Michael Palmer - Oath of Office

Lou checked Meacham over again. Not much change. He tried to imagine what it was like to pull out a gun and shoot to kill someone. It just didn’t register. The usual motives-greed, hatred, anger-simply didn’t apply. Only crazy.

He headed down the hallway to the nurses’ lounge. Two minutes later, Dr. Prichap entered. Once again, he didn’t bother shaking Lou’s hand. The neurosurgeon, like others in his specialty Lou had dealt with over the years, exuded arrogance. Lou flashed on his four-week rotation holding instruments on the neurosurgery service in medical school.

“Never forget, son,” the chief had told him during one seemingly endless procedure, “that’s brain you’re sucking on.”

Just in case, Lou introduced himself again.

Prichap looked as if he could not care less. “The nurse said you wanted to see me,” he said.

“I’ve known Dr. Meacham for a number of years. Just wanted to get your take on what might have happened to him.”

“He lost his mind. That is what happened. He lost his mind and killed seven people.”

“I suppose.… Is this the only hospital you’re on the staff of?”

“I am in a five-person group. We cover six or seven hospitals.”

“And you’ve not encountered behavior like Dr. Meacham’s in any of those hospitals?”

“Not that I’m aware of. What specialty are you?”

“ER. I work in the ER at Eisenhower.”

“I see.”

Feeling the surgeon losing interest, Lou decided on a frontal assault. “Tell me, Dr. Prichap, what were you hoping to accomplish by fishing out that bullet?”

Lou fully expected the man to erupt, or at least to storm out of the lounge. Instead, Prichap turned his head and gazed out the window, much as he had in the ICU.

“I … do not … suppose it … would … have accomplished … anything,” he said distantly.

“But if it-”

The surgeon snapped out of his reverie as if he had been jabbed by a cattle prod. “Well, good to meet you, Doctor,” he said, turning toward the door.

As he did so, he nearly collided with Sara Turnbull.

“Dr. Prichap, Dr. Welcome,” she said breathlessly, “come quickly, please, Dr. Meacham’s arrested.”

Lou bolted past the neurosurgeon and out the door. DeLand Regional had community support and a reputation for giving good care. Yet the respiratory tech had overinflated Meacham’s lungs, the infusion nurse had badly blown a line, and the neurosurgeon was acting like the doctor/barber in a Saturday Western. Even usually reliable Sara Turnbull had failed to notice a malfunctioning IV.

What in the hell was going on?

Bar None was three blocks from the Capitol. The upscale lounge served unusual cocktails that seemed to appeal to congressional aides more than to their stodgier, older bosses. At this hour, it was as safe a place as any for Darlene and Kim to escape to for a drink. They waited outside under an awning while a team of Secret Service agents checked out the interior.

With them on the sidewalk was Victor Ochoa, a tall veteran agent with salt-and-pepper hair and dark, narrow eyes that appeared to be on constant alert. He stood a respectful distance from the two women until sudden static from his radio announced a transmission.

“Cobra here,” he said.

“All clear for Buttercup and Wildcat, Cobra,” a woman’s voice replied.

“Buttercup and Wildcat,” Ochoa echoed.

By tradition, the three members of the First Family each carried a radio code name beginning with the same letter. The president, Bronco, had chosen B for them. Darlene had adopted the name of her heroine from the novel and movie The Princess Bride, and Lisa, now twenty-one and a totally independent sophomore at Yale, chose Bullfighter. Kim, to no one’s surprise, had gone with the Kansas State mascot.

“Safe in there for a drink, Victor?” Darlene asked.

“So long as you keep away from the Fireball Gimlets, you’ll be fine.”

The agent escorted them. The space was dimly lit and modestly filled. A jukebox in one corner of the bar played alternative rock songs at a volume that permitted conversation without shouting.

Darlene smiled up at Ochoa and patted him on the arm. “I’m guessing you’d like us to sit over there,” she said, pointing to an empty booth that was closest to the emergency exit.

“I knew you’d eventually get the hang of this, Madam First Lady,” Ochoa said.

“Victor, it’s Darlene. Please. I’d rather you call me Princess Buttercup than Madam First Lady, and you’re wrong. I don’t think I’ll ever fully get the hang of this role.”

Ochoa laughed warmly. “Our guide to protocol is thicker than the D.C. phone book. No excessive familiarity, including no first names, even though you’re about the most down-to-earth, approachable First Lady I’ve worked with. Tell you what-I’ll be saying ma’am and thinking Darlene. How’s that?”

“That’ll be fine. What does your protocol guide say about my going grocery shopping without an advance team clearing the cereal aisle first?”

“It says that isn’t going to happen … ma’am.”

Darlene followed Ochoa, Kim, and another agent beyond the bar, smiling and shaking hands with surprised patrons as she passed by. Then she asked Ochoa for two vodka tonics and settled into the booth, sitting directly across from her friend.

“I’ll be the second to admit the constant attention gets tiresome,” Kim said. “But at least after shopping, we won’t have to lug any of our purchases back home.”

“That is a plus. Alas, it was one thing when Martin had an approval rating of sixty percent. Now we’re in free fall. The depression or recession, or whatever it is, has seen to it that even shopping is unpleasant for me. Imagine what it must be like for those poor folks who suddenly don’t have a job.”

Moments later, Ochoa materialized from within the crowd, carrying two tall vodka tonics, each garnished with a crescent of lemon. The women clinked glasses more out of habit than over anything to celebrate.

“I wonder if Victor had to sample our drinks before he brought them over,” Kim said.

Darlene took a sip of hers, which she quickly followed with a much longer swallow. The sting of Martin’s behavior abated some.

“How did you know this is what I needed?” Darlene asked.

“Honey, it doesn’t take Sigmund Freud to figure out that you’re stressed out. Look at those circles under your eyes. You’ve got a social schedule that would exhaust a rhinoceros. On top of that, you’re working every spare moment trying to change the eating habits of three hundred million Americans, while keeping the fragile ego of their president appropriately stroked. Sometimes, I don’t think you realize just how much you’ve taken on.”

“Well, maybe it’s time I put my agenda on a diet.”

Kim took a healthy swallow and set her glass firmly on the table. “Nonsense,” she said. “Just because the president of the United States acts like your work is irrelevant doesn’t make it so. You just have to pace yourself better, that’s all-a little more shopping, a little more spa time, a few more vacations, an extra hour at the gym. Sweetheart, you’re changing things out there. You’ve read the reports. You’re like the pediatrician to the nation, and people are starting to pay attention to your message.”

“Sure, they’re starting to listen, but change is coming very slowly. And if we don’t get reelected, any chance of making much of a difference will be gone.”

“Meal by meal, isn’t that your war cry? Keep pushing, Dar. Just don’t push yourself over a cliff. Blow off steam when the pressure gets too intense, and for God’s sake, don’t let that galoot you’re married to get away with not giving you or your cause the respect you deserve.”