by Radclyffe
time or two…hundred.”
Dana grinned. “Same.”
“Wes,” Emory said, “I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you
had interviews and all that.”
“Circumstances are a little pressured,” Wes said obliquely. Emory
was her best friend, but her new job demanded discretion of the highest
order. “Things are moving a bit faster than normal.”
Emory’s expression grew somber. “I was so sorry to hear about
Leonard. What a tragedy.”
“It was.” Wes hadn’t known Leonard O’Shaughnessy personally,
but even though she dealt with death on a daily basis, sometimes the
seeming unfairness of life defied rationalization. A sudden twist of fate
could send so many lives, including her own, careening down paths
never anticipated. She shook off the cloud of sadness. “My orders were
to report promptly, so—”
Emory laughed. “Do they have any idea who they appointed? Dr.
Punctuality herself.”
“Probably not,” Wes said, hoping someone somewhere had
actually looked at her file, or this might be a very short posting.
“Well, it’s wonderful to see you, and now that you’ll be—” Emory
broke off as a hushed “Oh!” escaped the crowd.
Wes followed her gaze. At the far end of the room, the wedding
party descended the stairs. Oddly, no cameras flashed.
She’d been to a lot of weddings, including some extraordinarily
elaborate ones. She would’ve expected the wedding of the daughter
of the president of the United States to be a State affair. But then she
thought about Blair Powell—despite her well-known public persona,
there was very little about her private life in the public domain. Blair
rarely gave interviews and avoided media glitz and paparazzi. Her
romantic relationship with Cameron Roberts had created quite a bit of
controversy in the national media news, but Blair had had very little to
say other than to acknowledge the truth of the rumors. She might be
• 24 •
Oath Of hOnOr
the public face of the presidential family, but her personal life was a
mystery.
The gathering today was small, considering the importance of the
event, and Wes bet everyone there, with the exception of security, was
a personal friend of the first family or Cameron Roberts’s family. There
were few foreign dignitaries, no Hollywood stars, no political pundits.
Only ordinary people gathered to celebrate the special day of someone
they loved.
For a moment, Wes felt like an intruder. She was used to
boundaries—clear, solid ones. She was about to witness an extremely
personal moment in the lives of strangers, without even the excuse of
professional involvement to excuse her presence. Then she recognized
a face at the far side of the room from the briefing documents she’d
been given earlier. Dr. Peter Chang, the acting head of the White House
Medical Unit. A bulky black leather bag sat by his right leg—a bag
that carried a defibrillator, emergency resuscitation equipment, surgical
instruments, and drugs. This gathering might appear to be an ordinary
wedding, but it wasn’t. Nothing about any event with the president in
attendance was ordinary.
Chang was present along with a flight nurse and a physician’s
assistant to ensure the safety and welfare of the president of the United
States—the duty Wes would be assuming within a matter of days. As
the chief of the White House Medical Unit—her new posting—her
charge was to ensure the health and welfare of every employee, visitor,
and dignitary within the White House and grounds. But above all, her
number one responsibility was to the president of the United States. In
a crisis situation, he was her only patient, earning her the title of First
Doctor of the United States. She’d have to get used to witnessing private
moments as well as world-changing ones, since she would never be far
from his side again. Where he went, she went.
Right now, President Andrew Powell looked like every other
proud father she’d ever witnessed. He wore a dark blue suit, snowy
white shirt, and red tie. His face still held a hint of summer tan, and his
thick blond hair made him appear younger than his fifty years. Blair,
her arm linked with her father’s as they descended the staircase, had
the same midnight blue eyes, although her hair was a deeper gold.
Her full-length cream-colored dress, with its square-cut bodice and
• 25 •
RADCLY fFE
figure-hugging design, accentuated her svelte, athletic body. Her arms
were sleek and muscular, her carriage confident and graceful. She was
beautiful. Cameron Roberts was just behind her, holding the hand of
a beautiful woman who looked very much like her. Marcea Casells,
Roberts’s mother. Roberts—tall, thick black hair brushed back from her
face, intense charcoal eyes—was dressed formally in a gray morning
coat, silver-gray pleated tuxedo shirt, and dark trousers with a satin
stripe down the side. Her gaze followed Blair as if no one else was in
the room.
At the bottom of the staircase, Blair and her father turned toward
an area ringed with arrangements of wildflowers and white roses in
front of the glass doors opening out onto the veranda. An army chaplain
awaited them. The president moved a few steps away from his daughter,
allowing Cameron Roberts to take her place by Blair’s side. The guests
filled the seats set up in one half of the room.
