By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

Colonel Messinger double-checked to see that Sergeant First Class DeLaney, her crew chief, had properly strapped in the secretary and the major in civvies, smiled at them both, and then got back in the right seat.

A moment later, the Huey went light on the skids, lifted into the air, dropped its nose, and began to move ever more rapidly across the airfield. Cooler air rushed in the big doors left open on either side of the helicopter against the Georgia heat.

Major Castillo unfastened his seat belt and started to stand.

“Sir!” Sergeant First Class DeLaney began to protest.

Major Castillo put his finger to his lips, signifying silence.

Sergeant First Class DeLaney, visibly upset, looked to the secretary for help.

The secretary signaled the sergeant that if Castillo wanted to stand, it was fine with him.

With a firm grip on a fuselage rib, Major Castillo stood in the doorway for about two minutes, looking down at what he could see of Fort Stewart.

Then he quickly resumed his seat and strapped himself in.

“I once spent a summer here, Sergeant,” he said, smiling at DeLaney. “Mostly washing Georgia mud from tracks and bogie wheels. I haven’t been back since.”

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant DeLaney said.

“Sergeant,” the secretary said, smiling, “if you don’t tell the colonel, we won’t.”

“Yes, sir.”

“On the other hand, Charley,” the secretary said, “I have seen people take a last dive out of one of these things when there was a sudden change of course.”

“Sir,” Castillo said, “I have a finely honed sense of self-preservation. Not to worry.”

“So I have been reliably informed,” the secretary said. “I think the colonel likes you, Charley. She spent much more time strapping you in than she did me.”

“It’s my cologne, sir,” Castillo said. “Eau de Harley-Davidson. It gets them every time.”

The secretary laughed.

Sergeant First Class DeLaney smiled somewhat uneasily.

Jesus, DeLaney thought, what if that big bastard had taken a dive out the door?

[THREE]

The Carolina White House Hilton Head Island, South Carolina 1355 27 May 2005

The president of the United States was sitting in one of the upholstered wicker rocking chairs on the porch of an eight-year -old house that had been carefully designed and built so that most people thought it was bona fide antebellum and surprised that such a house had been built way back then overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.

The president, who was wearing a somewhat faded yellow polo shirt with the Brooks Brothers sheep embroidered on the chest, sharply creased but obviously not new khaki trousers, and highly polished loafers, was drinking Heineken beer from the bottle. A galvanized bucket on the floor beside his chair held a reserve buried in ice.

The president pushed himself out of his chair and set his beer bottle on the wicker table as a white GMC Yukon with heavily tinted windows pulled up.

The driver got out quickly and ran around the front of the Yukon in a vain attempt to open the driver’s door before the secretary could do so himself.

“Hey, Matt!” the president greeted the secretary, his accent sounding comfortable at home in its native Carolina.

The secretary walked up

on the porch and offered his hand.

“Good afternoon, Mr. President,” he said.