The Threat

He had no desire to go jogging with this guy. He wanted out of this job just as quickly as he could. But meanwhile … the old story … it was his duty. So: he’d just get through it. Then, out of this septic tank and back to sea.

He changed in the aides’ cabin. Pulled on his sweats. Did a few stretches, concentrating on back and calves, and put on a headband to keep his ears warm. Then looped back to the presidential cabin. Jazak handed him the satchel and tapped off a salute.

Dan jogged off, the dread weight of nuclear retaliation pulling him off balance at each step.

* * *

The compound was quickly out of sight, erased by the leafless branches of mountain laurel and wild roses that became screening-thick as they left the hilltop. Dead leaves crunched underfoot. Their breaths panted out in white steam. Six runners: four Secret Service guys, all male, in blue track suits to cut the chill; the president, in a dark green University of Wyoming sweatshirt and the same blue pants as the agents; and Dan, in his gray Academy-issue sweats. He wondered if anyone had invited the Africans. They hadn’t seemed like the jogging type, but you never knew.

De Bari looked heavy today. Maybe it was the sweats. He set a good pace, though, on the initial downhill. Dan figured they were doing about a twelve-minute mile. But as soon as they were out of sight of the cabins he eased off to a lazy bear-shamble. His cheeks mottled red. He pushed his hair back and coughed. “Damn, colder’n I thought out here,” he said to no one in particular. The detail guys didn’t respond. Glancing at them Dan wondered suddenly how they felt about the man they so intimately guarded. Whom they were with every minute of his day, save for when he closed the bathroom door.

Or the bedroom. Which brought the shriveling memory of facing these same men — had they been the same ones? — in the freezing-dim corridors of the Pribaltskaya … Their flat returning gazes gave no answer. Did they pass around the story of his shame? Did they think of the man keeping pace with them, loping steadily if slowly down into the valley, was an impotent cuckold?

“What about that new guy? What’s his name — Kubicki, Kubicka? Something like that.”

He flinched. De Bari had slipped back, still cocooned by his human shields, but measuring his pace to Dan’s.

His mind hunted, then made the connection. The Naval Academy team had broken out of its decade-long doldrums. De Bari was talking about a new quarterback, a half — Native American who was the biggest ground gainer any of the service academies had seen since Staubach. He said unwillingly, “Uh, I hear he’s something, Mr. President.”

“Seen him play?”

“I keep meaning to make it to a game.…”

“I’m thinking of going to Army-Navy next season,” De Bari said between breaths. “If they invite me.”

“I’m sure they will, Mr. President.”

“You think so? I keep trying, but I just can’t seem to make any progress with your people.”

Was it his imagination, or was the guy trying to be chummy? His fists tightened. Fuck a guy’s wife, then stroke him … but what else could you expect from the premier politician of the age? Everything America wanted she’d found in Buckshot Bob. The television presence of a superstar. The Dr. Atkins of the federal budget. Pulling U.S. troops out of country after country. And now, some sort of Mideast peace deal he was supposed to be putting together, along with central Africa, a Medicare catastrophic-expenses cap—

He cleared his throat, fighting to keep his tone neutral. “What ‘people’ is that, sir?”

“Your military folks. The top brass. Stahl, Bornheiter, Knight, those shirts. The CNO. The retired four-stars, like Skip Froelinghausen. What’s your call, Dan? Any way I could turn them around?”

A fallen log lay across the snowy trail, powdery rot spilling out like dirty cinnamon from its hollow core. It had to have just come down; he couldn’t imagine the detail letting the president run a trail they hadn’t swept. McKoy waved, and two of the earpiece boys sprinted ahead. The president took a breather, arms akimbo, as they looked it over, then kicked it out of the way.

He couldn’t believe this. De Bari knew his name. Had to know he was Blair Titus’s husband. He was either totally oblivious, or totally shameless. Could he really believe a few flattering words could make him a Buddy de Bob again?

They eased back into a slow pace. “Ah, I couldn’t tell you that, sir.”

“We’ve got to cut back. Tokyo’s hammering Detroit. We’re losing textiles and computers to the Chinese. And Social Security, tax reform, we can’t let those go another year. Who’ve we got left to fight anyway?”

Dan said, still incredulous, “Sir, I’m way too far down the chop chain to give you any insight on that.”

“And you wouldn’t tell me if you knew.” De Bari hit him, a fairly painful jab to the shoulder.

He didn’t like this man. He grated out, trying to keep his timbre short of actively savage, “I would if I could, Mr. President.”

“Then give it a shot.”