“Stop being so melodramatic,” Fagan said. “You’ve never even met the man.”
“What’s that got to do with anything? You’re the one who said he was trouble, and that you never wanted to see him again!”
“That was before I knew why he went AWOL!” Fagan barked.
“What are you talking about?” Martha said, more confused than ever.
Fagan knew he had already said too much. “Forget it,” he said. “I’m going to take a shower. We’ll talk about this later.” He turned to leave the room.
Tears welled in Martha’s eyes. “I suppose if you wanted me to know about your plot to kill the President you would have told me?” she said after him.
Fagan stopped in his tracks. She had heard everything. Damn it! How could I be so fucking stupid! He looked back at her, eyes flat. “I suggest you start getting cleaned up as well, Martha. I’m expecting you to be ready when I return from North Island. In case you’ve forgotten, we have a party to attend.”
While Martha was out she had purchased a new dress and shoes for the occasion, but now she’d feel stupid putting them on. “I’m not so sure I want to go,” she said, her eyes moist.
Fagan’s eyes narrowed even more and he said, “Oh, you’re going all right. I think it’s time you and Jason Souther met.”
North Island Naval Air Station
Coronado Island
Chapter 37
Air Force One dropped below the clouds, approaching San Diego from the east, and touched down on the east-west runway at Naval Air Station North Island on Coronado Island. The pilot taxied to a stop in a specially designated area of the tarmac, and the jet’s wheel chocks were set and air stairs driven into place. A parade of black limousines pulled up nearby in precision formation, followed by the rolling out of the red carpet.
Soon the massive Boeing VC-25’s forward passenger door opened and the President of the United States and his entourage walked down the steps to the sound of a Navy marching band.
There to greet the President were a crowd of military officers and officials.
One of the officers was Commander Richard Fagan.
Fagan stepped forward and shook hands with the President.
“Welcome to San Diego, Mr. President,” Fagan said. “I’m Commander Richard Fagan of the United States Navy. It is a privilege to be your escort today. I trust you had a good flight.”
“Thank you, Commander, it’s good to be here,” the President said.
“We’ve arranged for you to relax in your room for a while if your schedule permits,” Fagan said.
“I’d like that,” the President said. “The flight over was nothing but back to back meetings, and I could use some peace and quiet.”
One of the suits charged with protecting the President wore a baby-blue carnation in his lapel. He stepped over and took Fagan aside.
“For obvious reasons, the Secret Service refuses to allow the Chief Executive to stay in a room at or near the top of a hotel,” he said with a tone of arrogance.
Fagan had always hated the way these glorified security guards talked to distinguished military officers such as himself. “Thank you, Agent,” he said. “I’m well aware of that policy.”
He turned back to the President. “In recent years the Presidential Suite at the Hotel Del Coronado has become more a symbol of the office than a potential presidential stopover, sir. We have arranged for you to rest at what we call the Baby Del, a beautiful, private residence here on Coronado Island. It is totally safe and secure. Not even I know where it is.”
“Well done, Commander,” the President said. “I’m sure it will more than suit my needs.”
The agent with the carnation stepped back a half step and adjusted his tie.
“In honor of your visit to San Diego, I have arranged a special VIP treat for you, Mr. President,” Fagan said.
“And what might that be?” the President asked. He had already been briefed regarding his schedule for the day, but hearing it from the officer in charge was more reliable.
“Later this evening, you will board the nuclear submarine, USS Hampton,” Fagan said. “Then, at precisely 9:00 p.m. local time, you will sail out to sea from Point Loma to observe an Emergency Nighttime Surface Drill.” He pictured the dark shadow of Cobra waiting silently under the bait barges, its live torpedo cocked and loaded.
The President had heard of the exercise. “Is that where the sub shoots up out of the water like a breaching whale?” he asked candidly.
“Yes, sir,” Fagan said. “It’s a rare privilege, and one of the more exciting events to experience on board an attack sub — outside of combat, that is.”
The agent with the carnation gave Fagan a look that said, You Naval Officers think you’re so fucking cool…
“Sounds like fun,” the President said.
“Oh, it will be, sir,” Fagan said, thinking of the real reason the President’s sub was going to shoot out of the water. “I can almost guarantee you’ll never forget it.” He paused to look at his watch. “Unfortunately, I have other pressing business, so I won’t be joining you this evening. I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.”
He and the President shook hands.
“Enjoy the ride,” Fagan said, and with a quick nod to the agent with the flower, he excused himself and returned to his home on Point Loma.
San Diego Bay
Chapter 38
At just after 5:30 p.m., Aaron hopped in the Zodiac and headed across the anchorage to the MMSD. He could see Ekatarina waving at him from the dock.
The newly acquainted couple toured the bay for a while, taking in the sights, checking out the spectacular downtown San Diego skyline.
Aaron steered the Zodiac under the Coronado Bridge and into Glorietta Bay, on the east side of Coronado Island near the Hotel Del Coronado.
He asked Ekatarina to brace herself, and then he ran the small rubber craft up on the sand in a secluded area of the beach.
They unloaded their gear and carried it up onto the grass. Aaron spread out the soft blanket Ekatarina had brought, and she placed the picnic basket and some beach towels in one corner.
A steady, cool breeze blew in off the water as they sat and watched the sun going down behind the hotel.
“Where did you get that scar?” Ekatarina asked, referring to the jagged line running down Aaron’s left cheek.
Aaron touched his hand to his face, unsure what to say. Then he decided to tell her the whole story: about how he had met a writer named Michael St. John, and how Michael’s novel Saturday Night Crash had been turned into a successful movie, and how he’d been working on a sequel.
He told her how, after knowing each other for only three days, Michael had become like a father to him — the father he had yearned for ever since he was nine-years-old and his real father died in combat.
He told her about those three horrific days: the two eccentric thugs, Needles and Beeks; and the deadly bank robbery, and how when he had tried to stop it, Johnny Souther shot him.
“As if that weren’t enough,” he said at last, “and after all we’d been through together, at the end of the third day I lost my mother, my best friend, and Michael St. John to a hit-and-run driver.”
Ekatarina looked at him in disbelief. “You poor thing,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.”