No Corner to Hide (The Max Masterson Series Book 2)

by Mark E Becker

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President!” They replied in a unified baritone. Max took three deep breaths and flipped under the surface, pulling his way toward the bottom of the spring.

  From shore and from above, the scene of the President of the United States disappearing beneath the surface, followed quickly by the SEALs, was enough to cause unrestrained panic.

  “The president is down. I repeat, the president is down!” they yelled into their communicators.

  They watched helplessly as the water whipped in circular waves from the hovering blades. The effect was to obscure what was happening beneath the surface of the clear water, and the anguish of those on land became horror as each second ticked away.

  After two minutes and fourteen seconds, Max popped to the surface with Ben and Jonathan within arm’s length, regulators still in their mouths. Max was ecstatic.

  “A new record,” he managed to say between deep breaths of fresh air.

  Immediately, the Navy SEALs communicated with the hovering helicopter.

  “Drop a basket, and get Wizard out of here. The other helo can pick us up.”

  The abrupt intrusion into his placid respite was startling, but he was coming to understand that his ability to be alone had gone away on election day. He had become the property of the United States of America. With that position came the sacrifice of trips like this—it was deluded to assume that the president had a reasonable expectation of privacy.

  And his inauguration was still over a month away.

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  CHAPTER 22

  A

  ir Force One was to be flown to Tallahassee, where it would remain on the tarmac until Marine One returned from the Gulf. With it was Rachel, who had been eagerly training to fly the presidential jet and helicopters since days after the election.

  That was one of the perks of being the president’s girlfriend. If she wanted something, she asked for it, and they gave it to her. She had no intention of being an ornamental woman, quietly spending her lengthy time apart, waiting for her man. While Max is away having his idea of fun, I’m going to have a little fun of my own.

  It was her time to take the controls under the watchful eye of Commander Mark Tillman. In his career as Chief Pilot of Air Force One, he thought he had seen it all, from piloting George W. Bush on 9/11, to avoiding certain death as they evaded a SAM attack over the skies of Saudi Arabia on a clandestine peace mission. But he never thought he would be giving flying lessons to a beautiful woman young enough to be his daughter and using the most sophisticated and protected flying machine in history as a trainer. It went against all of his instincts, but in the twilight of his long and impeccable career, he intended to do whatever the new president wanted him to do. He would do it with gusto, no questions asked. “How am I doing?” Rachel asked.

  “Well, I’d say you’re doing fine, considering that we are presently on autopilot,” Tillman replied smiling. He couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease his young protégé, who he was rapidly coming to like. He could easily see why the president had taken a shine to her. She was worlds apart from the political wives and girlfriends he had met, and he had met more than his share.

  “By the way, you are presently the most protected woman in history.”

  “I am?”

  “I need for you to understand something,” he replied. “Any time this big bird flies, all of the power and might of the United States of America flies with it. You don’t realize this, I’m sure, but the president is a target whenever he goes out in public. Air Force One is the most visible symbol of that might. We have the most sophisticated anti-missile technology ever invented, and we have a continuous escort from the most tricked-out fighter jets that our defense contractors can put in the air.”

  “I’m amazed at how easy it is to fly. I don’t suppose Max would like it much if I tried any stunt flying.”

  “Young lady, if you try anything at all, I’ll see that your license is suspended until President Masterson is in the history books.” She smiled at the thought. Max as an old man, having the distinction of being a former president, still guarded by Secret Service. I wonder how he will take to that. I wonder if I’ll still be around to see the day.

  She considered the sobering reality of loving a person who symbolized ideas so vivid that he was a constant moving target, and her smile transformed into a look of determination. She focused on the task at hand. “I think I’ll leave the flying to you, and I’ll be satisfied to sit as your co-pilot for now, sir. And believe me, I won’t do anything to get my wings taken away.”

  Rachel pursued her passions without restraint, whether they involved Max or not, and flying gave her the satisfaction she needed to feel fulfilled. Max was so preoccupied during the transition that she needed to be away from the constant buzz of preparation that surrounded them. The press of people soon became overwhelming. She was amazed at his ability to mentally insulate himself from the activity that surrounded him, but she needed frequent escapes from that reality. Flying supplied that extra thrill that gave value to her life, and she had accumulated enough flight time to rival Amelia Earhart, her childhood idol. On this training flight, she could focus on flying. I think I’ll leave the protecting to the people trained to do that sort of thing.

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  CHAPTER 23

  O

  n the flight back to Washington, Rachel surrendered the flying to Commander Tillman. Whenever Max was aboard, she could sit in the co-pilot’s seat while the enormous jet was on the ground, but standard operating procedure put her in the main cabin during the in-flight transporting of the president. She waited in the private cabin in the rear and watched through the open door as he emerged from the conference room. His solemn face alerted Rachel that something was seriously wrong. Max made his way in her direction, his head held high. He shut the door and turned to face her. His remote gaze made her briefly wonder if he had noticed she was there. He sighed wearily, and held her in his arms. Max hugged her tightly. It was not a hug of passion this time. “Did you have a bad golf game?” she asked. “What’s got you so glum, Darlin’? I know how much you like to get away and go paddling. I—”

  He reached up and placed a finger against her lips.

