The party went into the chapel. Stewart waited outside and he was joined by his immediate superior. Special Agent John Rameriz, radio code name Julius, shift commander of the President’s personal detail.
Rameriz had a large manila envelope under his arm. He extended it to Stewart as the chapel doors closed and the service began inside.
“Oh Christ,” Stewart said.
“Where to now? Not Iceland again.”
Rameriz smiled.
“Ah, “Mike, I’m giving you a good deal.”
“Yeah, right,” Stewart said as he took the envelope.
“There’s no such thing as a good deal on this detail.”
“How does sun, bikinis, and a room on Waikiki sound?”
Rameriz asked.
“I may have to take my last statement back,” Stewart said as he looked at the orders inside.
“You leave this evening. You do the initial run through with the locals and then I’ll join you on the fifth. The threat assessment is in there along with all the names we need the locals to run for us.
We’ve got four Class A’s,” he said, referring to people who made it to the top of the Secret Service list of persons who had threatened the President in some manner, “who we need picked up.”
“No problem,” Stewart said, checking the rest of the papers.
Rameriz smiled.
“I told you this was a good deal. I’ve already faxed those names to Hancock who’s in place there with the VP’s second detail. All you have to do is double check. Hancock has also initiated security briefings with the locals so you only have to check on that too.
“We got you a room at the Royal Hawaiian. That’s where the Boss will be staying and attending a dinner the night of the sixth. We’ve never done that hotel before so we need you to do an assessment. That’s the reason you’re going so much earlier. That should leave you plenty of time to catch some time on the beach. Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Good, then you might as well go and get packed. I’ll close out here.”
Stewart walked past the Army detail decked out in dress blues standing next to the caisson and horses, ready to take General Faulkner to his final resting place in Arlington.
A figure in an Army-issue raincoat stepped out of the chapel and walked up to Stewart. He recognized the face as the man drew close. Stewart stiffened, almost locking his arms to his side at attention.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning,” General Maxwell replied.
“Terrible loss, sir,” Stewart said, uncertain as to why Maxwell had approached him.
Retired General Roy Maxwell was the man that the President’s party was touting as his successor. Maxwell had guided the successful intervention into — and the even more successful departure out of — Bosnia as NATO Commander. It had proved to be a bright spot on an otherwise dismal international record for the Administration. Maxwell had retired shortly afterward.
Stewart had been present at the first meeting between Maxwell and the President. He could tell the President had been bothered that the man his party saw as an apt successor was being foisted upon him as an adviser. After several meetings (Stewart noticed) the President came to value the general’s keen mind, and he was forced to admit that if someone else was to pick up the reins, it would be the retired general.
Maxwell appealed to a broad base of Americans because of his military background, and the party-although in the manner of American politics it was never publicly discussed — appreciated that he was an African American Maxwell was whipcord lean and despite the civilian clothes he wore under the raincoat, his military life was stamped on his bearing. A product of South Central LA, Maxwell had worked his way to an ROTC scholarship at a local university and followed that with a highly successful thirty-year career in the military. He had surprised many when he retired as he had been the odds-on favorite to become the next chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, but his presence as political journeyman at the President’s side went a long way toward explaining that decision.
When Maxwell spoke, his voice was a deep, reassuring bass. Maxwell glanced over at the chapel.
“Faulkner was a good soldier. He did his job and he did it well.” The general glanced at the envelope in Stewart’s hand.
“I’ve been informed that you are departing immediately for Hawaii to prepare security for the President.”
“Yes, sir,” Stewart replied.
“Uh-huh.” Maxwell pulled a pipe out of his pocket.
“Going to be a pretty contentious trip.”
Stewart remained quiet. If Maxwell wanted to smoke a pipe and talk, that was fine with him. “What do you think of the MRA?” Maxwell asked.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You were active duty before you joined the Secret Service, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you must have an opinion,” Maxwell said.
“Sir, that’s not my job.”
Maxwell chuckled.
“I have a most difficult time trying to tell the President that the military is not the monolithic, single-minded organism most seem to believe.”
“It seems to be unified in its stand against the MRA,” Stewart noted.
“At least that’s the media take,” he amended.
Maxwell shook his head.
“Every person in uniform can find some part of the MRA he doesn’t agree with. The act covers a lot of ground.”
“What do you disagree with, sir?” Stewart asked, trying to keep the conversation away from his own opinions. It was part of the Secret Service unofficial code that one always kept one’s opinions to oneself.
“Maxwell puffed, then let out a smoke ring.
“The melding of the Marine Corps into the Army. That was never even remotely proposed by any committee affiliated with the military.
They got that part from that independent review panel, all civilian backgrounds by the way. I know that it would be more cost-effective to integrate the two services, but there is a factor that is worth a hell of a lot more than any dollar amount and that is the pride and spirit of the Corps.”
Stewart felt uncomfortable. He didn’t believe that General Maxwell was just making idle conversation, but he couldn’t imagine his purpose.
“What I think isn’t important either,” Maxwell continued.
“Now, what the. Joint Chiefs thinks is. Nobody likes to lose their job. The MRA totally restructures the JCS and cuts a lot of the fat.
Also, they don’t want to lose the academies.”
Stewart was surprised at that succinct assessment and glanced at the general.
“Out of all that, you’re saying they’re worried about the academies as their number two priority, sir?”
Maxwell looked at him.
“The chairman and three of the four service chiefs are graduates.”
“But even so,” Stewart said, “that’s relatively minor in the overall scheme of the MRA.”
“Not to them it isn’t,” Maxwell said.
“I said earlier that the military is not monolithic, but the graduates of the academies are another story. They’ve exerted influence in the. military well beyond what should reasonably be expected.
You’re asking the Joint Chiefs to kill their own offspring.”
Maxwell took off his steel-rimmed glasses and rubbed his forehead.
“You’re a graduate of the Academy, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t seem too concerned. You just said that doing away with the academies was a minor point.”
Stewart shifted his feet uncomfortably.
“I was a turnback, sir.”