“Shake it loose, Dr. Goodley.”
The eyes opened slowly. “What time is it?”
“Seven-twenty. What part of New England are you from originally?”
“ New Hampshire, up north, place called Littleton.”
“Well, take a look out the window and it might remind you of home.”
By the time Jack returned with fresh water, the younger man was standing at the windows. “Looks like about a foot and a half out there, maybe a little more. So, what's the big deal? Where I come from this is called a flurry.”
“In D.C., it's called The Ice Age. I'll have coffee ready in a few minutes.” Ryan decided to call the security desk of the lobby. “What's the situation?”
“People calling in saying they can't make it. But what the hell — most of the night staff couldn't get out. The G.W. Parkway is closed. So's the Beltway on the Maryland side, and the Wilson Bridge — again.”
“Outstanding. Okay, this is important, so listen up — that means anybody who makes it in is probably KGB-trained. Shoot 'em.” Goodley could hear the laughter on the phone from ten feet away. “Keep me posted on the weather situation. And reserve me a four-by-four, the GMC, in case I have to go somewhere.” Jack hung up and looked at Goodley. “Rank hath its privileges. Besides, we have a couple of them.”
“What about people who have to get in?”
Jack watched the coffee start to come out of the machine. “If the Beltway and G.W. are closed, that means that two-thirds of our people can't get in. Now you know why the Russians have invested so much money in weather-control programs.”
“Doesn't anybody down here —”
“No, people down here pretend that snow is something that happens on ski slopes. If it doesn't stop soon, it'll be Wednesday before anything starts moving in this town.”
“It's really that bad here?”
“You'll see for yourself, Ben.”
“And I left my cross-country skis up in Boston.”
“We didn't hit that hard,” the Major objected.
“Major, the breaker board seems to disagree with you,” the crew chief replied. He pushed the breaker back in position. The small black plastic tab hesitated for a moment, then popped right back out. “No radio because of this one, and no hydraulics 'cause of that one. I'm afraid we're grounded for a while, sir.”
The metering pins for the landing gear had arrived at two in the morning, on the second attempt. The first, aborted, attempts had been by car, until someone had decided that only a military vehicle could make it. The parts had arrived by HMMWV, and even that had been held up by the various stopped cars on the highways between Washington and Camp David. Repairs on the helicopter were supposed to have started in another hour or so — it was not a difficult job — but suddenly they were more complicated.
“Well?” the Major asked.
“Probably a couple of loose wires in there. I gotta pull the whole board, sir, inspect the whole thing. That's a whole day's work at best. Better tell 'em to warm up a backup aircraft.”
The Major looked outside. This was not a day he wanted to fly anyway. “We're not supposed to go back until tomorrow morning. When'll it be fixed?”
“If I start now… say around midnight.”
“Get breakfast first. I'll take care of the backup bird.”
“Roge-o, Major.”
“I'll have them run some power out here for a heater, and a radio, too.” The Major knew the crew chief was from San Diego.
The Major trudged back to the cabin. The helicopter pad was on a high spot, and the wind was trying very hard to blow it clear of snow. As a result, there was only six inches to worry about. Down below, the drifts were as much as three feet deep. The grunts out walking the woods must be having a fine time, he thought.
“How bad?” the pilot asked, shaving.
“Circuit panel is acting up. The chief says he needs all day to get it back on line.”
“We didn't hit that hard,” the Colonel objected.
“I already said that. Want me to make the call?”
“Yeah, go ahead. Have you checked the threat board?”
“The world's at peace, Colonel, sir. I checked.”
The “threat board” was mainly an expression. The alert level of the government agencies that dealt with various problems depended on the expected level of danger in the world. The greater the possible danger, the more assets were kept ready to deal with them. At the moment there was no perceived threat to the United States of America, and that meant that only a single aircraft was kept ready to back-stop the President's VH-3. The major placed the call to Annacostia.
“Yeah, let's keep dash-two warm. Dash-one is down with electrical problems… no, we can handle it here. Oughta be back on line by midnight. Right. Bye.” The Major hung up just in time for Pete Connor to enter their cabin.
“What gives?”
“Bird's broke,” the Colonel replied.
“I didn't think we hit that hard,” Connor objected.
“Well, that makes it official,” the Major observed. “The only one who thinks we did hit that hard's the friggin' airplane.”
“The backup's on alert status,” the Colonel said, as he finished shaving. “Sorry, Pete. Electrical problem, maybe has nothing to do with the touchdown. The backup can be here in thirty-five minutes. Our threat board is blank. Anything we need to know about?”
Connor shook his head. “No, Ed. We know of no particular threat.”
“I can bring the backup bird here, but it means exposing it to the weather. We can take better care of it down at Annacostia. That's your call, sir.”
“You can leave it down there.”
“The Boss still wants to watch the game up here, right?”
“Correct. We all get a day off. Lift off for D.C. tomorrow about six-thirty. Problem with that?”
“No, ought to be fixed before then.”
“Okay.” Connor left and walked back to his cabin.
“What's it like out there?” Daga asked.
“About how it looks,” Pete said. “The chopper's broke.”
“I wish they'd be more careful,” Special Agent Helen D'Agustino observed as she brushed her hair.
“Not their fault.” Connor lifted the phone to the Secret Service command center, located a few blocks west of the White House. “This is Connor. The chopper is down with a mechanical problem. Backup is being kept at Annacostia because of weather conditions. Anything on the board I need to know about?”
“No, sir,” the junior agent responded. On his status board, in LED characters he could see that the President of the United States — designated POTUS on his display — was shown to be at Camp David. The First Lady of the United States — FLOTUS — space was blank. The Vice President was at his official residence on the ground of the U.S. Naval Observatory off of Massachusetts Avenue, North West, along with his family. “Everything's nice and calm, far as we know.”
“How are the roads down there?” Pete asked.
“Bad. Every Carryall we have is out retrieving people.”
“Thank God for Chevrolet.” Like the FBI, the Secret Service used the big Chevy four-wheel-drive trucks to get around. Heavily armored and with roughly the fuel-efficiency of a tank, the Carryall was able to do things that only a tank could excel. “Okay, it's nice and snug up here.”