Stuart Woods: Hot Pursuit

“Then I chose the wrong assistant.” Holly closed her file, picked up another one, and pretended to read it. Millicent sat in stunned silence. Holly looked up. “Why are you still here?”

“All right, all right! I’ll do it!”

“This isn’t just about appearance,” Holly said. “Of course, when you come in here Monday morning I want to see somebody dressed the way your mother would approve of. I want to see a hairdo and appropriate makeup, but I want a lot more than that: I want to see an attitude that is cognizant that you are the lowest form of life on the White House staff, and that everybody knows more about everything than you do. And I want to see you smile at least a third of the time. Another thing: ask Marge to find you an optometrist — get some contacts, and I don’t ever want to see you in those fucking glasses again. And that’s not all, there’ll be more every day, and you’d better learn fast. You don’t report to me, you report to Marge. Got it?”

Millicent seemed to have shrunk. “Yes.”

“Yes, what ?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Marge breezed in and handed Millicent a sheet off her steno pad. “His name is Terry Tift. He’s just what you need, and he knows the White House drill. He’s expecting you in half an hour. You need an optometrist, too. His number is at the bottom of the page — you have an appointment tomorrow morning at nine.”

“I’d better not recognize you Monday morning,” Holly said. “Get out.”

Millicent fled.

“Marge, tell everybody she likes to be called Millie.”

Marge beamed. “Got it!”

Holly had been surprised to be included in the president’s daily intelligence briefing. She found herself seated at the long table in the Cabinet room with the vice president, the secretary of state, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the director of Homeland Security, the director of Central Intelligence, the director of the National Security Agency, and the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, each of whom had brought a minion, all of whom were seated in chairs around the perimeter of the room. Place cards had been put out for the participants, and Holly found herself next to a chair with no place card.

Suddenly, everyone leaped to their feet, and Katharine Lee swept into the room, a bound legal pad under her arm. “Seats, please,” she said. As they sat down she leaned over and whispered to Holly, “Remember, you’re not briefing, you’re being briefed. Come with me when the meeting is over.” Then she sat down next to Holly.

“Homeland Security,” Kate said, and the director stood up. “Remain seated, please, all of you. What do you have, Stan?”

The man sat down. “Madam President, good morning. Overnight we have had strong hints from three sources, two of them electronic, that an important Al Qaeda figure has been infiltrated into Washington, perhaps even into our government. His purpose looks to be — using his position to glean intelligence — the organizing of a major terrorist attack against the city, with a government building or facility at its center.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Not yet, Madam President. We are working backward to determine that. We’ve sent out word to the appropriate operatives to locate the top twenty Al Qaeda officials. We’ll work from a list of those missing from sight. That will give us a short list, then we can turn the attention of all agencies to finding him.”

“That seems a logical procedure. Anything else to report at this time?”

“No, Madam President.”

“Don’t send out any broad alerts,” Kate said. “We don’t want to get his attention. I hardly need say that no one is to mention this to anyone outside this room.” She patiently worked her way through those present; nothing else rose to the level of the first report.

When they were done, Kate left the room first, and Holly trailed her to the Oval Office.

“Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?” Kate said, flopping down on a sofa. “Hot stuff, right off the bat. I wonder if they’ve been saving it for a few days, just to start my administration off with a bang?”

“I wouldn’t be shocked to learn that.”

“It will be interesting to see how quickly the press picks up on the story and who leaks it. Did you find an assistant?”

“Yes, ma’am, but she won’t start until Monday — she needs work.”

Kate laughed. “Let me guess: an Ivy League drudge? What the Brits call a ‘swot’?”

“A perfect one. She’s very smart, and I’m going to have to spend some time showing her that she’s stupid.”

“Were you like that when you joined the Agency, Holly?”

“I was a babe in the woods.”

Kate laughed. “I doubt that.”

“Do you want this morning’s report given to the NSC?”

“Not yet. First let’s see what result a few days’ work brings.” There was a knock, and the door leading to the Oval’s waiting room opened. “The secretary of labor designate is here, Madam President,” an assistant said.

“Send him in.” She stood up to greet the man. “See you later,” she said to Holly.

Stone, Dino, and Viv got to Manassas well ahead of time; they stowed their luggage, and Stone did a thorough pre-flight inspection, then he got a weather forecast — severe clear and light winds — and filed a flight plan.

At noon, the gate to the ramp slid open and three black SUVs cruised through and came to a stop at the left wingtip of N123TF. Will Lee hopped out of the front seat of the first one, and an agent retrieved a single duffel from the trunk. Stone shook hands with Will, stowed his duffel in the front luggage compartment, and walked Will around the airplane, pointing out features. Finally everyone boarded, including a young woman in a business suit and a shoulder holster who represented the Secret Service, and Stone helped Will into the right cockpit seat.

“It’s snug,” Stone said, “but you’ll get used to it.”

“Do I have a choice?” Will asked, struggling to get his left leg to follow his right leg into the footwell.

“Only the passenger cabin, and that’s no fun.” Stone climbed into the pilot seat and helped Will figure out the four-point seat belt, then secured his own. He started the engines, radioed for a clearance to Teterboro, and was surprised to be given a routing of direct to destination and an immediate climb to his cruising altitude.

“I made a call,” Will said.

“I’ve never flown direct from Manassas to Teterboro,” Stone said.

“It was the least I could do.”

Stone asked for a taxi clearance, and to his further surprise, was immediately cleared for takeoff. That had never happened before, either.

As they taxied onto the runway, Stone said, “Watch the screen in front of you. You’ll see the speeds come up and the flight director bars that show us we’re climbing at the right rate.” He pushed the throttles forward and began calling his own speeds, then rotated. “You just keep the bars together,” he said to Will, then he switched on the autopilot and let it do the work. They got a spectacular view of Washington as they flew over.

“I talked them out of a fighter escort,” Will said.

“Thanks so much. I don’t know what they would think of that at Teterboro — I’d never live it down.”

“My reasoning was that we’d attract less attention without it, and thus be more secure. We don’t have to use an Air Force call sign, either, and you will have noticed that the ‘football’ no longer travels with me.”

Stone had seen enough movies to know that the “football” was the briefcase containing the nuclear launch codes, carried by a military officer, who followed the president everywhere. Stone thought Will seemed as delighted as a child on his first flight, and he was enchanted with the glass cockpit.