“Yes, ma’am.” Wouldn’t you know it, Bruce thought. Probably the worst day in my life, and I can’t even get tanked to blow off steam. And so it goes.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I want to clear up some of the rumors floating around, so if you will refrain from asking questions, I’ll read the official press release.”
Juan Salazar, the White House press secretary, set his mouth and surveyed the crowd of reporters. It was four-fifteen in the morning, but he had a good turnout. Most of the press were red-eyed, still sleepy from being pulled from their beds forty-five minutes ago, but they were all attentive.
Ten years ago Juan could never have imagined himself in front of the national press corps. His gas station in East L.A. had never brought in much money, but Juan had involved himself in local politics ever since graduating from the College of the Canyons, a community college up north. Getting involved in the fight for water rights, then in national issues, Juan soon found himself leading the election efforts of the Hispanic community for President Longmire.
News of good work travels fast. Once Longmire had been elected into office, and the deciding factor was revealed to have been the Hispanic swing vote, Juan was offered the highly visible job of press secretary for the new administration.
Juan took the job seriously and never withheld information. If something broke, Juan took it upon himself to accurately broadcast the information to the press. It was his job to be the intermediary, and he let his supervisors worry about what news they would give him.
So when Juan Salazar had sleepily answered the call from Secretary of State Acht an hour ago, he arranged the press briefing within fifteen minutes of the call.
“At two-nineteen yesterday morning, President Longmire was admitted into Bethesda Naval Hospital for a type of surgery known as a thoracotomy. The president has been suffering from acute adenocarcinoma, lung cancer, and has been undergoing chemotherapy for the past six months. The public will be informed as soon as a prognosis is made.”
Juan looked up. “I have time for just a few questions. Patti?” He pointed to an older woman dressed in a bright red dress.
“Juan, is the vice president planning to cut short his trip to the Far East?”
Juan shook his head. “The final negotiations with the Philippine government will continue. The treaty should be signed on Saturday, and Vice President Adleman is scheduled to deliver it to the Senate Monday morning.”
“A follow-up, Juan …”
“Go ahead.”
The woman shifted her weight, as if she found it difficult to stand. “Thank you. What are the contingency plans, in the event that something should happen to the President? If the worst should happen, will Mr. Adleman be called back in spite of the treaty’s delicate nature?”
Juan cleared his throat. He had always been one to say a glass was half-full instead of half-empty. “Vice President Adleman is aware of the President’s condition, and is also aware of his constitutional obligations. That is all I can say for now.” Juan set his mouth and looked around the room for the next question. “George?”
A young man dressed in a smart suit stood and read from a notebook. “If the President was admitted to Bethesda yesterday, why wasn’t the press notified? Is this an attempt at a cover-up, and who has been running the government during President Longmire’s incapacitation?”
Juan rolled his eyes. Mother Maria, he prayed to himself, please help me get through this without punching anyone out!
Chapter 15
“Mr. Vice President, we’re on a tight schedule.…” Lieutenant Colonel Merke quietly urged Adleman up the stairs while keeping a smile on her face.
Adleman continued to shake hands with the enlisted men and officers who had gathered around the stairs to Air Force Two.
Merke tapped Adleman’s elbow and kept her voice low. “Sir, thunderstorms are forecast for the Clark area. We need to rotate.”
Adleman nodded while continuing to talk. “The President and I cannot say enough about the importance of the job you are doing — underpaid, overworked, and putting your life on the line for your country. We are working on these compensation problems, but for those of you who are giving the best years of your life serving our country, America salutes you!”
Adleman straightened and threw the crowd a full-handed salute, bringing back memories of Reagan and Clinton at their best, playing up to the cameras. The men and women went wild.
As Adleman entered the plane he turned to Merke, flushed. “That’s the way to leave them — cheering for more.” He rubbed his hands together and made his way back to the suite. “Any word from Washington?”
“No, sir. The President is still in critical condition, and there’s been no change.”
“How about repercussions from Rizular? Has word gotten back on how he feels about us landing at Clark instead of Manila?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.” As they reached the back of the plane, Lieutenant Colonel Merke handed Adleman a sheaf of papers. “Here’s the latest situation briefing … and here”—she handed him another bundle—“are some memos to sign. Flight time is approximately two and a half hours; we’re expecting to encounter some weather.”
Adleman grunted and glanced over the papers. He entered the suite and said, “Make sure I’m awake a half hour out of Clark. If reading this doesn’t put me to sleep, I’m going to try and catch a nap before we land.”
“Yes, sir.”
As he shut the door Adleman felt uneasy, as if he were forgetting something. Maybe he was starting to take this job more seriously.
Yolanda stood outside the main gate. The morning rush hour was over, and only a few people were straggling onto the base.
Signs in English and Tagalog warned her that only personnel on official business were allowed on the base. A contractor’s entrance was visible twenty-five yards away. Filipino and American soldiers manned both gates.
A half hour before she had told her father she was going to the market, to walk around and clear her mind. Pompano had smiled at her and encouraged her to get up and around — she thought that he was happy that she wasn’t moping, rebelling.
She didn’t know what he would do to her if he learned her true destination.
Someone jostled her elbow. She looked around. “Excuse me.” The man who had bumped into her was already walking through the gate.
As she approached the gate she felt a light drizzle begin. She looked to the sky; the clouds seemed to have come closer to the ground. She hurried her stride to the gate.
A uniformed Filipino stepped from the concrete guard shack as she approached, took one look at Yolanda, and waved her through.
She clutched the yellow pass and moved quickly through the fence. The Filipinos entering the base streamed toward a row of buses, but they first approached a brown-shirted man, who seemed to give out directions and point them to specific buses. Yolanda was heading for the man when she heard a voice behind her.
“Hey, wait a minute!”
Yolanda turned, feeling suddenly cold. The drizzle had increased to heavier drops.
“Hold up.” A uniformed American ran toward her. He wore a blue beret, a gun holstered at his side, and camouflaged fatigues. The American kept one hand on his beret and the other hand on his holster. He huffed up to her.
“Excuse me, could I see an ID?”
Yolanda looked puzzled. “He said I could enter.”
“Yeah, and he didn’t check your ID either. Dependent or not, it’s a rule, miss.” He smiled amicably.