The President's Doctor

by David Shobin

  “Good morning, Mitch. How was your night?”

  “Not bad, Mr. President,” said Forbes, walking in and shaking hands. “And yours?”

  “Fine, just fine. Sit down, let’s have some coffee.”

  The chief of staff had a little discussed but extremely important position in the Administration. Many considered it to be the second toughest job in Washington. The challenges facing the chief of staff were immense, as was the cost of failure. The person wearing the title had tremendous power, but it was that of a staffer, not a principal.

  Essentially, the chief of staff’s role was to concentrate on “the four Ps.” The first stood for people. At the beginning, the Chief had to identify and recruit his own White House team. Only then could he begin building professional working relationships, based on common goals and mutual trust, with senior policy makers. The second P stood for process, simply defined as running the place. He had to focus attention on the president’s priorities, then effectively implement them. Since there were so many claimants on the president’s time, the chief of staff had to protect the president by learning how to say no. He had to be an honest broker while simultaneously raising issues the president would rather not hear.

  The third P stood for politics, which, in a democracy, was inseparable from policy. While striking a balance between the two, the chief had to be the president’s primary political adviser, explaining issues, positions, and interpretations. Finally, only once the first three Ps were in place, could the chief of staff concentrate on the fourth P—formulating an effective foreign and domestic policy agenda. This was the criterion of any administration’s ultimate success. The Chief had to reinvent the policy process in a manner consistent with the president’s priorities.

  To his credit, Forbes understood the four Ps from the Administration’s first day. He knew what the president expected of him, and he appreciated everyone’s role. Equally important, he was a shrewd man who knew where the land mines were.

  Their morning began with an outstanding Hawaiian roast sipped from one-of-a-kind china cups that were a gift from the Irish Prime Minister. As they sat on the twin couches before the president’s desk, both men gazed outside toward the nearby trees, whose dappled leaves, caught in the morning sunlight, seemed touched by fire.

  “How’s the world holding up today, Mitch?”

  “Still revolving normally, sir.” From his briefcase, Forbes took out a copy of the PDB, or president’s daily brief, a highly classified document prepared by the CIA’s Office of Current Production and Analytical Support. The brief was a twenty-four-hour summary of information that might affect the country’s national security. Some presidents wanted to peruse the document themselves, but Meredith preferred to have his National Security Adviser summarize it for him. “Should be another peaceful day, Mr. President. There was the usual grumbling from Hamas after last night’s dinner. Some rock throwing, a few arrests in Hebron. Nothing unexpected. No direct threats against America.”

  “Not yet, anyway. But as soon as the George Washington pulls into Haifa, they’ll be screaming for our throats.”

  “No question,” Forbes agreed, closing the brief. “We’re helping the Israelis keep a close eye on all the militant groups over there. Over here, they’re helping us. Everyone’s on board on this and if anyone makes a move. We’ll know it.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “That’s about it, on security matters. The earth is a garden spot today. Incidentally, how’re you feeling this morning, Mr. President?”

  “You mean, after my little chewing problem last night?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I feel fine,” Meredith said. “Any sequelae are of the emotional variety.”

  There came a knock at the door, and the president’s secretary poked her head into the room. “The vice president’s here, sir. He wonders if he could have a minute of your time.”

  “Of course. Send him in.”

  Doria breezed in, smiling and carrying a gift-wrapped box. “Good morning, Mr. President,” he said. “Sorry to disturb you, but I come bearing gifts.”

  “You’re incorrigible, Tony. But I’ll never say no. How’s Amanda?”

  “Healthy and happy. Always involved with one thing or another. And Roxanne?”

  “The same. How was the West Coast swing?”

  “Good. Very productive. They want you for another four years, Bob.” He placed the box on the president’s desk.

  “Along with you.” He got off the couch, untied the bow, and removed the paper. Slipping off the cardboard cover, he removed the gift and placed it on the desk. It was a windmill. “Will you look at that,” he said, spinning the arms with his finger. “It’s beautiful. Doesn’t your old firm make something like this?”

  “Yes, but much more modern. This is nineteenth century, Dutch. It’s the perfect statement for your energy policy, don’t you think?”

  “I do indeed. Thanks. Sit down, have a cup of coffee.”

  “Wish I could, but I have a breakfast appointment. I just wanted to drop this off.” He shook hands with the president and Forbes. “Catch you later, guys.”

  When he was gone, Meredith smiled and shook his head. “Tony’s got this thing for trinkets. He’s always bringing something back from wherever he goes. But he’s got damn good taste, I’ll say that for him.”

  “Yes, sir, he does. I don’t think anyone could ask for a better vice president.”

  “Amen to that. But back to what we were talking about, my only concern is over what people are going to say about me.”

  “Oh, they already are. You didn’t happen to watch the morning news today?”

  “Are you joking?”

  “No, sir. You can’t keep what happens at a state dinner secret. The newswires had the gory details at midnight.”

  Meredith was mortified. “Good Lord. How did they play it? Am I now some doddering old fool who can’t keep his dentures in place?”

  “Not at all!” Forbes said with a laugh. “They know you’ve got all your teeth.”

