The Night Is Mine

Chapter 20

20

Henry turned out to be Henry Sullivan, now seated in the back of the Bell 430, airborne and bound for New York. A mild-mannered milquetoast of a man in charge of the First Lady’s image. And a very successful man he was. She’d been on the cover of Time, Vogue, and numerous other magazines. A nearly nude one on Vanity Fair that had drawn as much other press as it had direct sales.

“More covers than the main man himself,” Daniel had informed Emily in his cheerfully conspiratorial whisper before closing them inside the helicopter and trotting back to the White House.

From the White House lawn, it was exactly one hour and seven minutes until Emily landed at the Downtown Manhattan Heliport on the New York City waterfront. Exactly one hour and seven minutes of absolute privacy as Katherine and Henry conferred in the back over the roar of the rotor blades. One hour and seven minutes interrupted by only five radio contacts with air traffic control, each lasting under fifteen seconds. They’d cleared the airspace ahead of her so she had nothing to do but watch the autopilot.

And think.

Major Mark Henderson had inducted her exactly as she herself would have initiated an unknown. First as his copilot, then on simple missions, then a series of escalating sorties culminating in more flights to more dangerous places than any other pilot in the squad. Until that last flight, he’d simply grunted and given her the next mission. That’s what made his compliment—“Nice flight, Captain”—stand out so completely.

Emily turned at Staten Island, out over the muddy swirl where the Hudson River met the dark blue of the Atlantic. Air traffic control aimed her for Long Island before turning a dogleg toward Manhattan.

But then Major Henderson had kissed her and changed her personal kiss-rating system completely. Imagine if any of D Company ever heard that Mark had the softest, gentlest, and far away the finest kiss she’d ever enjoyed. Despite the raw steel and fire that lurked so close beneath…perhaps because of it. It would ruin his reputation. Or maybe not; they were all such guys.

She chatted briefly with Heliport control and they plopped her out at the end of the pier. Not the greatest amount of courtesy to show the First Lady, but the extra security was fine with Emily.

Two men in black materialized from nowhere to guard the helicopter. Two more escorted Katherine and Henry to a limo. Moments later they were gone to shop in New York’s finest boutiques and salons, and Emily was cooling her heels in one of the dullest air terminals on the planet.

The last thing she wanted to do was mix with a bunch of New York heli-tourists waiting for their oh-isn’t-this-just-so-friggin’-cute helicopter ride to the airport when they could hop on the subway for two bucks instead. And she wasn’t about to mess with the pilots’ lounge where bored corporate geeks with a lousy two hundred flights to Hartford, Connecticut, and back thought they were God’s gift to the skies and women.

But there were no books or magazines in her helo to distract her from Mark thoughts, and it only took her so long to memorize the emergency-procedures manual. This bird might be sleek, but it was far simpler than an Apache or a Black Hawk.

Worst of all, like its more aggressive siblings, the Bell boasted no bathroom.

She’d have to brave the terminal.

Emily was washing her hands when a military woman walked in. No mistaking the stance, despite the pantsuit. The black pantsuit. The woman sized her up in a moment and, after a quick squat to discover that the two stalls were empty, came to rest beside the next washstand over.

“Captain…” she offered after inspecting the lapel of Emily’s dress uniform, “Beale. Assigned to the First Lady’s detail.”

It wasn’t a question, though Emily nodded anyway. And spotted the radio earpiece beneath the woman’s hair.

“Do you have any ID?”

“The blue-and-white Bell 430 helicopter out front with the Presidential seal on its nose isn’t sufficient for you?”

Not a hint of a smile. Blacksuits. Emily slipped her White House photo ID from a breast pocket and handed it over.

After a moment’s close inspection, it was returned. One more scan of the room, this time actually popping the stall doors in case someone was squatting on the toilet in her high heels totting an Uzi, and the woman was gone with as little fanfare as she’d arrived.

