The Threat

He suddenly wondered, the question coming from nowhere: Why had Marine One been waiting, if no travel was scheduled?

They droned over the Potomac, still gaining altitude. Above them passenger jets chalked contrails on blue velvet. Once again, as he had on the flight to Camp David, he thought how easy it would be to assassinate the president in the air. Any of the light planes that were probably all around them, in the crowded airspace of northern Virginia, could fly into them. It would be suicide, but there seemed to be more and more fanatics these days. He looked at McKoy again, then at the other Secret Service agent. Her name was Lee, Leigh, something like that. Blond. She looked back from behind dark wraparounds, expressionless as a death mask.

The PES crept out from beneath the seat, walked across the floor by an invisible hand. Despite meticulous maintenance, Marine One still had a chopper’s inherent vibration. He stretched out a shoe, hooked it, and pulled it back. Looked up to find Leigh’s eyes still on him. He gave her a smile but got only that flat stare.

He dropped his gaze. Looked at the satchel again.

Had it really felt heavier than usual?

Yeah, right. He grinned at himself and sat back. Amusing himself with the idea. If you wanted to get something aboard Marine One or Air Force One, what better way than to give it to the mil aide?

Sure. Who was the only guy the Secret Service couldn’t search? Couldn’t touch? And wouldn’t even suspect? The dude who carried the football.

He sat there for a few minutes. Felt his smile fade, like the Cheshire cat in reverse.

Christ, he was getting paranoid. Upshaw had opened the satchel in the secretary’s office. Gone through it while he’d looked over her shoulder. Nothing there that hadn’t always been there.

He glanced at the agents again. Neither McKoy nor Leigh was looking at him now. The lead agent was gazing out and down to where the Beltway, like a Robert Heinlein roadcity, lay flashing and streaming across the Wilson Bridge.

You are so fucking nuts, he told himself savagely. You really ought to turn yourself in. He’d fought it for too long. Self-loathing overwhelmed him.

He looked at the satchel again. Pulled it out with the toe of his shoe. Bending, he fiddled with the catch, trying to look casual. He set the combination, and popped the first latch.

Only it didn’t pop.

He pushed harder, but it didn’t move. He frowned. Checked the combo. The numbers were lined up dead center on the indicator marks. But neither latch was opening. He spun it, set it up again, pushed the latch again.

Nada.

He cleared his throat. Glanced at the agents. They were ignoring him, lost in the vibration and noise. De Bari and Weatherfield were in their own world, arguing. Mrs. De Bari stared into eternity somewhere above all their heads.

Why would they change the combo without telling him? The duty dog had to be able to get to the radio. And the handbook, if the warbler went off. Plus the other stuff in there. There wasn’t much room, but Jazak sometimes left Power Bars and the small-size Gatorades in there. When he found them Dan had no qualms about drinking the juice, though he drew the line at the Power Bars.

You’re around the bend, he told himself. Nutzoid. The lock’s jammed, that’s all. Or Upshaw had reset the combination by accident.

Only he didn’t see how. All she’d done was spin the dials, as they all did when they closed the PES, so that even if it was stolen it’d still be locked.

Son of a bitch! What if that warbler went off right now? Or the president asked to look at the manual? He broke into a sweat, glancing toward De Bari and Weatherfield as if they could read his mind. But the next minute he thought: They don’t care. What had Jazak said? Bad Bob didn’t have a clue. Had sent the Gold Code to the dry cleaners in his pants.

But even as he thought that, he knew he was skating around the truth and his duty. Because if Robert De Bari didn’t give a shit, that was no excuse for Commander Dan Lenson to cut corners or look away.

Moving as casually as he could, he leaned to look down through polished bulletproof plastic. Now forest bordered the gleam of river, and the glowing mercury of the Chesapeake broadened ahead.

He snapped open his seat belt. Took a step forward, toward the cockpit; then, as if he’d forgotten, came back and bent and took the satchel along, and set it casually on the step up to the pilots’ compartment. He rapped on the sliding port. A face glanced back. The port slid open.

“Anything from the White House?” he shouted up into significantly louder noise.

The marine shouted back, “Nothing yet.”

“No truck bombs?”

“Not that they’ve told me about.”

“Where we headed?”

“Oh, we’re just flyin’ around, down toward Pax River. Looking for a recall any minute, unless they want me to shoot for Thurmont.”

Dan looked past him, into the cockpit, and saw what he’d hoped to. “Can you hand me that?” he shouted, pointing.