Erin couldn’t balance a checkbook if her life depended on it. She had a stubborn streak that sometimes played out as determination but other times was downright nonsensical and infuriating. And every now and then Jon would see flashes of jealousy that surprised him but also reminded him how deeply she loved him and wanted him all to herself. How in the world would he survive without her? He couldn’t begin to bear the thought, not even for a second.
5
Air Force One touched down amid airtight security.
On an average day, more than two hundred thousand passengers flew in and out of LAX, making it one of the busiest airports in the world. But not today. Secret Service Director Jackie Sanchez had ordered the entire airport closed for the president’s arrival, grounding all flights and refusing all nonessential personnel access to the premises. The airlines were furious, as were their passengers. Even the mayor’s office had called to complain. But Sanchez was taking no chances. Her sole responsibility was protecting this president, and she refused to be distracted from that mission.
She ordered armored personnel carriers from the California National Guard brought in to block access to all runways and tarmacs. Heavily armed agents and bomb-sniffing dogs patrolled the grounds. Sharpshooters were positioned on rooftops, paired with spotters using high-powered binoculars. Apache helicopter gunships circled the airport and the motorcade route, as did three reconnaissance choppers on loan from the L.A. police department. And all this had been put in place before the latest threat intelligence from Yemen.
Tensions were running high as the gleaming blue and white 747, surrounded by an escort of black SUVs filled with Secret Service counterassault teams, taxied to a maintenance hangar. There, the president would be able to disembark out of the view of reporters and fans and would-be assassins and step into one of two bulletproof, armor-plated Cadillacs, without anyone beyond the Secret Service and his own inner circle knowing which one.
Keeping MacPherson alive had not been an easy task over the past eight years, and no one knew that better than Sanchez. She had rescued MacPherson from an airborne attack in Denver just after his first midterm elections and had been named the special agent-in-charge of his protective detail. After the recent fatal heart attack of Bud Norris, the longtime director of the Secret Service, MacPherson had promoted Sanchez to the top job. He trusted her with his life, and his family’s, and she counted his trust and his friendship a great honor.
But there were days when Sanchez wondered if the sacrifices she’d made were worth it. And this was definitely one of them. She had never married. She was never home. She never felt rested. She constantly lived with the fear that this day could be the president’s last. Or her own.
For the first time in her eighteen-year career, she began to seriously think about retiring. As the president came down the steps, she started to daydream, just for a moment. Maybe it was time to buy that boat after all, sail the Caribbean, and do a whole lot of drinking.
Sanchez suddenly cursed herself for losing focus. Retirement was a topic for another time. Today she had to stay sharp.
“I’m scrapping the motorcade, Mr. President,” Sanchez said before MacPherson even greeted her. “I’m putting you on Marine One.”
MacPherson nodded. It didn’t matter to him one way or the other. But White House Chief of Staff Bob Corsetti went ballistic.
“Are you kidding me?” he shouted as he bounded down the steps of Air Force One and caught up with the president. “We’re going with the motorcade. We agreed on that as early as this morning.”
“Things have changed, Mr. Corsetti,” Sanchez explained.
Corsetti swore. His face was turning red. “We need the TV pictures,” he insisted. “We need the pomp and circumstance. Or do I have to remind you what a close race this is and how carefully I’ve orchestrated every moment.”
“Can’t do it, sir; I’m sorry,” Sanchez countered. “We’ve got a credible threat.”
“Circumstantial at best, from what I’m hearing,” Corsetti said.
“We can’t afford to be wrong,” Sanchez replied. “The route to Staples Center takes twenty-one minutes by motorcade. By air, I can have the president there in less than six. It’s really not negotiable, Mr. Corsetti.”
The chief of staff stepped in front of the president and got in Sanchez’s face. “Look, I fully appreciate you’ve got a job to do,” he began, “but so do I. Getting my party elected again. Two months ago, Governor Jackson was nine points up. Now Senator Martinez has closed the gap to less than three points. I need the president out there. I need him looking presidential. I need him sucking up all the oxygen in the political universe. I need wall-to-wall television coverage. And I need it now.”
Sanchez stared back into Corsetti’s eyes, then turned to MacPherson and said, “Mr. President, I’m not basing my decisions on polls. The Legion wants you dead, pure and simple. They want American power and prestige neutralized. We have every reason to believe they will stop at nothing to accomplish their objectives. And honestly, sir, if I were trying to take you out, I’d strike today, with a billion people watching. Even if you survive, the country panics. The markets are rattled. Oil prices spike again. The global economy shudders. And with all due respect, sir, what if you don’t survive?”
The hangar was silent for a moment, save for the jet engines of the Boeing winding down and the Lockheed Martin VH-71 revving up. But Corsetti wasn’t taking the bait.
“You do your job, Director, and we’ll be fine. But if you don’t let me do mine, Elena Martinez is going to be the next president of the United States. You want that? She’s going to cut and run from the Middle East. She’s going to let the U.N. seize control of U.S. foreign policy. She doesn’t have the foggiest idea how to stop China from terrorizing Taiwan. She has no idea how to stare down the North Koreans. And her approach to the Israelis? Don’t even get me started.”
“Mr. Corsetti, none of those are my concerns, and you know it,” Sanchez replied. “I’ve done everything I can to make this motorcade route safe. But given the latest intel, I can’t in good conscience put the president on the 105 and the 110 for the next twenty-one minutes in broad daylight with a credible threat of an imminent terrorist attack when I could have him in a secure holding room under Staples Center in precisely seven minutes. Now with all due respect, it’s time to get the president onto Marine One. That’s final. Let’s move.”
Sanchez could see Corsetti trying to muster another argument, but they both knew it was pointless. Not a single voter really cared how the president got to the GOP convention site. A billion people wouldn’t be watching the motorcade or the helicopter flight. They wouldn’t be tuning in until the president’s speech began at precisely 6:07 p.m. Pacific Standard Time, or 9:07 p.m. Eastern — a little more than one hour from now.
“That’s fine, Jackie,” MacPherson interceded. “Do what you need to do.”
Corsetti shook his head and took an incoming call on his cell phone.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Sanchez said, then spoke into her wrist-mounted microphone: “We’re a go. I repeat, we’re a go. Gambit’s moving.”