Emily followed her out into the terminal’s waiting room. It was too early for the First Lady to be back unless something had gone wrong.

Clusters of plastic chairs with minimal padding were bolted in neat groups of a ten. Twice that number of blacksuits were circulating as she became aware of the noise.

Despite the double sets of doors and obvious sound insulation, nothing disguised the heavy, four-blade hammer beat of the Sikorsky Black Hawk. Moments later, through the glass doors, Emily watched the VH-60N White Hawk, painted the white and moldy-bread green of Marine One, land in the center of the pier. A half-dozen dress Marines materialized as if teleported and surrounded the aircraft. Maybe they’d sprung up directly from the tarmac where they’d been stored years before awaiting this moment. They remained in guard position as someone inside opened the passenger door and folded down the two stairs. Another Marine stepped out to stand at attention before President Matthews himself stepped onto the landing pier.

Through the double doors he looked tall, powerful, and in control. He cast a quick glance at the blue-and-white Bell helo.

His face remained unreadable through the glass doors, though he turned again to inspect the craft. Well, Emily guessed it was unreadable to anyone else, but she knew him far too well. President Peter Matthews was not happy to see his wife’s transport perched on the pier overlooking the East River.

Didn’t he like his wife coming to New York?

Maybe she herself was his problem. Was he unhappy about her dropping Frank Adams? Maybe he regretted asking her to come and wished her once more in her far-away desert. Well, she couldn’t agree more. If she was quick, she could blend back into the women’s restroom with no one the wiser.

But she’d hesitated too long.

As soon as he entered the terminal, Marine One hammered back into the sky. Good pilot, she judged by the takeoff. Not SOAR, but good. Gone off to hide somewhere more secure until needed. A phalanx of blacksuits was keeping everyone back as Peter and Chief of Staff Ray Stevens moved through the center of the terminal.

“Emily?” He stopped right in front of her. His foul expression slid slowly toward a smile. A real one. So, at least she wasn’t the issue. But that meant that the First Lady was. Which made no sense at all.

“What are you doing in New York?”

“I, uh…” Breathe, Emily, just breathe. “Flew up on the First Lady. Flew up the First Lady on…” She blew out an exasperated breath. “I know how to fly, but you knew that. Just not how to talk.”

He laughed. An easy, friendly, old pal’s laugh that melted her insides several stages closer to normal.

“Ray, you go on and see the guys at IndieTech. Tell them that they have until Thursday if they want to be listened to. Make sure they get that loud and clear before you leave. 12:01 a.m. on Friday and they’re out and we’ll broker the Internet-2 without them. I’ll be at the U.N. for about three hours. If you can convince them of that in time, you can join me. Otherwise you’re stuck on the commuter train.”

“I’ll be here.” The Chief of Staff waved and moved off. Only two agents followed him. The rest remained in a loose circle and watched the tourists who gawked and snapped photos.

“If the First Lady is shopping, she’ll be hours. Come with me.”

“With…” But he’d already moved off. “…you?”

When he noticed she wasn’t with him, he turned and smiled back at her. “C’mon, Em. It’ll be fun.”

Last time he’d said that had been the night before he went off to Yale. And it had been. Though she doubted today’s expedition would include root-beer floats for two on the Mall while sitting on the grass across from the White House. He assuredly feeling the big brother and she the twelve-year old girl with the hopeless crush.

That night Peter had talked of dreams. Dreams of serving his country. Dreams of working in the White House. Not knowing that one day he’d sit behind the Roosevelt desk instead of standing in front of it. Or maybe he did know.

That night was the first time that she’d thought of the larger world about her. It was the night she knew her crush was never going anywhere and that she was always going to be too young to do anything about it.

The next morning he’d gone without ceremony, leaving her to stand by the Georgetown curbside and watch him go.

Now he stood on the sunlit sidewalk outside the front door waiting for her.

She put on a fast trot to catch up with him.