"Gabe? . . . It's not like you think."
Her words rattled around in his head. His coolness toward her was hardly subtle, but did she understand where it was coming from? He warned himself against letting her oblique comment affect his judgment. As far as he could tell, no one—not the president, not the First Lady, not the chief of staff, not Alison—had been absolutely straight with him since he stepped off the plane at Andrews AFB. Now it was time to see what LeMar Stoddard's warning was all about.
"Tom Cooper is a Brutus, and as things stand, he's just waiting until after the election to begin to assert himself and to take credit for Drew's achievements."
"Wrangler, Wrangler, are you on? Over."
With all the things Gabe had found difficult about his new position, one of those things he had absolutely enjoyed was being part of the intricate Secret Service radio system, with its jargon, monikers, and code words.
"This is Wrangler. I'm in my office. Over."
"We'll be by with your patient in two minutes. Over and out."
During his first week on the job, Gabe hadn't said ten words to the man who was a heartbeat away from the presidency. What Gabe knew about him was pretty much what he had heard in the barbershop in Tyler and on the car radio while headed into work.
Cooper, once the junior senator from Montana, was in his second term when Drew selected him from half a dozen or so possibilities to be his running mate. From what Gabe remembered, the selection was more political than ideological. Northwest joins Southeast; impoverished backwoods upbringing joins privilege and vast wealth; laconic, Lincolnesque country music musician joins slick, charismatic war hero; moderate pragmatist joins intellectual visionary.
Together, Drew and Cooper overcame a double-digit deficit to nip Bradford Dunleavy and VP Charles Christman at the wire. Now, from all Gabe could tell, Drew had kept his campaign promise to revitalize the office of vice president and to use it in such a way that every day and every mission better prepared Cooper to step in and lead the country. The two men met together regularly, and Cooper was encouraged to be active and visible, especially in the areas of preservation and enhancement of natural resources, conscientious improvement and updating of the country's infrastructure, and issues involving immigration and illegal aliens.
In some circles, in fact, Cooper was viewed as more effectively conciliatory than Drew, who at times could have a hair-trigger temper. One recent poll actually suggested that the VP, who everyone assumed was a lock for the head of the ticket in four years, might be as electable as his running mate, even in this campaign.
"Tom Cooper is a Brutus . . ."
"Dr. Singleton, your patient's here," Heather announced through the intercom before Gabe could complete the thought.
"Have him come on in," Gabe said, curious as to why a man with his own medical team would have specifically asked to be treated by him.
With a soft knock, the Vice President of the United States entered the office. He was six-foot-four or so and carried an extra twenty or thirty pounds without looking all that out of shape. He was wearing a black eye patch over his right eye and was carrying a thin, black leather folio, which he set down on the corner of the desk before he shook hands.
"So, Doctor, thank you for seeing me on such short notice."
His voice was low pitched and his speech measured. Totally presidential, Gabe decided.
"Your timing was perfect," he replied. "In another hour or so I'll be off for—"
"Baltimore. I know."
Of course. Here in D.C. land, everyone knows everything . . . except for those of us who don't. Gabe flashed on something LeMar Stoddard had said over lunch. "In this town you're nobody if you know nobody. But if the only person you do know happens to be The Man, you're still a major somebody."
"Yes, that's right," Gabe confirmed, with more flatness than he had intended. "Baltimore."
"President Stoddard originally asked me to replace him, but I have a speech scheduled myself."
Cooper settled into the chair opposite Gabe. There was a softness to Cooper's face that seemed to engender trust—especially backed up by the steely manliness of the eye patch. Still, whether it was LeMar Stoddard's Brutus warning or the as yet unexplained reason Bear chose Gabe over the medical people assigned to his care, there was tension between the two of them.
"Well," Cooper said, "we haven't had much chance to talk since you arrived here. Everything okay?"
"I'm still picking my way through the tulips and the buffalo chips, but all in all things have been pretty uneventful."
A totally political response. Lattimore would be proud.
"Good to hear. . . . You're from Wyoming, right?"
"Tyler."
"That's southeast?"
"Precisely. Eighty or so miles north and west of Cheyenne."
"Ever come up north to Montana?"
"From time to time. The fish there always seemed a little bigger and a little more gullible than the ones around where I live." Gabe had never had much patience for hidden agendas cloaked in small talk, and he felt certain he was confronting one now. He also had his medical bag to check over for the trip. "So," he pushed, "what's the deal with your eye?"
"Ever since I woke up this morning, I've felt as if there's something in it—maybe a lash or something."
"How about we go in the examining room and I'll take a look."
"Actually," Cooper said, removing the patch to reveal none of the redness that would have quickly developed had a lash or any other foreign body made contact with the eye, "I think whatever was in there may have washed out. There's been a lot of tearing."
"I see."
Gabe felt himself understanding more and more the concern expressed by LeMar Stoddard. Thomas Cooper III was not only oblique; he was unsubtle and oblique—hardly what Gabe expected.
