but then picked up again as they entered the outskirts of Baltimore. It was minimal and would not have been the least bit alarming had it been occurring in someone other than the President of the United States. Because of the makeup, it was impossible for Gabe to evaluate Stoddard's color, but his respiratory rate was no more than slightly elevated at eighteen per minute and the beds beneath his fingernails looked reasonably pink-a decent sign that he was getting enough oxygen into his circulation. Gabe felt comfortable speaking about the president's asthma in front of Griswold, but not the speechwriter.

"You okay?" Gabe asked after a brief volley of hacking.

"Maybe a little wheezy, but no big deal," Stoddard replied.

"You have asthma?" Martin asked, ending whatever concern Gabe had about making the disclosure.

"Low-grade for years," Drew replied matter-of-factly.

"I have it, too. Used to be bad when I was a kid. But it seems to have gotten pretty much better as I get older. Now, I don't think I have it anymore."

"Burnout of childhood asthma is quite common," Gabe offered, not taking his eyes off his patient. "You feel able to go through with this speech, Mr. President?"

"Of course. I'm really fine. You brought an inhaler for me, right?"

"Actually I have several of them-both bronchodilators and cortisone. They're in the FAT kit in the medical van."

"Griz," Stoddard asked, "do you have one of my inhalers with you?"

"Right here, as always."

The Secret Service agent patted over the inside breast pocket of his suit coat.

"Okay, then. If I feel like I need a puff of that stuff, I'll get it from you until the doc here unlocks the medicine case in the van and gets me whatever he has there. That okay with you, Doc?"

"I… um… guess so," Gabe said, reflecting on his conversations with the chief executive's father and the vice president and wondering if he should find a way to warn Drew to be a bit less cavalier with information regarding his medical status. "I would like to have a listen to your chest before we do anything, but somehow this doesn't seem to be the place for that."

"We have a screened-off prep area backstage," Griswold said. "A place for the president to sit down, get his makeup refreshed, and get ready for his speech."

"Good," Gabe said. "That'll probably be fine. Mr. President, grab a water bottle from the fridge there and drink at least half of it. You want to stay well hydrated."

"Got it."

"Doc, I'll get you and the president up to the screened-off area as soon as we arrive. Meanwhile, Mr. President, if you need any of this Alupent inhaler just ask."

"Roger that. Mr. Shapiro, I think we've done as much as we can with this puppy. You've done a great job as usual. Stanford, right? What was your major there?"

"Creative writing."

Before anyone could comment, the limousine stopped in front of a side entrance to the Baltimore Convention Center.

"Attention all posts," Griswold said to his sleeve, "Maverick moving toward BCC entrance. Over… Okay, sir, Doc, we're going in that door, then up to the third floor. Stairs or elevator?"

"Stairs will be fine," Stoddard said.

"Let's do the elevator," Gabe countered before he had even processed the significance of overruling the most powerful man on the planet.

There was a moment of absolute quiet.

"We're going to head directly for the elevator," Griswold announced through the radio, scooping the submachine gun off the floor with his free hand. "Over."

The limousine doors were opened simultaneously, and the four occupants stepped out to be immediately engulfed by a buffer of Secret Service men. Griswold, ever observant, remained positioned next to the president, sunlight glinting off the balding area of his pate and the perspiration on the fold of his thick neck. Gabe flashed briefly on an image of the man, looking a bit like the mutant comic book hero the Thing, exploding through a massive cement and fieldstone wall to get at the source of danger to the president.

When they were inside, Gabe switched on his transmitter, pleased again to be playing the radio game.

"This is Wrangler to medical team, Wrangler to medical team. Over."

"We're here, Wrangler," Alison's satiny voice replied. "Unloading now. We'll meet you on three. Over."

"Be sure you have the FAT kit, an IV stand, and an oh-two tank. Over."

"Roger that. FAT kit, IV stand, and oxygen. Everything okay? Over."

"Better to not need it and have it," Gabe said, feeling the comfort and security of being a practicing doc once more. "See you on three. Over."

"Three."

"Breathe in… now out…"

Cloistered behind a ten-by-ten-foot barrier of dark blue velvet drapes, Gabe conducted as thorough an exam of his patient as he could manage in the twelve minutes that had been allotted him. He wasn't all that alarmed by what he was seeing and hearing, but neither was he totally at ease. The president was wheezing-the sine qua non symptom of asthma. The sound, in this case not audible without a stethoscope, was caused by narrowing of the man's bronchial tubes, the result of a combination of spasm in the muscular wall of the tubes and plugging of the tubes themselves with mucus.

"So, how do I sound?" Stoddard asked.

"The more important question is: How do you feel?"

"Not bad, really. Something like this happens every other day. I think it's mold. Mold in the limos, mold in the residence, mold at Camp David, mold in my cabinet."

"How did they let you fly jets with this?"

"I didn't really have it back then, but as far as I know, most properly treated medical conditions, including asthma, will still allow a pilot to get a license-even a commercial one. I'm not sure of the military, though."

"You need a puff or two from your inhaler?"

"Actually, that stuff makes me feel a little speedy. I'd prefer to avoid it if I can. There's a couple of million in potential donations to the cause sitting out there. That'll make me speedy enough as it is."

Gabe considered his findings and the situation.

"In that case, knock 'em dead, pal."