  “I need to tell you about my day.”

  Rachel felt a pang of trepidation from his tone of voice.

  He was bone tired, not just from the physical activity, but from the burden of knowledge that he had acquired. He realized that he was surrounded by enemies he never knew existed, not just those who he could readily identify. There were bad guys lurking in the shadows, and the knowledge that his father’s life-long enemy was responsible for the Patriot bombing that killed Adrianna had become a larger boulder in his lap as the day wore on. He continued to hold her tightly, and he whispered to her quietly.

  “Pryor was behind the death of Adrianna,” he said. “No!”

  “And there is nothing I can do about it until we locate him, and

  I need to get his people out of the picture before that will happen,” he responded. They laid together on the bed, fully-clothed. For the remainder of the flight, Max recounted his experiences and shared his thoughts.

  She’s my most-trusted confidant. I depend on her more now than ever. She gives me her opinions, but above that, she gives me the unselfish support I need to survive the day. Right now, I don’t know who else I can fully trust.

  uuu

  When Air Force One landed, Max was whisked without delay to Fairlane. He hadn’t officially taken residence at the White House, so his home was his resting place until Inauguration Day. As soon as Max emerged from the limo, surrounded by security, he walked purposely toward the private entrance that only he could enter. It was nondescript side door, with an arch of limestone that concealed it from a front approach. The security system recognized him and him alone, and when the Secret Service contingent attempted to follow too closely, Max interceded. Turning quickly, he made them stop short.

  NO CORNER TO HIDE


  “I am the only one who can enter through this door. I had it installed years ago, and the security system only recognizes me. If you enter through this door, you’ll be stuck in a sealed room until I let you out. Go through the front door, and I’ll meet you near the den.” As the agents made their way around the front, Max quickly entered the house and sealed the door from the inside. He didn’t wait for them to catch up, and he strode purposely into the den, unannounced.

  “Max, Max!” they all spoke at once. Scarlett was in the middle of the room, surrounded by the transition team. iPads and papers were strewn on every flat surface, and the buzz of activity was a palpable reminder of the tasks they had been assigned before his trip.

  “Have you fired and removed every one of Blythe’s people yet?” he whispered to Scarlett, dispensing with formalities.

  “No, we thought we would vet the ones who deserve our attention,” said Scarlett.

  “I want them gone. All of them.” He stood directly in front of the table where Scarlett sat, his scowl revealing his thoughts.

  Something must have happened since this morning, she thought, oblivious to the events that had transformed him. She had no fear of him, but Max had never displayed anger in her presence, or seemed to be the kind of person who would. This side of the president was new. His jaw was set, and his eyes took on a piercing countenance. “We usually keep some of them to tell us how things are done,” she said.

  “All of them gone. Now.” He was no longer whispering. He turned to the transition team, which huddled behind the stretch of tables that occupied the middle of the room. “Tell me,” he said, scanning their faces, “Which of you worked for Blythe or worked for Homeland Security before you came here?” There was a prolonged silence, and three people, a man and two women, timidly raised their hands.

  Max turned toward Scarlett. “I want the Secret Service to gingerly escort them out of the building, now. And I want a complete background check on everyone that remains.” He turned back toward his staff. “If I find out that any of you are lying, you will never work in government again.”

  A fourth person, a dark-haired middle-aged man, stood and silently left the room.

  Satisfied, Max concluded the meeting. “It’s been a long day,” he said. “I want the rest of you to go home. Tomorrow, each of you should bring a comprehensive list of potential cabinet appointees and staffers. I don’t want you to collaborate on the list until we reconvene in my kitchen at 8:00 A.M.”

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  CHAPTER 24

  M

  ax’s father, retired Senator John Masterson, never cared for the nicknames he acquired during his many terms in public service. Not that his disdain changed anything. His Senate colleagues had given him the name “Minuteman,”

  and it stuck. It described Senator Masterson’s impatience for long-winded speeches—he had habit of walking out of marathon hearings before the speaker had finished. This trademark characteristic described the senator’s life until his death when Max was twenty-six years old.

  Max was instilled with a similar impatience for meaningless detail and tradition. He dreaded the idea of being in endless meetings and enduring shallow talk. He believed to the core of his being that his role as president was to manage the big ideas, leaving his subordinates, including the United States Congress, to work out the details. By starting with large concepts, Max was able to stay on task and pursue the path that his father had laid out for him prior to his death. Senator Masterson had the plan inscribed on gold plate and mounted on the wall of his den at Fairlane, and Max had gazed at the words nearly every day since he was a young boy. He had long-since memorized the list, but he still stopped to read it each time he walked into the room:

  A lwAys spend less thAn you hAve.

  speAk in positive AffirmAtions.

  keep your messAge short And to the point.

  respect the opinions of others.

  educAte the people before Asking them to decide An issue. the informed will of the people dictAtes whAt is right. mAintAin whAt is right, And right whAt is wrong. AmericAn interests must prevAil over foreign interests. meAsure eAch decision by whAt is best for AmericA. mAke AmericAns AwAre thAt they Are A pArt of the world. it is better to confess thAt you don’t know thAn to lie. don’t quote A stAtistic unless you cAn bAck it up with fActs. persuAde, don’t deceive.

  combine strength with compAssion.

