Drew Stoddard's dry cough quieted down for a time but then picked up again as they entered the outskirts of Baltimore. It was minimal and would not have been the least bit alarming had it been occurring in someone other than the President of the United States. Because of the makeup, it was impossible for Gabe to evaluate Stoddard's color, but his respiratory rate was no more than slightly elevated at eighteen per minute and the beds beneath his fingernails looked reasonably pink-a decent sign that he was getting enough oxygen into his circulation. Gabe felt comfortable speaking about the president's asthma in front of Griswold, but not the speechwriter.

"You okay?" Gabe asked after a brief volley of hacking.

"Maybe a little wheezy, but no big deal," Stoddard replied.

"You have asthma?" Martin asked, ending whatever concern Gabe had about making the disclosure.

"Low-grade for years," Drew replied matter-of-factly.

"I have it, too. Used to be bad when I was a kid. But it seems to have gotten pretty much better as I get older. Now, I don't think I have it anymore."

"Burnout of childhood asthma is quite common," Gabe offered, not taking his eyes off his patient. "You feel able to go through with this speech, Mr. President?"

"Of course. I'm really fine. You brought an inhaler for me, right?"

"Actually I have several of them-both bronchodilators and cortisone. They're in the FAT kit in the medical van."

"Griz," Stoddard asked, "do you have one of my inhalers with you?"

"Right here, as always."

The Secret Service agent patted over the inside breast pocket of his suit coat.

"Okay, then. If I feel like I need a puff of that stuff, I'll get it from you until the doc here unlocks the medicine case in the van and gets me whatever he has there. That okay with you, Doc?"

"I… um… guess so," Gabe said, reflecting on his conversations with the chief executive's father and the vice president and wondering if he should find a way to warn Drew to be a bit less cavalier with information regarding his medical status. "I would like to have a listen to your chest before we do anything, but somehow this doesn't seem to be the place for that."

"We have a screened-off prep area backstage," Griswold said. "A place for the president to sit down, get his makeup refreshed, and get ready for his speech."

"Good," Gabe said. "That'll probably be fine. Mr. President, grab a water bottle from the fridge there and drink at least half of it. You want to stay well hydrated."

"Got it."

"Doc, I'll get you and the president up to the screened-off area as soon as we arrive. Meanwhile, Mr. President, if you need any of this Alupent inhaler just ask."

"Roger that. Mr. Shapiro, I think we've done as much as we can with this puppy. You've done a great job as usual. Stanford, right? What was your major there?"

"Creative writing."

Before anyone could comment, the limousine stopped in front of a side entrance to the Baltimore Convention Center.

"Attention all posts," Griswold said to his sleeve, "Maverick moving toward BCC entrance. Over… Okay, sir, Doc, we're going in that door, then up to the third floor. Stairs or elevator?"

"Stairs will be fine," Stoddard said.

"Let's do the elevator," Gabe countered before he had even processed the significance of overruling the most powerful man on the planet.

There was a moment of absolute quiet.

"We're going to head directly for the elevator," Griswold announced through the radio, scooping the submachine gun off the floor with his free hand. "Over."

The limousine doors were opened simultaneously, and the four occupants stepped out to be immediately engulfed by a buffer of Secret Service men. Griswold, ever observant, remained positioned next to the president, sunlight glinting off the balding area of his pate and the perspiration on the fold of his thick neck. Gabe flashed briefly on an image of the man, looking a bit like the mutant comic book hero the Thing, exploding through a massive cement and fieldstone wall to get at the source of danger to the president.

When they were inside, Gabe switched on his transmitter, pleased again to be playing the radio game.

"This is Wrangler to medical team, Wrangler to medical team. Over."

"We're here, Wrangler," Alison's satiny voice replied. "Unloading now. We'll meet you on three. Over."

"Be sure you have the FAT kit, an IV stand, and an oh-two tank. Over."

"Roger that. FAT kit, IV stand, and oxygen. Everything okay? Over."

"Better to not need it and have it," Gabe said, feeling the comfort and security of being a practicing doc once more. "See you on three. Over."

"Three."

"Breathe in… now out…"

Cloistered behind a ten-by-ten-foot barrier of dark blue velvet drapes, Gabe conducted as thorough an exam of his patient as he could manage in the twelve minutes that had been allotted him. He wasn't all that alarmed by what he was seeing and hearing, but neither was he totally at ease. The president was wheezing-the sine qua non symptom of asthma. The sound, in this case not audible without a stethoscope, was caused by narrowing of the man's bronchial tubes, the result of a combination of spasm in the muscular wall of the tubes and plugging of the tubes themselves with mucus.

"So, how do I sound?" Stoddard asked.

"The more important question is: How do you feel?"

"Not bad, really. Something like this happens every other day. I think it's mold. Mold in the limos, mold in the residence, mold at Camp David, mold in my cabinet."

"How did they let you fly jets with this?"

"I didn't really have it back then, but as far as I know, most properly treated medical conditions, including asthma, will still allow a pilot to get a license-even a commercial one. I'm not sure of the military, though."

"You need a puff or two from your inhaler?"

"Actually, that stuff makes me feel a little speedy. I'd prefer to avoid it if I can. There's a couple of million in potential donations to the cause sitting out there. That'll make me speedy enough as it is."

Gabe considered his findings and the situation.

"In that case, knock 'em dead, pal."

CHAPTER 23

It is time, my friends. It is time we joined together with a vision for this country and its people. It is time the children of our poor and disenfranchised stop seeking out drugs as the only way to cope with the perceived hopelessness of their situations. It is time they seek out their teachers and advisors, and hopefully, even their parents. It is time they learn to use the computers that will be on every desk, and work through their fears and concerns and curiosity and dreams in classes that are of a reasonable size.

"It is time there were enough hospital and halfway-house beds for our mentally ill and addicted, and there were government-mandated insurance programs to pay for their treatment.

"It is time there were jobs for everyone and anyone who wants one, as well as incentives to keep individuals off of public assistance.

"Yes, my friends, it is time for the people of this country to come together with a vision…"

Gabe had never had much interest in politics or much faith in politicians and their promises. Now, though, he stood off to one side of the third-floor hall in the beautifully renovated Baltimore Convention Center marveling at the skill, intellect, and charisma of the man who had once been his drinking and studying buddy-at the time, little more than just one of the guys at the Academy. In the limousine Gabe had sat quietly as the president and his bright young speechwriter reviewed the lines of this speech quickly and analytically. Now he listened to the words again-notes he had seen written on a page, now transformed by a virtuoso into a concerto-mesmerizing and very special.