  “Mitch….”

  “I know, I know. Generally, they were very charitable.”

  “Oh, Jesus. Now I need charity?”

  “Let’s put it this way: this morning, all the networks, Fox, and CNN reported the story straight,” Forbes said. “You might even say they played it down. They said you choked on your food and Dr. Townsend was there for first aid. Period. Only ABC specifically used the term Heimlich Maneuver. It’s over and done with, Mr. President. Yesterday’s news.”

  Reassured, Meredith slowly nodded. “That’s a relief. Frankly, I would have thought showing that kind of weakness would hurt me politically.”

  “No, just the opposite. The way I read public opinion, it actually helped your ratings. Provided it doesn’t affect how you think, the American people are very sympathetic to their president’s minor physical problems.”

  “If you say so. Let’s just hope it doesn’t happen again before next year’s election.”

  “Speaking of which, we’re all set for next Tuesday.”

  Meredith looked puzzled. “Tuesday?”

  “Yes, Bob, Tuesday. Your reelection announcement. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

  Feeling his face redden, Meredith turned away, gazing in the direction of the South Lawn. Rocky’s recent remark about his memory was fresh in his mind. “Of course not. Everything’s ready to go?”

  “That’s right,” Mitch said. He noticed a slight twitch in the president’s hand, a movement that made his cup and saucer shake. “Noon, in the East Room. All the networks are on board. Most Cabinet members will be there. Your speech is written and ready for your proofreading.”

  “Good. What about the opposition, the guys who want my job?”

  “Same list of wannabees sniffing around the edges. Nothing new there.”

  “I’m talking about issues. Are they scoring points anywhere?”

  “The only areas you’re a little weak, Mr. President,”
Forbes said, “are national defense and the reproduction arena.”

  “Well, that’s to be expected. But I won’t back down on the Raskin business. Anything new there?”

  “No, this Southern Cross, if it exists, is lying low. The Bureau’s working hard on it.”

  “And national defense?” Meredith asked.

  “Diehard saber-rattlers were never your favorite people. There are still some folks out there who cling to the idea of a two-theater war.”

  For over sixty years, US military strategy had been based on the concept of America’s ability to simultaneously conduct full-scale conflicts on two fronts, or theaters. It didn’t matter that the concept was now an unrealistic, impractical philosophy, and that future conflicts would most likely be regional. Military hard-liners simply had a traditional, albeit inflexible, approach. When he first ran for the Presidency, Meredith campaigned for a modem military strategy than emphasized goals rather than theaters. His motto was Strike Fast, Strike Hard, Strike Anywhere. It was a concept that combined readiness, mobility, and technology.

  The American people were ready for it. It was an approach that emphasized quality over quantity, which recognized the skill and preparedness of elite U.S. fighting forces over sheer numbers. The fact that the president was a decorated war veteran was a strong selling point, not to mention that his approach would save hundreds of billions of tax dollars. Yet despite the new plan’s popularity, there were still those who criticized it.

  “The Neanderthals won’t quit, will they?” said Meredith. “They know we’re right on this, so why keep harping on it?”

  “Because it’s the only place they’re making any headway. The polls still give us an edge, but you’re always going to have some Americans who equate military strength with numbers. You can’t please everyone, Mr. President.”

  “I suppose. Anything else?”

  “No, sir, that’s about it,” said Forbes, getting up. “I’ll see you and the first lady later.”

  “Later?”

  “Lunch, Mr. President. In the study.”

  “Of course. See you then.”

  Coffee cup in hand, Meredith walked to the window behind his desk. Not only had he forgotten about lunch, he wasn’t even sure he ever knew. His embarrassment was tempered by anger, and his hands were shaking. He’d always prided himself on his memory, but lately, his memory had been suspect. It was the little things, recent things. Certainly, Rocky had noticed, and he was beginning to wonder if Forbes suspected, too. It was infuriating.

  But beyond the question of his memory, there was the question of his manner. President Meredith was aware that for the past month or two, he’d been losing his patience. He had enough self-control that he didn’t always show it, but he felt it inside—irritability, tenseness. He felt like snipping at people. If he were a woman, he’d have thought his attitude was due to PMS. And as if that weren’t enough, his whole body felt tense. His muscles had the stiff spasticity he associated with being in a plaster cast.

  What was wrong with him? He’d gotten a clean bill of health by Dr. Townsend at the beginning of the summer. Was it possible he was actually getting senile? Could this be the onset of a lifelong process of mental deterioration? He hoped not. Emotionally, he felt he was in the prime of his life. Except for this, he was robust, fit, and in control.

  The real issue, he knew, was that he was afraid. With his background in the Marine Corps, the law, and then politics, he’d spent his entire adult life micromanaging one problem after another. Yet this was a situation he simply could not get his hands around. Bob Meredith didn’t like being out of control; and if his body was acting independent of his will, it was very frightening indeed.

