Scot knew that it was not only his familiarity with Park City, but also his background and experience that were key factors in his being selected to lead this presidential advance team. He also knew that was why President Rutledge had agreed to indulge his daughter’s request for Scot to ski on her protective detail today and give her pointers.

Amanda had been overjoyed, and despite the “flat light,” she felt the day had been perfect.

“You’re an excellent student, so the lessons are my pleasure.” Scot’s radio crackled, interrupting their conversation. He held up his hand to let her know he was listening to his earpiece. Amanda remained quiet.

“Norseman, this is Sound. Over,” came the scratchy voice via Scot’s Motorola. Norseman was the call sign Scot had picked up in the SEALs, which had remained with him ever since. At five feet ten and a muscular one hundred sixty pounds, with brown hair and ice blue eyes, the handsome Scot Harvath looked more German than Scandinavian. In fact the call sign didn’t derive from his looks, but rather from a string of Scandinavian flight attendants he had dated while in the SEALs.

The voice on the other end of Scot’s Motorola identified as Sound, was the head of the president’s protective detail, Sam Harper. Harper had taken Scot under his wing when he joined the team at the White House. The head White House Secret Service agent, whom Harper and Scot reported to, was William Shaw-call sign Fury. When you put Harper together with Shaw, you got “The Sound and The Fury,” and anyone who had ever screwed up on their watch knew exactly how appropriate that title was.

Communications had been fine over the past week, but for some reason the radios had been cutting in and out today. Maybe it was the weather.

“This is Norseman, go ahead Sound. Over,” said Scot via his throat mike.

“Norseman, Hat Trick wants to know how Goldilocks is doing. Over.”

“Mandie,” said Scot, turning to Amanda, “your dad wants to know how you’re holding up.”

When then Vice President Rutledge came into office after having three times been named one of D.C.’s sexiest politicians, the hockey-inspired nickname Hat Trick, meaning three goals, became an inside joke among the people who knew him. Though Jack Rutledge found the media’s focus on his looks somewhat embarrassing, he didn’t object to the nickname, and so, via the Department of Defense, which issues the presidential and vice presidential code names, it stuck. After the president’s wife passed away, word quietly spread among White House staffers that the president would not seek to return to Pennsylvania Avenue for a fourth time. The code name had turned out to be aptly prophetic.

Amanda’s code name, on the other hand, was an obvious call. With her long, curly blond hair, she had been called Goldilocks for as long as anyone in the White House could remember.

“I’m a little hungry, but other than that pretty good,” she said.

“Sound, Goldilocks is shipshape, though she’d like to get into the galley sometime in the near future. Over.”

“Roger that, Norseman. The lifts close to the public at sixteen-thirty; that’s twenty minutes from now. Hat Trick wants to know if Goldilocks wants to keep going, or if we should wrap it up. Over.”

Scot turned to Amanda, “Your dad wants to know if you want to have them keep the lift open for us, or if you want to make this the last run and we’ll ski back to the house?”

“My toes are getting kind of cold. I think I’ve had enough skiing for today. Let’s make this the last run.”

“Sound, Goldilocks wants to little piggy. Over.” “Little piggy” referred to the children’s nursery rhyme where the fifth little piggy went wee, wee, wee, all the way home.

“Roger that, Norseman. Hat Trick concurs. Let’s meet at the last lap. Over.”

“Last lap, roger that, Sound. Norseman out.”

When Scot, Amanda, and their security detail reached the meeting point known as the last lap, the president, Sam Harper, and the rest of the team were already waiting for them.

“Hi, sweetheart,” said the president as his daughter skied up, and he gave her a hug. “How’s your skiing coming along? Notice any difference now that you’re sixteen?”

“Sixteen doesn’t make any difference, Dad. But I have gotten better.”

“Is that so?” replied the president, glancing at Scot.

“Yes, sir, Mr. President. Amanda has come a long way this afternoon. I think she could take us all down Death Chute if she wanted to,” said Scot.

“Death Chute?” said Amanda. “You’ve gotta be nuts. I wouldn’t even snowplow down that thing!”

Several of the Secret Service agents laughed nervously. Death Chute was one of the most difficult of the off-piste chutes that fed back to the area where the presidential party was staying. The home the president was using was located in the ultraexclusive ski-in, ski-out Deer Valley community known as Snow Haven.

The Secret Service agents’ nervousness was well founded. Death Chute required a tremendous amount of skill to navigate and would have been a nerve-racking challenge for even the best of them. Not only were there lots of rocks and steep vertical drops, but as the piste began to flatten out before dropping off again, there was a wide plateau filled with trees.

Quite an accomplished skier, the president loved tackling a new chute each day on his way back to the house. He skied easy runs with his daughter in the mornings, and then they split up after lunch so he could ski the more difficult trails. The superchallenging, end-of-the-day chutes he had to choose from were technically known as backcountry and not part of Deer Valley’s marked and maintained trail system. Therefore, the chutes had not required a lot of work for the Secret Service to secure. All of the routes feeding into them were simply made off-limits to any other skiers.

As the president’s confidence grew, so did his desire to tackle harder chutes. The “rush” he got was a rewarding way to end the day. All of the chutes he had tried up to this point were grouped in one area. Death Chute stood alone, a bit further to the east, and the Secret Service knew it was only a matter of time before the president decided he wanted to give it a whirl.

The only person who could possibly have given him a run for his money on Death Chute was Scot, and he was skiing with Amanda’s detail today. Amanda would take the long, easy way down, as she had all week. That was okay. The last thing the president wanted was for his daughter to get hurt.

“So, honey,” began the president, “what do you think? You take the high road and I’ll take the low road, and I’ll be sippin’ hot chocolate afore ye?”

“I might beat you yet!” yelled Amanda as she gave herself a push and started shooting down the longer, yet safer of the two routes. Scot and the rest of his team smiled at the president’s group and took off, quickly catching up with Amanda. She seemed hell-bent on beating her father back to the house, an impossibility unless she dropped over the rim of the bowl and shot straight down. Even with her growing skill and confidence, Scot knew she wasn’t ready to tackle something that serious yet.

Amanda used her poles to push herself forward and picked up more speed. One of the agents skiing to the right of Scot shot him a look suggesting, Somebody’s cruisin’ for a bruisin’- and before Scot could return the look, Amanda caught an edge and tumbled down hard. First she lost a pole and then a ski, then the other pole and the other ski.

When she finally came to a stop, her gear was scattered across thirty feet of snow uphill from where she lay. Scot caught up to her as she stopped sliding.

“Impressive! If you’re gonna go, go big. That’s what I always say.”

Amanda was on the verge of tears, her pride hurting more than anything else.

“That’s not funny,” she said, sniffling.