Michael Palmer - The First Patient

Sixth on the list was "Mental Illness." Gabe was careful to scan the entire document slowly and evenly, so that it wouldn't seem to Cooper as if he had spent any extra time on this one scenario. Though there was no specific delineation of qualifying diagnoses, the agreement did state that the president should, if possible, be medically evaluated by his own physician and also by a qualified doctor of psychology or psychiatry. The mandate of these caregivers was to determine whether or not the POTUS's condition was affecting his ability to do his job without impairment.

Gabe set the pages aside and was about to ask what the vice president wanted from him when Cooper saved him the effort.

"I can't give you any specifics yet, Dr. Singleton, but as I alluded to, there are persistent rumors that the president may be mentally ill. And if I have heard these rumors, you can bet the opposition in the upcoming election has heard them as well. There has been a significant slippage in our standing in the latest polls. No one is blaming the rumors for the drop in our lead-in fact, the pattern was more or less expected for this time in the campaign. But I don't believe Drew and I are strong enough at this point to withstand every challenge to our lead."

Again Gabe checked his watch.

"Mr. V- Tom , I don't want to sound rude, but I think you've got to get to the point."

Cooper sighed.

"The point is," he said, "that our polls suggest that as things stand, it is early enough in the campaign so that if Drew were to drop out now for health reasons and I became the candidate, with a carefully chosen running mate, I would still be a slight but significant favorite over Dunleavy and Christman. But the closer we get to the election in November and the more confusion there is in our camp, the less time the American public has to get used to me and to appreciate the similarities between my political philosophy and Drew's. In other words, the later in the campaign we make a change in which Democrat is running against Brad Dunleavy, the less chance we have of coming out on top."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, Doctor, that if there is something wrong with President Stoddard, the sooner he confronts it and does what's right-the sooner you confront it and do what's right-the better for the party… and for the country."

Wrangler , Wrangler, do you copy? Over."

Treat Griswold's gravelly voice resonated through Gabe's earpiece. Gabe clicked on the microphone clipped to his sleeve, raised it to his lips, and spoke in the purposeful tone he had learned to use. During his first day of orientation to the White House, Griswold had given him a radio and a detailed in-service on its use. Rule Number One, Griswold said, was never turn the transmit switch on or leave it on by accident. The humiliations resulting from an "Open Mike" had become the stuff of Secret Service lore. Rule Number Two was never to forget who the system was in place to protect.

"This is Wrangler. Over."

"Everyone, Maverick is on the move from the residence elevator to the West Wing exit. Wrangler, do you have your medical bag? Over."

"Right here."

"The FAT kit with all necessary resuscitation equipment and supplies will be on the van with the medical team. Over."

"Wrangler copies. First Aid and Trauma kit on board."

"Roger that. Maverick has requested Wrangler ride in Stagecoach with him. Stand by your location and we'll get you loaded. Over."

"No problem," Gabe said. "Will Moondance be accompanying us? Over."

Gabe was still somewhat disconcerted over the odd exchange during which the First Lady had intimated she might be just as happy if her husband dropped out of the race. He would be more at ease at the moment if she weren't with them. As it was, he had been looking forward to his first trip with the chief executive, but the session with Tom Cooper had severely dampened his enthusiasm. More and more he was feeling like a man sitting on a keg of dynamite while passersby kept flipping lit matches at him.

"That's a negative," an agent other than Griswold said. "Moondance will be staying here. Liberty, too. Over."

"Roger that. I'll be waiting for you. Over."

Gabe double-checked that he had turned off his radio, then glanced outside to where the motorcade had formed. From his vantage point, he could see two black limousines parked by the steps leading up to the North Portico. Beyond them, on Pennsylvania Avenue, he could make out two of what he knew would be many vans. Communications… counterassault… press corps… White House staffers… medical unit… photographers… military aides… Secret Service. He remembered some of the groups Lattimore had told him the fleet of vans would be carrying, but not all.

"Attention all posts, Maverick moving toward West Wing exit. Maverick moving. Over."

Staccato footsteps echoed down the corridor toward Gabe just before the first two of the president's Secret Service men appeared, one of them expertly cradling a submachine gun. Seconds later, Drew came into view, surrounded by four more agents, each one looking as if he took his job very seriously. From the moment the entourage appeared, Gabe's attention became fixed on his patient-not without reason.

Though smiling and waving to those White House employees standing back against the wall, Drew Stoddard looked strained and slightly gray. Gabe moved toward him, but almost on cue, a petite makeup artist materialized and, with the skill of a master conjurer, performed a remarkable thirty-second makeover.

And just like that, Drew was the rosy-cheeked picture of health. As he moved to Gabe, the Secret Service agents fell away to give them space and something approaching privacy.

"Hey, cowboy," Drew said cheerily, "ready to join the Donner party for a little wagon train ride?"

"Don't even joke about that. You okay?"

"You examined me this morning. You tell me."

"Actually, I thought you looked a little gray around the gills just now, but your makeup girl fixed that problem right up."

"Amazing, huh? When she goes home and washes off her own makeup, she's actually a three-hundred-pound Samoan football player."

"Having seen her work, that's not so surprising. How about your breathing? You seem to be going a little faster than I would expect."

"I've had a little cough for about an hour or so, but it's almost gone now. Maybe I'm getting a cold."

"Not on my watch."

"Even you can't do much about a virus. Did Admiral Wright talk to you about the medical team?"

"Not a word, why?"

"I guess he went ahead and put the team together himself. From now on, if you want to select the team to accompany us for travel in the States or overseas, you just go ahead and do it. I'll make sure ol' Ramrod doesn't get in your way."

"Mr. President," Treat Griswold called out, "I think we'd best get a move on."

"Gabe, on the ride up to Baltimore I've got to go over the speech that's just been written for me. I thought there might be time for us to gab during the trip, but no such luck. You can still ride in Stagecoach with us, or you can go in Spare, that's the other limo, if you want."

"Attention all posts," Gabe heard Griswold say from close by and also through his earpiece, "Maverick moving to Stagecoach. Departure imminent. Over… Okay, Doc, Mr. President, ready to roll?"

As Gabe stepped out into the bright sunlight, he couldn't help but be awed by the clutch of photographers and reporters lining the short walk to the motorcade, as well as by the motorcade itself, which, minus two limousines, was parked along the recently renovated stretch of Pennsylvania Avenue, closed to motorized traffic at all times except on occasions like this one. A dozen or more huge vans waited-nine- and twelve-seaters, Gabe guessed-along with eight D.C. motorcycle police on Harleys, with blue strobes flashing. In baseball, the glitter and crowds and private jets and plush clubhouses of the major leagues were often referred to collectively as The Show. At that moment, those words were the only description Gabe could think of.