with an efficient heating system. It would have been enjoyable but for the lingering embarrassment, and the fact that the Secret Service agents were scanning out the doors, obviously looking for some sort of danger or other. It was becoming clear that they could take the fun out of anything.
'I GUESS SHE'S commuting to work,' the reporter decided. The camera had tracked the VH-60 until it disappeared into the tree line. It was a rare moment of levity. All of the networks were doing the same thing they'd done after the assassination of John Kennedy. Every single regular show was off the air while the networks devoted every waking hour—twenty-four hours per day now, which had not been the case in 1963—to coverage of the disaster and its aftermath. What that really meant was a bonanza for the cable channels, as had been proven by tracking information through the various ratings services, but the networks had to be responsible, and doing this was responsible journalism.
'Well, she is a physician, isn't she? It's easy to forget that, despite the disaster that has overtaken our government, outside the Beltway, there are still people who do real work. Babies are being born. Life goes on,' the commentator observed pontifically, as was his job.
'And so does the country.' The reporter looked directly at the camera for the transition to commercial. He didn't hear the voice from so far away.
'For now.'
THE KIDS WERE shepherded away by their bodyguards, and the real work of the day began. Arnie van Damm looked like hell. He was about to hit the wall, Jack decided; the combination of grueling work and grief was about to destroy the man. All well and good that the President should be spared as much as possible, Ryan knew, but not at the cost of wrecking the people upon whom he depended so much.
'Say your piece, Arnie, then disappear for a while and get some rest.'
'You know I can't do that—'
'Andrea?'
'Yes, Mr. President?'
'When we've finished here, have somebody drive Arnie home. You will not allow him back in the House until four this afternoon.' Ryan shifted his gaze. 'Arnie, you will not burn out on me. I need you too much.'
The chief of staff was too tired to show any gratitude. He handed over a folder. 'Here are the plans for the funeral, day after tomorrow.'
Ryan flipped open the folder, his demeanor deflated as suddenly as he had exercised another dollop of presidential authority.
Whoever had put the plan together had been clever and sensitive about it. Maybe somewhere there had been a contingency plan for this sort of thing, a question Ryan would never bring himself to ask, but whatever the truth was, someone had done well. Roger and Anne Durling would lie in state in the White House, since the Capitol Rotunda was not available, and for twenty-four hours people would be allowed to walk through, entering through the front, and exiting from the East Wing. The sadness of the event would be muted for the mourners by later exposure to the Americana and presidential portraits. The Durlings would be taken by hearse to National Cathedral the next morning, along with three members of the Congress, a Jew, a Protestant, and a Catholic, for the interdenominational memorial service. Ryan had two major speeches to give. The text of both was in the back of the folder.
'WHAT'S THAT FOR?' Cathy was wearing a crash helmet with full connections into the helicopter's intercom. She pointed at another aircraft fifty yards to their right rear. 'We always fly with a backup aircraft, ma'am. In case something breaks and we have to land,' the pilot explained from the right-front seat, 'we don't want to delay you unnecessarily.' He didn't say that in the backup helicopter were four more Secret Service agents with heavier weapons.
'How often does that happen, Colonel?'
'Not since I've been around, ma'am.' Nor did he say that one of the Marine Black Hawks had crashed into the Potomac in 1993, killing all hands. Well, it had been a long time. The pilot's eyes were scanning the air constantly. Part of VMH-l's institutional memory was what had seemed to be an attempted ramming over the California home of President Reagan. In fact it had been a screwup by a careless private pilot. After his interview with the Secret Service, the poor bastard had probably given up flying entirely. They were the most humorless people, Colonel Hank Goodman knew from long experience. The air was clear and cold, but pretty smooth. He controlled the stick with his fingertips as they followed 1-95 northeast. Baltimore was already in view, and he knew the approach into Hopkins well enough from previous duty at Naval Air Station Patuxent River, whose Navy and Marine helos occasionally helped fly accident victims. Hop-kins, he remembered, got the pediatric trauma cases for the state's critical-care system.
The same sobering thought hit Cathy when they flew past the University of Maryland's Shock-Trauma building. This wasn't her first flight in a helicopter, was it? It was just that for the other one she'd been unconscious. People had tried to kill her and Sally, and all the people around her were in jeopardy if somebody else made another try—why? Because of who her husband was.
'Mr. Altman?' Cathy heard over the intercom.
'Yeah, Colonel?'
'You called ahead, right?'
'Yes, they know we're coming, Colonel,' Altman assured him.
'No, I mean, is the roof checked out for a -60?'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean this bird is heavier than the one the state troopers use. Is the pad certified for us?' Silence provided the answer. Colonel Goodman looked over at his co-pilot and grimaced. 'Okay, we can handle that this one time.'
'Clear left.'
'Clear right,' Goodman replied. He circled once, checking the wind sock on the roof of the building below. Just puffs of wind from the northwest. The descent was gentle, and the colonel kept a close eye on the radio whips to his right. He touched down soft, keeping his rotor turning to prevent the full weight of the aircraft from resting on the reinforced-concrete roof. It probably wasn't necessary, of course. Civil engineers always put more strength into buildings than they actually needed. But Goodman hadn't made the rank of bird-colonel by taking chances for the fun of it. His crew chief moved to pull the door open. The Secret Service agents went first, scanning the building while Goodman kept his hand on the collective, ready to yank up and rocket from the building. Then they helped Mrs. Ryan out, and he could get on with his day.
'When we get back, call this place yourself and get the rating on the roof. Then ask for plans for our files.'
'Yes, sir. It just went too fast, sir.'
'Tell me about it.' He switched to the radio link. 'Marine Three, Marine Two.'
'Two,' the orbiting backup aircraft responded at once.
'On the go.' Goodman pulled the collective and angled south off the roof. 'She seems nice enough.'
'Got nervous just before we landed,' the crew chief observed.
'So was I,' Goodman said, 'I'll call them when we get back.'
THE SECRET SERVICE had called ahead to Dr. Katz, who was waiting inside, along with three Hopkins security officers. Introductions were exchanged. Nametags were passed out, making the three agents ostensible staff members of the medical school, and the day of Associate Professor Caroline M. Ryan, M.D., F.A.C.S., began.
'How's Mrs. Hart doing?'
'I saw her twenty minutes ago, Cathy. She's actually rather pleased to have the First Lady operating on her.' Professor Katz was surprised at Professor Ryan's reaction.
6 EVALUATION
IT TOOK A LOT TO CROWD Andrews Air Force Base, whose expansive concrete ramps looked to be the approximate size of Nebraska, but the security police force there was now patrolling a collection of aircraft as dense
