“Oh,” she said with a slow smile. “Let me guess. We’re going to use one of the toys they’ve confiscated from the bad guys.”
“Actually, it belonged to a seaplane operator who was a little light on his tax returns. The friendly boys at the IRS gave it to the CIA.” A look of satisfaction settled over his face. “I’m going to handle this through an old friend from the Agency, so no one but the three of us will know about the arrangement.”
“How reliable is your friend?”
“Like the sun coming up in the east.”
“That sounds reasonable,” she said as they flew over a cruise ship. A few moments passed before Jackie gazed at Scott, her attention focused on his eyes. “At the risk of hurting your pride, I feel compelled to raise an obvious question.”
Scott gave her a look of amused indulgence. “You have no confidence in me, right? Is that what you’re about to say?”
Jackie arched an eyebrow. “Between the two of us,” she said with a straight face, “we have little to zero experience in floatplanes. Wouldn’t it be easier and safer if we used a helicopter?”
He hesitated, then smiled broadly and stretched his arms. “And take all the adventure out of it?”
“Seriously.”
“We could use a helo,” he explained, “but floatplanes and amphibians are a lot more prevalent in the Keys. We need to blend with the surroundings, do the reggae thing — look like free spirits who belong there.”
“Parrotheads?” she mused.
“Something like that.”
“If you say so, Cap’n.” Jackie smiled evenly. “I just want to be on record when we crawl out of the wreckage.”
“Duly noted.” He chuckled.
“What kind of plane are we going to use?”
“A Maule M-7 on amphibious floats — the same kind I got my rating in — so we’re in good shape.”
“Yeah, right,” she said with typical honesty. “I seem to remember words to that effect in Athens.”
Scott’s slow smile reflected his usual air of confidence. “He is lifeless who is faultless.”
“Too much luck often dulls one’s perspective,” she suggested gently. “Another old proverb.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed with a dismissive shrug. “In any event, we’re going to use my rule book this time.”
She inclined her head to him. “Your book has no rules.”
“You got it.”
Jackie checked the engine instruments and turned to Scott. “What are your plans for Thanksgiving?”
He gave her a quizzical look and slowly smiled. “That’s — what—five months away?”
“I like to plan ahead.”
“I haven’t made any plans.” He grinned. “You have something in mind?”
“How about having dinner with me at my parents’ home?”
“Sure,” he said with a surprised look. “I’d be honored.”
“Not so fast,” she said with a chuckle. “You haven’t met my parents.”
30
The handpicked Marine guards assigned to the White House had exchanged their dress uniforms for battle fatigues and machine guns. With the commander in chief a target of embittered militants, the grounds of the White House were being patrolled by two highly trained platoons of Marines. Led by seasoned first lieutenants, the “tough as nails” veterans specialized in counterterrorism.
Inside the White House, Secret Service agents refined their plans to spirit the president from the Oval Office in the event of an attack by terrorists. At the first indication of an assault, an agent would push a panel on a wall adjacent to the president’s rest room, causing a secret door to slide open. A staircase leading down to a brightly lit tunnel provided the president a means of escape to his private elevator, or another exit near an office that had once served as the White House barbershop.
The risk of further conflict with Iran had sent a shudder through the financial capitals of the world. Concern over who would eventually control the Strait of Hormuz had caused oil futures on the Chicago commodities market to triple in value. Reporting the conflict in great detail, the media anchors and pundits were generally lukewarm to President Macklin and his handling of the situation. World reaction to the attack on Iran had been sharply divided, with many nations in the Middle East fearful of a major war erupting in the Gulf region.
The Jockey Club in the Ritz-Carlton Hotel presented a logistical nightmare for the Secret Service, but the president and the first lady insisted on having lunch at least twice a month at the famed power-crowd watering hole. Regardless of the situation in the Persian Gulf, Macklin remained adamant about projecting a calm, relaxed demeanor to the public.
Playing their usual roles in the kitchen and in the dark-paneled dining room, six agents went about their duties dressed as captains, waiters, and busboys. Near the heavy glass door just off the hotel’s small lobby, other agents disguised as high-powered Washington insiders and hotel bell captains watched for any signs of trouble.
Earlier, before the club opened, the restaurant had been thoroughly checked for eavesdropping devices and other intelligence-gathering paraphernalia. Satisfied that the club was sanitized, the Secret Service had given the president the standard spiel about lip-readers. In public, Macklin and his wife generally kept their conversations light and pleasant, especially with respect to sensitive matters that could compromise his administration. Today would not be one of those days.
Seated at Table 14, a cozy corner retreat where a couple could dine and not only see, but be seen, the president and his attractive wife were enjoying a glass of wine with their chicken salad. A shapely brunette a decade younger than her husband, Maria Eden-Macklin sat with her long legs discreetly crossed at the ankles. Self-schooled to project the proper image of a first lady, Maria’s face seldom reflected anything other than a pleasant expression when she was seen in public. Today, however, the retired foreign correspondent was having a difficult time keeping her emotions beneath the surface.
Maria pushed up the elbow-length sleeves of her tailored designer suit, smiled, then leaned closer to the president and whispered in his ear. “May I speak frankly?”
The president returned her smile and sipped his Chardonnay. “You always do,” he said with a chuckle.
She raised her wineglass to conceal her lips. “I don’t think you should press your luck.” She smiled in a faintly autocratic manner. “You should be forthright about the submarine. If it’s missing, have Pete go on television and admit it.”
“Maria,” the president said lightly, “you know this isn’t the time”—he glanced around the room—“or the place to bring up that subject. We’ll discuss it later in private.”
“You have a full schedule until late this evening,” she declared in a quiet, firm voice. “We need to talk about this now, before someone leaks it to the press. Pete needs to be honest about the situation.”
“It isn’t quite that simple.” Macklin maintained a hint of a smile and talked in a hushed voice. “Pete and Les don’t want to unnecessarily alarm the families of the crew, in case Hampton makes contact in the next day or two.”
Briefly, Maria studied her husband. “If something has happened to it, you’re going to come across as deceitful. Remember the Trident that sailed to the wrong station in the Pacific and hid for more than a week?”
“Maria, not now,” he said impatiently.
“It was rigged for quiet,” she hastily continued, “and so deeply submerged that it wasn’t able to send or receive messages?”
“They could receive signals by slow underwater methods.”
Again she raised her wineglass to her lips. “Not if the sender is thousands of miles away.”