“I think you’ve been single for too long. I think you should get married.”
“What?”
“Or at the very least, engaged. I’m told that the jewelry stores in New York are very good and that they will actually deliver a selection of rings at the request of an important customer.”
“Oh?”
“Certainly. Now make an honest woman of that lovely girl. And, by the way, I think it would be a very good idea if you made the public announcement at the earliest possible moment, no later than six o’clock, say. I’m a romantic, Marty. I’d like to see this on the evening network news shows.”
“That soon?”
“I have it on good authority that Dick Thompson, at The Washington Post, is going to run a column about you, Barbara, Elizabeth, and Betty tomorrow morning. I think it would be nice if everything it says has already been negated.”
“I think that’s a very good idea, Mr. President, and although I’m a bit befuddled, I thank you for it.”
“Let me be the first to congratulate you, Marty, and please extend my wishes for her every happiness to Elizabeth.” Will hung up, got into his jacket, and walked forward in the big airplane, ready to greet the crowds in Los Angeles.
61
Nelson Pickett was snuggled up to his newest boyfriend in bed, watching an interesting video that featured two other boyfriends, when his bedside phone rang. Busy as he was, he ignored it, until he heard the voice on the answering machine.
“Goddammit, Nelson, pick up the phone!” Willie Gaynes shouted.
Pickett immediately stopped what he was doing and grabbed for the phone. “Yes, Willie?” he panted.
“Have you seen the website of The Washington Post?”
“No, Willie, it’s not part of my regular reading.”
“Well, if you’ll get off your ass and get onto your computer, you can read tomorrow’s big fucking front-page story. Your story!”
“I don’t understand,” Pickett said.
“The Post has scooped you! Do you know how much I hate being scooped by a straight newspaper?”
“That doesn’t seem possible, Willie.”
“Not only is it possible, it’s a fucking fact! I’m at the office, ripping out our front page and trying to find something to replace your story!”
Pickett’s heart sank. “Do you want me to come down there, Willie?”
“No, don’t you come down here, not ever again. You’re fired!”
The noise of the phone slamming down caused Pickett’s ear to ring.
“What’s the matter, sweetie?” his friend asked.
“I’ve just been fired,” Pickett said in a hollow voice.
“Really?”
“Really.”
His friend looked at the bedside clock. “Oh my God, I’ve got to get out of here!” he said, leaping out of bed and grabbing his clothes.
“I could use a little consoling,” Pickett said.
“Sorry, baby, I forgot about another appointment.”
Then he was gone, and Nelson Pickett was left alone to contemplate his job prospects.
62
Will stood on the podium, letting waves of applause and whistles wash over him. It had been his best speech of the campaign, he knew, and those who did not see it on live television would be bombarded with half a dozen carefully constructed sound bites the following day, the last before the election.
He shook hands on the podium and in the green room for half an hour, then was whisked back to the Presidential Suite at the Hotel Bel-Air. As he walked into the suite he saw Kitty Conroy standing, holding a telephone. Half his campaign staff was assembled in the room.
“It’s Kate,” Kitty said. “I mean, the director of Central Intelligence.”
Will took the phone from her. “Yes?”
“Mr. President,” Kate said, “one of our Navy SEAL teams now in Pakistan has apparently located the warhead.”
“Is it secure?”
“No. A team of eight is on the ground in a village hardly big enough for that name. Apparently, there are more goats than people, but we know it’s a hotbed of Taliban and Al Qaeda activity. They estimate fifty men in the village. We have a live feed from the team right now. A Lieutenant Parsons is the leader, code name Striker.”
Will pressed the speaker button on the phone and hung up the receiver, motioning everybody to sit down and listen. The voices were low, but intense.
“This is Striker. I’m twelve yards from the house, and my readings have doubled. This is definitely ground zero. There’s a window, and we’re going to approach.” There was the sound of feet on gravel, running.
“Striker, this is Hitman. Do you require support?”
“Negative, Hitman. We’re planting the charge now. Start for base camp, we’ll catch up. Hang on, a vehicle is approaching the house.”
“I see it, Striker. It appears to be a large flatbed truck, covered with a tarp.”
“They’re going to move it,” Striker replied.
“The tarp is off. There is what appears to be a missile on the bed, but there is no warhead.”
“Hitman, start your stopwatch on my mark-detonation in three minutes. Fire a Hellfire at the vehicle five seconds early.”
“Roger, Striker.”
“Three, two, one, mark.” Again, the sound of running feet.
“Kate,” Will said.
“I’m here.”
“What kind of charge is he planting?”
“C-four.”
“And a Hellfire missile to be fired at the truck?”
“Correct. It’s shoulder-mounted.”
“Is the combination of the two explosions going to endanger the team?”
“They have three minutes to put ground between them and the village, and there is available rocky cover. They’ll be all right if the warhead doesn’t detonate.”
“Are you telling me that one or both of those explosions might detonate the warhead?”
“We don’t know for sure. I’m told that the people holding the warhead may have modified it. The standard warhead is set for airburst. If they’ve altered it for a contact burst, then the force of the explosion could set it off.”
“And we have no information on whether they’ve done so?”
“None.”
“I would have liked to have had the opportunity to consider that possibility,” Will said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. President, but we’ve been listening to this mission for less than four minutes, and, in any case, we have no direct contact with the team leader. We’re listening on a one-way relay, and in order to contact them, we would have to call the base in Afghanistan, they would call a chopper, and the chopper would contact the
