I nodded. “Assistant S-3? Impressive!” I had given Roscoe his Silver Star for his leadership in Kurdistan at one of the awards ceremonies. In a way I knew where this would lead. For all the bureaucracy of the Army, the bottom line is leading people effectively while getting shot at. Roscoe had proven his ability to do that. He would be moving onwards and upwards. “What’s next, Leavenworth?” That was the Command and General Staff College.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be in the next class.”
“Good for you. Hey, whatever happened to your old captain, the fellow who fell off the train and handed you the company?” I asked.
“He was in the body shop a couple of months, and then transferred to a battalion S-1 slot back at Fort Hood.”
“Huh.” I looked over at Roscoe’s brother. “So, Tyrone, where are you stationed now that you’ve graduated? Did you decide to go Engineer?”
“Yes, sir. I’m training out at Fort Leonard Wood, in Missouri. It’s sort of nowhere, but nice.”
We chatted a bit more, and I continued moving around. After a bit, we had a lovely dinner. While the only people in tuxes were those of us in the wedding party, the whole thing was as glitzy as any state dinner, and much more comfortable.
Eventually it became time to dance, and I was leading off with a father-daughter dance with Molly. The music had really been the only argument we had about the entire wedding. I had the Marine Corps Band at my disposal, ‘The President’s Own’, and they don’t just do marches. They frequently played dance music at state dinners and other social events. Molly wanted a DJ to play the kind of music she and the younger kids wanted to hear. Generally Marilyn and I couldn’t stand that music, and our children couldn’t stand the country music we listened to. Eventually we settled on the Marine Corps Band through the first half of the evening, starting from the processional into the East Room and through dinner, and then we brought in a DJ. I felt incredibly embarrassed telling this to the band leaders, but they took it in stride, and actually laughed it off.
Still, she might complain, but I was going to have my way on one thing, that first dance! She might be listening to something God-awful in a few minutes, but our first dance would be to “I Loved Her First”, by Heartland. It was a real tear-jerker, and quite lovely, and was one of the best wedding songs I had ever heard. It had come out last summer, and by the end of 2006 had topped the charts.
As soon as it started coming from the loudspeakers, Molly looked at me and said, “Daddy, you promised, no country.”
“Just this one song, honey, and then they’ll play your stuff.” With that I took her in my arms, and danced her around the center of the floor, but as I did so, I sang the words into her ear softly. I had done the same thing during my first trip, when I married Maggie off to Jackson, and the result was the same. Molly was crying into my shoulder by the end of the song, and then wrapped her arms around my neck in a big hug at the end as the audience applauded. I handed her off to Bucky, and went off to sit with Marilyn, who was also smiling and crying. I smiled at my wife and said, “You women cry too much.”
She leaned over and hugged me. “You’re just a big old softy, aren’t you?”
“Don’t tell anybody, you’ll ruin my reputation!”
Chapter 168: Off to the Races
August 26, 2007
We managed to get our lives back to a semblance of normal by the start of business Monday. Molly and Bucky had been packed off to Hougomont on the G-IV, Holly and her boyfriend went back to Princeton Sunday, and Charlie and Megan left on Sunday as well. He was taking her back to Hollywood, and then was flying to meet his racing team.
Charlie’s professional motorcycle racing career was the stuff of legend. A local level pro champion as a teenager, he had given it up when he went into the Marines. Once he was out of the Marines in the fall of 2003, he had decided to give it a try again. He had raced in the 2004 season, never losing a single race, and worked his way up to the AMA Championship series by the end of the season. He had won the MX series, the larger and heavier bikes, back to back in 2005 and 2006, and this year he was defending his title, trying to make it three in a row.
The weekend of the wedding had been an off week for racing, so he didn’t lose any points for missing a race. The previous weekend, that had been a problem. He had missed Budds Creek in Maryland to run the parties in Vegas, and his sponsors weren’t amused. When I heard him comment on that I asked him about it.
Charlie’s reply? “I guess I’ll just have to win the rest of the season and take the championship again. That should get them off my back.”
“It’s good to see somebody so humble. It’s a refreshing break from the usual egos I see here in D.C,” I answered dryly.
He simply laughed at that. “It ain’t bragging if it’s fact!”
I grumbled and rolled my eyes. Damned if he didn’t, too! The following weekend he won in Buchanan, Michigan, and then two weeks later he took Unadilla in New York. He only placed second in Lakewood, Colorado on July 22, but won the next two races in Washougal, Washington, and Millville, Minnesota. His next big race was in Delmont, Pennsylvania, on August 26, which was a bit east of Pittsburgh. That was close enough to take Marine One to.
Every year we tried to see one of Charlie’s races. It’s difficult, however, since the President has to take a giant entourage with him everywhere. I hated taking the zoo for a personal trip. Fortunately there is usually a track somewhere in Maryland, Virginia, or Pennsylvania close enough to take a helicopter to. We would send up the appropriate advance elements, and then fly up for the day, and be back in Washington by the evening. Half the time the press never even noticed, since there was no flaming wreckage on the South Lawn to clue them in. We never made an announcement, but simply flew to the nearest drop off point — perhaps the local police barracks or fire department parking lot — and picked up a quiet convoy to go to the races.
We tried to keep it low key. We didn’t do local interviews unless somebody stuck a camera in my face. We didn’t meet with local politicians. I didn’t have fundraisers or dinners. It wasn’t that kind of trip. It wasn’t like NASCAR, either. There are no grandstands and no luxury Skyboxes. You generally stand outside a chain link fence, and your seats might be a pair of lawn chairs with a beer cooler in between, and a beach umbrella in case it rained. It didn’t matter all that much to Marilyn or me. We would have never gone if Charlie wasn’t involved, but he was involved, and he was our son, so we tried to make a race during the season.
The security involved in low key situations like this is still quite intricate. The President just doesn’t go places. No matter where I am, I have a lot of heavily armed Secret Service agents in very close proximity. We have the War Wagons, a doctor and nurse in attendance, an armored limo, and usually extra vehicles as decoys, and around that are typically local and state cops in an elaborate motorcade. We also have some lower impact alternatives for when I wanted something a lot more subtle. Put the locals and Staties in unmarked cars, cut down on the decoys, use a War Wagon and not a limo, and dress everybody in civvies.
Another thing you did was simple misdirection. Tell people you were going to be someplace else, and they look someplace else. In the case of Delmont, we told the press we were going to Camp David for the weekend. Since no press is allowed at Camp David, nobody was there to see us not land. Even though people might know that my son was a nationally ranked motocross champion, they also knew we didn’t attend his races. Toss another factor into the mix — I don’t look all that Presidential! Real Presidents look like Bill Clinton, Mitt Romney, or John Kerry — tall, full heads of hair, square jawed, and handsome. As I occasionally joked with my wife, I was just a middle aged bald guy with bifocals and a busted nose. I might be in good shape and not overweight, but I was 51 years old, my hair was more than a little thin and more silver than dirty blond, I had bags under my eyes, and I was getting a bit jowly. Put me in a dark suit and slap on some makeup and give me a speech, I looked like the President. Put me in cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt and I looked like your neighbor getting ready to mow the lawn.