Wes made her way around the perimeter toward Peter Chang. She
wasn’t officially the head of the medical unit yet. Until her final security
clearance, she was in limbo. She hadn’t felt quite so displaced since the
day her mother met her at the bus stop after school one late June day
when she was eight and said they were moving in with her grandmother.
They couldn’t afford to live in the house she’d grown up in any longer.
Wes pushed the uneasy feeling aside. She wasn’t eight anymore, and
she had learned since then that destiny was hers to determine.
Chang nodded to her when she stepped up beside him. He’d
obviously been briefed too, but there was no time for conversation. The
chaplain’s deep voice filled the room.
Dearly beloved…
The president’s daughter and Cameron Roberts faced each other,
hands lightly clasped, eyes locked.
I, Blair Allison Powell, take you, Cameron Reed Roberts, to be my
friend, my lover, the mother of my children, and my wife. I will be yours
in times of plenty and in times of want, in times of sickness and in times
of health, in times of joy and in times of sorrow, in times of failure and
in times of triumph. I promise to cherish and respect you, to care for
and protect you, to comfort and encourage you, and to stay with you,
for all eternity.
A willowy blonde stepped to Blair’s side, and Blair lifted a
• 26 •
Oath Of hOnOr
gleaming gold band from her palm. She lifted Cam’s left hand and slid
the ring securely on her third finger. Wi
th this ring, I thee wed.
Cameron Roberts’s gaze never wavered from Blair’s face, her
voice ringing strong and clear. I, Cameron Reed Roberts, take you, Blair
Allison Powell, to be my friend, my lover, the mother of my children,
and my wife. I will be yours in times of plenty and in times of want, in
times of sickness and in times of health, in times of joy and in times of
sorrow, in times of failure and in times of triumph. I promise to cherish
and respect you, to care for and protect you, to comfort and encourage
you, and to stay with you, for all eternity.
Roberts accepted the matching ring from a young dark-haired
woman who leaned on a plain wood cane, and slipped it onto Blair’s
finger. With this ring, I thee wed.
An anticipatory breath shuddered through the crowd. Six
uniformed officers, the Guard of Honor, stepped in sync to form a path
from the proceedings area, facing one another in a line, white-gloved
hands on shining saber hilts.
By the power vested in me by the United States Army, the President
of the United States, and the Commonwealth of…
The three male and three female officers drew their swords with
a slick of steel, their blades raised and touching to form the Arch of
Sabers.
…I pronounce you wed.
The couple kissed, the crowd clapped, and Wes turned to Peter
Chang.
“I guess you know who I am.”
Chang held out his hand. “Welcome to the hot zone, Captain.”
• 27 •
RADCLY fFE
chapter three
Hot zone. The term wasn’t new to Wes, but somehow she
didn’t think Dr. Peter Chang was using it in the usual medical
sense, meaning an area of contamination—typically bacterial or viral
or chemical. In combat, the term referred to the region under fire. When
teaching battlefield evacuation, Wes stressed that the hot zone was the
area where the injured were still in the line of fire, and those charged to
secure their safety would be too. Working in the hot zone was a way of
life for a battlefield surgeon, and though her career path had been one
of teaching, she’d done her tour at the front.
She hadn’t had much time to think about the tactical aspects of her
new job, and she wasn’t sure who she should talk to about the specifics.
One thing any team leader learned quickly was to keep their inexperience
to themselves. She wasn’t too proud to ask for help when she needed to
know something, but she didn’t plan to walk into her first day on the job
acting like a rookie, either. No one needed to explain the critical nature
of her assignment; she had only to look around the room. The president
of the United States, his chief of staff, his military liaison, his daughter,
her newly wedded partner, several ranking members of the cabinet, at
least one member of the Joint Chiefs, the national security advisor, and
the president’s security chief were all gathered in one room. A strike
against this location would effectively paralyze the government of the
most powerful nation in the world. It wasn’t her job to worry about the
security of the nation, only the health, welfare, and safety of its leader.
Right now, that leader was dancing with his daughter, as any
father of the bride would. Ushers and valets in crisp white jackets and
black tuxedo pants had magically secreted the chairs somewhere out
• 28 •
Oath Of hOnOr
of sight. A four-piece band had set up adjacent to where the vows had
been exchanged and was playing soft jazz. Waiters passed through the
crowd with flutes of champagne on silver trays. The atmosphere was
boisterous and relaxed. Wes didn’t feel relaxed.
She might not have officially begun her duty, but she was all but
signed-on-the-dotted-line, making every individual in this room her
responsibility whether she carried the black field-trauma bag today or
not. She wasn’t here to socialize. She wasn’t exactly sure why she was
here, but as long as she was, she intended to work if necessary.