  Above All else, be A pAtriot.

  Max followed the maxims. He had been taught by his father and his mentor, Luke Postlewaite, that if a president can rise above the incessant tug of politics, the greater good can be achieved through his efforts. Much of what he had been taught by them was character-building more than rote memorization. They had the mutual goal of teaching Max the selfless above the selfish, and they made sure that he understood the meaning of the word patriot.

  His lessons were presented in the Socratic method. The teacher asked the question and the student analyzed all sides of an issue. A quick answer was met with a rebuke. He was expected to reason out of dilemmas, and to make the hard decisions that had to be made at the end. Sometimes, there was no right or wrong, only the better decision. He had to be the problem solver to confront

  NO CORNER TO HIDE

  the challenges of his presidency, and beyond that, he needed the power to persuade.

  Classroom teaching was balanced by exercise. Max was trained in the martial arts from the time he was old enough to talk, and he had become an expert in efficiently dispatching his opposition with an economy of movement. Most times, a match was over soon after it started. Still, Max never ascended from green belt status when he was training. “That’s the student’s color, and you’re the student,” his father would say.

  The lessons were private, as were the competitions. He competed only against young men and women who were just a little better than him. He became gracious in defeat, but he always looked forward to the rematch. And most times, he prevailed the second time around. Both of his mentors, Postlewaite in particular, became keenly interested in Max’s responses to defeat, and his response to victory, too.

  They paid particular attention to the matches involving female opponents. The macho-misogynist male attitude of certain politicians had frequently led to their defeat, both politically and personally, and that way of thinking had the potential to cause Max to fail in his life’s mission. Women in politics did not seem to suffer defeat as a result of the misconduct that brought down their male counterparts, and he was presented with examples of defeat that involved sex or greed. If he was to serve with honor, he would need to avoid those character traps.

  The lessons would start with the allegations against the politician, his defense, and the physical evidence. It was an informal prosecution, and the wisdom was in the answer to the eternal question: “Why?” Max would sometimes shrug it off and respond, “Women need a reason: love, security, or companionship. Men just need a place.” Sometimes, that was an appropriate fallback answer, and it became the standard response when the idiotic behavior of a politician ruined a lifetime of career-building. Other, times, greed, power, or testosterone-driven thrill- seeking were more appropriate answers, and he learned of potential landmines to avoid.

  “You will never be able to escape the urges that go along with being male, but there are non-verbal ways of setting yourself apart from the herd,” Postlewaite counseled. “When you meet a woman, make a point of shaking her hand and looking straight into her eyes. Resist the urge to look at her breasts. When she breaks eye contact, look at her breasts and take a mental picture. Then resume eye contact, and don’t break that connection. It’s a powerful habit. Practice it and master it, but never reveal it.”

  Max’s lessons on enemies were taught by his father. In Senator Masterson’s long career in Congress, he had confronted and defeated most of his political opponents, but it wasn’t his opponents that were the subject of his forceful diatribes. Enemies were his scourge, to be conquered and destroyed. All enemi
es were opponents, but not all opponents descended to the level of enemy. Enemies lacked the ability to negotiate or compromise. They were singularly obsessed with the attainment of their cause.

  “Son, if you don’t defeat your enemy, they will defeat you,” taught his father. “Choose your enemies carefully, but when you do, you must devise and execute a plan to defeat them before they realize that you are on to them. Most attacks begin with deceit, and they will use false efforts at compromise to buy time. Before the battle begins, you must prepare for it wisely.”

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  CHAPTER 25

  W

  illie B. Somovich combed his thick, black hair over his forehead, obscuring his uni-brow. When he had styled it into his trademark look, he sprayed it with copious amounts of hairspray in a sticky cloud. It was predicted

  to be windy in Chicago, and he wanted to make sure that the paparazzi wouldn’t get an image of his hair being out of place. He had little cause for worry. At this stage of petrification, his recognizable look was more like a helmet.

  Willie had spent the previous ten years of his career as host of the conservative talk show “Willie B Right.” The format for the show was predictable and repetitive, weighing in heavily on conspiracy theories that were so ludicrous and unprovable that they gained a life of their own.

  “I create the truth, my flock!” he would pronounce. “You must believe to achieve,” he would respond to skeptical callers. His messages had no more substance than hot air, but to the faithful listeners who provided revenue to him and his advertisers, every word that he spoke was money in the bank. They bought his books and came to his seminars, which took on the tone of an Elmer Gantry-style revival meeting. Most of all, they bought the products he hawked at every “station break”.