"The truth is," Cooper went on, "the lash probably washed away pretty quickly, but I've had trouble with corneal abrasions before and wanted to have things checked."
"No problem."
"And," the VP went on as if Gabe hadn't interjected the words, "I decided to seek you out because there's another matter I wanted to discuss with you. Two birds and all that."
At last the other shoe falls.
"I've got to get some things ready for the trip to—"
"This won't take long. Doctor."
Just that quickly, any softness there seemed to be about the man vanished. Gabe's internal alarm sounded a strident warning. For all his country upbringing and easygoing, disarming manner, Tom Cooper was, in fact, a seasoned politician, who had risen to the second-highest office in the land not long after he turned forty-six. It seemed probable that he never spoke—obliquely or not—without knowing precisely what he was saying. There was no sense examining his eye, even though at some point well past there may have actually been something in it.
"Go on," Gabe said.
"President Stoddard never made it to the state dinner the other night."
"We had a press conference about that."
"I know. Migraine headache and gastroenteritis, complicated by his asthma."
If there was facetiousness in the man's tone, Gabe couldn't hear it.
"Mr. Vice President, I had written permission from the president to speak about those aspects of his medical condition to the public. I would never share any information about him otherwise—to anyone."
"I understand, and I completely support you in that regard. Tell me something, though: Did you know that at least twice in the past Dr. Ferendelli and the president withdrew from the public eye for an extended period of time?"
"That's not a question I can or will answer."
"For a city of almost six hundred thousand, Washington is like a small town. Rumors start. Rumors spread. Rumors vanish. Rumors refuse to die. Some are total fabrication, some have a grain of truth, and some much more than that. Those of us who have been around here for a while have learned that when a rumor surfaces and then resurfaces, there is o
ften something to it."
"Mr. Vice President—"
"Please call me Tom. It'll save time."
"Tom, I really have to get going soon."
"Dr. Singleton, the hot rumor in town at the moment—the one that doesn't seem to want to go away—is that the president is having problems other than migraine headaches and gastroenteritis and asthma. No one is speaking out about it, at least not yet. Magnus Lattimore and the rest of the president's spin people have done a remarkable job of keeping the rumor under wraps, but it keeps resurfacing—and from more than one direction, too, which I have learned over the years is something worth paying attention to. There are those who believe President Stoddard may be mentally ill in some way. For the moment, the rumors are just whispers. But I assure you, Doctor, the whispers are getting louder."
Gabe tried for a reaction of bewildered amusement but wasn't at all certain he succeeded.
"As the president's physician, I will not discuss his health in any way," he reiterated, "including to comment on whether he has or has not any mental or other medical problems. I'm sure you expect that same sort of professionalism and respect from your doctor. If you're that concerned about rumors you have heard, perhaps you should speak with Magnus, or even with the president himself."
"When I have translated rumor into fact, I intend to do just that. Meanwhile, Dr. Singleton, you need to know that I have supported Drew without hesitation or reservation since the day he chose me to run with him. After we won, he could have buried me in the political backwater like so many presidents have done with their vice presidents, but he chose to make me an important part of his administration. He is my friend, just as I am his, and I would do anything to ensure that his legacy is that of one of the most effective, significant leaders our country has ever had. His policies and vision for America are mine, and when I get my chance, I intend to continue them."
"Okay then," Gabe said, feeling ill at ease before Cooper's emotional outpouring of fidelity. "What can I do for you?"
The vice president opened up the leather folio and slid a document across the desk. Gabe sensed without looking what it was.
"There is a great deal at stake here, Doctor, and you have a significant role in the drama that may be unfolding."
As the president's frantic, frightening episode was beginning to resolve, Lattimore had mentioned that locked within The Football, along with the electronics and codes necessary to unleash Armageddon, was an agreement signed by Drew and Thomas Cooper III outlining those situations in which there was to be a transfer of power from president to vice president according to the provisions of the Twenty-fifth Amendment. At that moment, Gabe had made a mental note to ask the chief of staff for a copy of the document. Over the ensuing, chaotic hours and days, he had simply forgotten to do so.
Now, on the desk before him was that agreement, headed by the four impressively brief sections that made up the exceedingly complex Twenty-fifth Amendment—the statement believed by many to be the most comprehensive road map of political succession ever put to paper. Gabe had read the amendment at least half a dozen times during the hours he was caring for the president in his residence. Now he scanned the first of the two paragraphs composing section 4:
Whenever the Vice President and a majority of either the principal officers of the executive departments or of such other body as Congress may by law provide, transmit to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives their written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice President shall immediately assume the powers and duties of the office as Acting President.
Following a glance at his watch, meant more as a reminder to Cooper than to himself, Gabe flipped through the pages. Listed in outline form, more than described in detail, were the scenarios in which the vice president, head of the White House Military Office, White House chief of staff, chief legal counsel, and physician to the president could act in concordance in deciding whether to proceed with the political process of replacing the president against the president's wishes.
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."
CHAPTER 21
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 matc
hes 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."
The First Patient Page 12