  Tunisia

  The old bus carrying Mahmoud rumbled south through the rock-strewn hills. A harsh wind was blowing through the upcoming Kasserine Pass, a stony notch in West Central Tunisia where GIs once held off Rommel’s Affika Korps. Nearby, low clouds wreathed the five-thousand-foot Jebel Chamdi, the country’s highest mountain. It was a raw day. Water formed pools on the rutted ground, and the distant, hazy sun rarely penetrated the overcast.

  Mahmoud had been here once before. Like every member of Fatah or Hamas, he knew how to pull a trigger. But he had first learned to really shoot at the Al-Maidah camp, a base still a hundred miles away. Among those who took up jihad, there were few skilled marksmen, particularly among the Palestinians, whose customary weapons of choice were rocks, bottles, and explosives.

  But occasionally, someone like Mahmoud, whose eyesight and reflexes exceeded his courage, came to the instructors’ attention. These people were singled out for special training. Unfortunately, the quality of their weapons rarely equaled their enthusiasm.

  Most of their Kalashnikov-type firearms were Soviet era surplus of dubious reliability. The rare exception was the thirty-caliber Drugunov rifle, a shortened version of the Russian SVD sniper rifle. While these were no match for high quality Western arms, they were rugged, dependable, and reasonably accurate.

  In his earlier training at the base, Mahmoud was quickly shooting expert at stationary three-hundred-yard targets. The rifle’s attached four-power scope was primitive, especially at extreme distance; but if Mahmoud did his part, the results were generally good. He’d had modest success with it in Southern Lebanon against the Israelis, until a retaliatory rocket nearly killed him—impairing his hearing, giving him a concussion, and turning his Drugunov into shrapnel.

  For this mission, Mahmoud had flown from Gaza to Cairo, and then on to Tunis.

  It had been a long, exhausting drive from the capitol, and another three hours remained before he reached the camp. He would get off the bus at Gafsa, a sleepy town where the esparto grass finally gave way to the sand that stretched south to the Sahara. In Gafsa, he’d be picked up for the final twenty-kilometer drive to Al-Maidah. Mahmoud always considered the name fitting.

  It was Arabic for The Avenger.

  Later that day, the president, first lady, and chief of staff lunched in the study next to the Oval Office. It was an informal meal, and the main item on the agenda was the reelection announcement. Roxanne, as usual, looked radiant. Her suit was elegant, her skin flawless. Although she was in early menopause, she could easily have passed for someone ten years younger. As a woman of the people, she made no attempt to hide the fact that she’d had a facelift and laser skin resurfacing. The public appreciated her honesty, and her cosmetic surgeon became the second most sought-after person in Washington, after the president.

  They sat down to a salad of fresh greens with Asian vegetables, topped with a sesame vinaigrette.

  “I sense Mireille’s hand here,” said the president, after the first bite. “Incredible. She can turn an ordinary salad into a work of art.”

  “She’s a helluva find, Bob,” Forbes said. “Have you looked over the speech?”

  The president handed him a manila folder containing the rough draft. “Yes, and I like it. Short and to the point. I penciled in a few changes in the margins.” He looked at his wife. “You’ll be there, right, Rocky?”

  “By your side, as always.”

  “By the way,” Forbes said, “a final communique from the Arab summit just came in. It’s pretty much what we expected, no major surprises.”

  “The usual grumbling from Iran and Iraq?”

  “Yes, sir. Very predictable.”

  “And the Saudis?”

  “Still some fence straddling,” Forbes said, “but it’s just posturing. Nothing should come of it, and we’ll be able to count on them.”

  Their empty salad plates were removed by a server, and in came the chef herself, pushing a linen covered serving cart. She was wearing a chef s jacket, a tall white chef’s hat, and a smile.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur President,” she jauntily exclaimed. It was frowned upon for an employee of The House to address the Chief Executive in a foreign language, but Mireille did it with such panache that tradition was overlooked.

  “Hello, Ch
ef Courtois,” Meredith replied. “You look lovely, as usual. What delights have you prepared today?”

  Mireille, a beautiful woman in her early thirties, was a rising star in Nouvelle French cuisine. Paris born and raised, she graduated from Le Cordon Blue before enrolling in its bachelor program in restaurant management in Adelaide. Armed with culinary skills and a degree, she began her career at The Oriental in Bangkok before returning to Alain Ducasse in Paris, where she perfected her technique. After a brief sojourn at Manhattan’s Four Seasons, she became head chef at the new, prestigious Rafters in San Francisco before being tapped for the White House. Her specialty was Asian/French fusion cooking.

  “Something very light today,” she said. Despite her years in English-speaking countries, her French accent was still pronounced. “We begin with a crab and papaya roll, striped bass and glass noodles in a lemongrass sauce.”

  “Sounds marvelous,” Roxanne said.

  Mireille removed the sterling covers from the appetizer plates, and the server brought over their dishes. Each plate contained three pieces of a sushi-style roll, cut on a bias. There were separate saucers containing a syrupy dipping sauce, and the utensils were salad forks.

  “No chopsticks?” Forbes asked.

  “Actually, you should use your fingers,” said the chef. “Just dip the roll into the sauce.”

  The president went first, generously moistening the edge of the roll and then taking a hearty bite. “Unbelievable,” he said, with his mouth full. “Never tasted anything like it.”