“What’s the evacuation route to the nearest medical facility?” she
asked Peter.
“There’s a EC145 Eurocopter standing by. The closest level one
trauma center is about a twenty-minute ride.”
“Who flies it?”
“One of the marine pilots out of Andrews. He and our flight nurse
are in the building.”
“And you’re in charge today?”
“Yes. We draw up the duty roster monthly, depending upon
POTUS’s itinerary and events scheduled at the House.” Peter’s
expression grew somber. “Len was supposed to have this detail.”
She wondered if Chang and the previous medical chief had been
close friends, although their personal relationship didn’t really matter.
The death of a colleague, especially someone you worked with every
day, was painful, and no words of sympathy were ever adequate. “I was
sorry to hear of his death.”
Peter nodded, watching the crowd. “Yeah. We all were.”
“I’ve seen the team roster.” Wes had been provided dossiers on
all the members of the team—three docs, three flight nurses, three
PAs. Not a huge group considering they covered the clinic for White
House staffers, visitors, and guests, oversaw routine and urgent care
for the president’s and vice president’s families, and accompanied the
president on all scheduled and OTR trips. “That makes for some pretty
intense scheduling.”
“It can get hectic.”
“We can pull personnel from Bethesda if we need to?”
Peter shifted slightly and met her gaze. “You can do pretty much
anything you want to do, Captain. It’s your show.”
She searched his eyes, looking for resentment or resistance or
• 29 •
RADCLY fFE
challenge. He was in his late thirties, about her height, clean-shaven
with a wiry build, and dressed in a navy suit, a plain pale blue shirt, and
a thin black tie. His straight, glossy dark hair was precisely parted on
the right side, and a thick shock fell over his forehead. His eyes were
chocolate brown, steady and calm. Understated, composed, with a hint
of reserve—he didn’t know her, and she was now his boss. She’d need
his cooperation, if not assistance, to make the transition a smooth one
and to ensure the team continued to function at top efficiency. Too much
was at stake for anything less. Taking a chance that professionalism
would trump personal issues, she exposed her underbelly. “Who do I
answer to, unofficially?”
The guy whose job she’d probably taken smiled. “Pretty much no
one, except the president’s chief of staff. Lucinda Washburn runs his
schedule, which means she runs pretty much everything. If you need
something that affects the president, ask her. Next in line is the head of
his personal protection detail, Tom Turner.” Peter scanned the room.
“He’s around here somewhere—tall, thin African American, about
forty. He’ll provide our weekly itinerary and general assignments,
updated every morning at b
riefing.”
At the mention of the Secret Service detail, Wes thought of Agent
Daniels. She’d struck Wes as being a little humorless and a short step
away from unfriendly—a lot like some of the military police she
knew. Maybe that was just an occupational trait in closed groups with
little regard for outsiders. “Where exactly do we fall in the chain of
command?”
Peter waggled his hand. “We have to liaise with the Secret Service
pretty intimately, because when he moves, they move, and we go with
them.”“Separate but equal?”
He shrugged. “That’s not exactly how they see it but, technically,
yes. If a situation impacts his physical security, they carry the ball. If it
has to do with his medical safety, we do.”
“And if we disagree?”
He smiled for the barest second. “Depends on who has the biggest
bark.”“Or bite?”
“That too.”
• 30 •
Oath Of hOnOr
Wes sighed inwardly. She hated politics. What the hell had she
been thinking?
v
Evyn made her way along the veranda to the rear of the house,
where they’d set up their command post. After four hours outside in
the wind and cold, she was ready for a cup of coffee or ten. She had
no idea how much longer they’d be stuck out here in the ass-end of
nowhere, but she was pretty sure she’d be outside again before they
left. Departure time was fluid, depending on how long the postnuptial
celebrations went on. It didn’t matter much to her. Other than being
outside in the damn cold, she didn’t care how long she worked. The
more she worked, the more overtime she made and the less free time
she had to figure out how to fill until her next shift. There was only so
much after-work socializing she could do with the other members of
the detail, only so many movies she could watch while rattling around
her apartment in Alexandria, and only so much clubbing she could take
in search of a few hours’ company.
There had been less and less of the last diversion lately. Sometimes
the effort just didn’t seem worth the payoff. She enjoyed the physical
anticipation as she got dressed to go out and drove to one DC club or
another. The tingle in her belly while she spent a few hours nursing a
drink and scanning the room for possibilities kept her mind occupied
too. Anything that got her adrenaline surging felt good, and it was