The Patriots' Club

38

Bill Donohue rushed across the floor of Triton Aerospace’s Alexandria-based warehouse. “Is the replacement for the President’s podium ready yet?” he asked the VP of consumer sales.

“We’re getting ready to load it onto the truck.”

“Check the wiring. The Secret Service is pretty steamed.”

“Everything’s up and running. Waterproof and airtight.”

“Where is it? I promised Fiske that I’d have the podium on the Hill by two.” Donohue checked his watch. It was already 2:40. Traffic had been bumper-to-bumper getting out of downtown. With the snow starting to come, it would only be worse getting back. He was on the verge of Excedrin headache number nine.

“Follow me. You can give us a hand.”

Donohue walked toward the loading dock. Forklifts noisily motored up and down the floor, carrying pallets stacked with electronics gear. Men called to one another from atop thirty-foot-high columns of packing boxes. All the while, speakers belted out Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA.” The Alexandria warehouse handled shipments and repairs for all of Triton Aerospace’s nonmilitary products. These included shortwave radios, police band receivers, communications systems, public address systems, and spare parts.

Like many Triton executives, Donohue had joined the firm straight out of the service. A graduate of the naval academy, he’d done an eight-year hitch driving an S-3 Viking, an aging warhorse whose mission it was to track Soviet submarines. With the Russians pretty much out of the sub business, the need for his specialty was low and falling. Donohue had been offered a promotion and a billet in recruiting if he would stay. He’d tolerated the military’s long hours and low pay because he loved flying. If he had to take a desk job-and this particular billet was located in Detroit, Michigan-he wanted to earn a little coin. He’d resigned his commission and joined Triton. As a newlywed with his first child due in six months, it was time to start putting some money in the bank.

“Here she is,” said the VP, a guy named Merchie Rivers. Rivers walked and talked like a hard-charging ground-pounder who’d forgotten he’d taken off his green beret five years earlier.

Donohue watched a pair of workers wheel the pressure-wrapped podium toward them. “Looks bigger.”

“It’s the newest model. If we’re going to have a billion people watching, the boss wants to have the best up there. It’s two inches wider across the base. Weighs thirty pounds more.”

“Why the increase?” asked Donohue. As a pilot, he’d been trained to question every extra pound his aircraft took aboard.

“The thing’s got enough bulletproof armor to stop an RPG. Kevlar ain’t light.”

“Good. There’s no such thing as being too safe on this one.”

“Amen,” said Rivers.

The workers lifted the podium into the payload of a delivery van and strapped it in place.

Donohue slammed the rear doors closed. “Just make sure it has the presidential seal on it.”

“Not to worry, buddy,” said Rivers, shaking his hand as if it were a rag. “This one was custom made for President McCoy.”