“This isn’t General Naylor, for God’s sake,” the President snapped. “Naylor’s the big general with four stars. General O’Nab is the little general with three stars. Maybe you’d better write that down.”
“My name is McNab, sir.”
“Whatever.”
“What I was going to suggest, Mr. President,” Hoboken said, “is that General McNab probably has some of his people preparing to seize something as we speak. That’s what they do, seize things. Either that, or blow them up. Anyway, you could have your picture taken with them. Nobody would know the difference.”
“That’s true, but would that be honest?”
“Trust me, Mr. President, I do things like that all the time.”
The President considered that option for a moment, and then said, “Okay, we’ll do it. But let’s make it quick. Before we go back to Washington, I’ve got to go to Biloxi and get Belinda-Sue’s mother out of ja… where she is and back in the Baptist assisted living place.”
[EIGHT]
Base Operations
Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina
1005 15 June 2007
“Get a couple more shots of General Whatsisname saluting the President farewell, and then we can get out of here,” Presidential Spokesperson Robin Hoboken ordered the photographers.
General McNab saluted the President farewell for the third time and then asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. President?”
“You’re really a slow learner, aren’t you, General?” President Clendennen replied. “We’ve already been down that street twice.”
“Excuse me, sir,” McNab said. “Is there anything else the President can do for the general?”
“The President—presuming the general can get Clendennen’s Commandos up and running and seizing Drug Cartel International smoothly—can get the general another star. How does that sound?”
“Just as soon as I can get the precise locality of the airfield, sir, I’ll get right on it.”
“And that process would be speeded up if you could get a little more enthusiasm for getting Clendennen’s Commandos into Clan Clendennen kilts, General.”
“I’ll do what I can, Mr. President,” General McNab said.
“Get Colonel Whatsisname, the Heraldry guy, to give your people a little historical background on kilts in warfare.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll do that.”
“As far as I’m concerned, those green berets you people wear make me think of wimpy Frenchmen. Who else wears a beret? Kilts, on the other hand, make me think of great big muscular, redheaded Scotchmen—like my ancestors in Clan Clendennen—waving great big swords.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. President,” General McNab said, evenly.
The President went up the stair door. Robin Hoboken and then the photographers and Supervisory Special Agent Mulligan followed him.
Sean O’Grogarty remained on the tarmac.
“Excuse me, sir,” General McNab said, “I think you’re about to get left behind.”
“That’s the idea,” Sean replied. “Special Agent Mulligan said I was to stick around and let him know how you’re doing.”
“Wonderful!” General McNab said, sharply sarcastic. “This just gets better by the moment.”
The stair door closed as the engines started. Sixty seconds later, the C-37A, call sign “Air Force One,” lifted off.
General McNab watched until the departing aircraft had vanished from sight, and then he walked away from the base operations building down a taxiway. When he was halfway to the runway and had looked around to make sure he was out of earshot, he took his CaseyBerry from his pocket and punched an autodial button.