He never failed to look at the words United States of America emblazoned along the fuselage of the spotless 747. With sunlight sparkling from the highly polished silver, white, and blue surface, the graphic symbol of freedom and democracy filled him with pride.
His practiced eye continued to survey the huge airplane from nose to tail and wingtip to wingtip, including the self-contained baggage loader. Bolton didn’t detect any damage or blemishes, and, most important, all the essential components were securely attached to the airframe. Air Force One was ready to take to the skies.
Closer to Havana than to Miami, the oddly picturesque town was coming alive when Scott and Jackie entered the gaily decorated bar and grill. They ordered the “Bone Islet” breakfast and tall Virgin Marys, then unfolded the sectional aeronautical chart and plotted the coordinates of the island home near Marathon.
“What do you think?” she asked innocently. “What if we’re wrong and there isn’t something sinister going on at the island?”
“That’s why we’re going to check it out before we contact anyone.” He gave her a dismissive shrug, then looked into her eyes and smiled. “I don’t want to charge in like John Wayne, then look like a fool if the place turns out to be a retreat for corporate executives.”
She lowered her gaze. “You have a point.” A smile spread slowly across her lips. “Bad form after our show in Lebanon.”
He looked away, seeking a diversion. ‘That’s why I’m using my rule book this time,” he declared in a quiet, flat voice. “No one knows where we are, or what we’re doing.”
Jackie chuckled. “Sometimes, I wonder what we’re doing.”
“That makes two of us.”
The place was becoming crowded by the time Jackie and Scott finished their Virgin Marys. Less than a minute later a mousy, gum-chewing waitress delivered their fresh conch chowder and fritters to their beer-soaked wooden table.
“Thanks,” Scott said as he glanced at the object above his right shoulder. The saloon’s soft neon glow highlighted a Ray-O-Vac leakproof battery advertisement over their booth.
“Nice place,” Jackie said as she surveyed a strange assortment of local Key Westers, two of whom had live lizards perched on their shoulders. “Lots of ambience — sort of a drenched-in-decadence atmosphere.”
A slow grin spread across Scott’s face. “Hey, look at the upside.” He gestured to their collective attire. “We fit in with the crowd.”
“Yeah, that’s the scary part.” Jackie cast a look at a rail-thin woman who was braiding another skinny woman’s hair. Both of the locals were smoking cigarillos and wearing huge clear plastic earrings that flashed like strobe lights. “You’d have to be naked, wearing snowshoes and a life jacket, and have your head stuffed inside a glowing pumpkin not to fit in here.”
“At least I didn’t take you to the Marriott,” Scott said as a mischievous smile spread across his face.
“For that, I can be thankful.”
Jackie tasted her chowder and looked around. The walls were covered with endorsements for Philco appliances, Indian Motorcycles, Bell & Howell eight-millimeter movie cameras, Remington Rand typewriters, Cushman Eagle motor scooters, and a large replica of a “Harry Truman for President” campaign button. From millionaires, to the last of the hippies, to sex-starved sailors on Cinderella liberty, the bar was a gathering place for many of the characters who gravitated to the cozy little island.
“Only in Key West.” Jackie laughed out loud. “Thousands of free spirits living in their own quaint little world.”
“And,” Scott added, “they’re genuinely happy.”
Jackie nodded. “Party time round-the-clock.”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Scott remarked, then tossed a look at a drunken musician with a graying ponytail and a Taylor guitar. The man had a face that looked like it had worn out three bodies. Barely able to balance on his bar stool, the hollow-eyed crooner was doing an unconscionable injustice to a Johnny Mathis ballad while two couples stumbled and lurched around the dance floor.
“That should be a felony,” Jackie said, barely able to keep a straight face. “It sounds like someone is sticking him with a cattle prod.”
Scott studied the lanky singer with the fluorescent tan for a few moments. “Probably too much shock therapy.”
A tall, full-bosomed waitress with a mouthful of pearl-white teeth approached their table. “Are you Scott?”
“Yes.”
“This just came for you,” she said as she handed him a large photo mailer. “Cindy is tied up at her shop.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime, handsome,” she said suggestively as she deliberately brushed against him.
“Very subtle,” Jackie said derisively.
Scott opened the mailer and began sorting through the photos. He quickly surveyed the pictures of the island home and yacht, then stared at a photo of the helicopter for a few seconds. “Dammit,” he exclaimed.
“What is it?”
“You called traffic — the Cessna we almost creamed — about the same time I noticed the flag on the helo.”
“And?”
He pulled back and looked at her. “Take a gander at this,” Scott said as he shoved the picture across the table. “That was what was bothering me after we flew away. I couldn’t remember if the flag’s green, white, and red stripes were vertical or horizontal.”
“Mexico’s stripes are vertical — same with Italy,” Jackie said as she studied the photo, then stopped and stared at Scott. “That’s an Iranian flag!”
“Let’s go,” Scott said as he gathered the pictures together.
“We’ll head back and check the island before we call in the troops.”
Jackie rose from the table. “I’ll take care of our bill — you grab a cab.”
33
With cheerful smiles on their faces, President and Mrs. Cord Macklin walked out of the mansion and waved to a cluster of reporters near the South Portico. A few correspondents waved back, but most of the media ignored their friendly gestures.
The first lady nervously glanced at the snipers on the roof, then turned her attention to the plethora of Marines and Secret Service agents deployed around the grounds.
Under the chief executive’s left arm, he carried a leather folder containing a copy of the Cornerstone Summit speech he planned to deliver in Atlanta. Unsatisfied with a couple of items in his speech, he intended to polish the rough edges during the short flight to Georgia. Political pundits had branded his last discourse on race relations as “a meandering journey in search of a destination.” His address to the diverse audience in Atlanta had to come from the heart.
After crossing the freshly manicured south lawn, the president kissed his wife good-bye, then turned and walked up the steps to the gleaming Marine Corps VH-3D Sea King helicopter. Seconds later the main rotor blades began turning while the commander in chief settled into his seat. A few moments later, in the early cool of morning, Marine One smoothly lifted from its landing pad and turned toward CampSprings, Maryland, home to Andrews Air Force Base.
The president vacantly stared out the window as he thought about the trip to the heart of the south. Citing security reasons, Hartwell Prost wanted to cancel the trip, but Macklin had persisted on showing up for the important summit. The money people were committed, operatives were committed, and national and local politicians were committed.
In addition, three former presidents would be there, along with scores of governors, mayors, business leaders, clergymen, and well-known celebrities. Regardless of Hartwell’s concerns about safety, there wasn’t any graceful way for Macklin to renege on his promise to lead the racial initiative in Atlanta. Besides, people expected presidents and fighter pilots to be the type of individuals who routinely fulfill their obligations.