"Not on my watch."

"Even you can't do much about a virus. Did Admiral Wright talk to you about the medical team?"

"Not a word, why?"

"I guess he went ahead and put the team together himself. From now on, if you want to select the team to accompany us for travel in the States or overseas, you just go ahead and do it. I'll make sure ol' Ramrod doesn't get in your way."

"Mr. President," Treat Griswold called out, "I think we'd best get a move on."

"Gabe, on the ride up to Baltimore I've got to go over the speech that's just been written for me. I thought there might be time for us to gab during the trip, but no such luck. You can still ride in Stagecoach with us, or you can go in Spare, that's the other limo, if you want."

"Attention all posts," Gabe heard Griswold say from close by and also through his earpiece, "Maverick moving to Stagecoach. Departure imminent. Over… Okay, Doc, Mr. President, ready to roll?"

As Gabe stepped out into the bright sunlight, he couldn't help but be awed by the clutch of photographers and reporters lining the short walk to the motorcade, as well as by the motorcade itself, which, minus two limousines, was parked along the recently renovated stretch of Pennsylvania Avenue, closed to motorized traffic at all times except on occasions like this one. A dozen or more huge vans waited-nine- and twelve-seaters, Gabe guessed-along with eight D.C. motorcycle police on Harleys, with blue strobes flashing. In baseball, the glitter and crowds and private jets and plush clubhouses of the major leagues were often referred to collectively as The Show. At that moment, those words were the only description Gabe could think of.

The Show.

The two identical black Cadillac limousines were parked on the driveway that arced to the steps of the White House.

"Stagecoach is number one today," Griswold said, hurrying his party of three-Gabe, the president, and a young, lanky, bespectacled speech-writer introduced by Stoddard simply as Martin-to the lead limo.

As they reached the bottom of the staircase, over the roof of the limo Gabe caught sight of Tim Gerrity, an Air Force physician's assistant, whom he had gotten to know fairly well over the short time since his arrival at the White House and who seemed to know more medicine than most physicians but was unassuming enough not to show off. Gerrity was standing in front of what Gabe assumed was the medical van. Today the medical support team had been selected by Admiral Ellis Wright, but from now on, if Gabe so wished, the president had decreed he could pick his own team.

The notion led irrepressibly to thoughts of Alison Cromartie. Maybe somewhere down the line, if she managed to stick around and if things ever got straightened out with her, they could do one of these trips together. At that moment, as if on cue, Alison appeared beside Gerrity, talking amiably and gesturing to the van. Even at a distance, wearing a conservative navy blue pants suit, she stood out.

From the moment she pulled out her Secret Service ID after apparently saving his life, Gabe had gotten used to feeling bewildered and unsettled around her. Now, even at a distance, he felt awkward. Despite Ellis Wright's rant at her that evening in the medical office, the man apparently had enough regard for her to assign her to The Show.

Curious.

"Doc, come on. Duck on in here," Griswold ordered, standing by the open door to Stagecoach.

The last sound Gabe heard before he slid onto the seat across from Martin was the President of the United States coughing softly.

The last thing he saw, turning back toward the White House for one final look, was Vice President Thomas Cooper III, flanked by two Secret Service agents, looking down at them intently from the portico.

Signal depart. All posts: We have a departure of Maverick. Over." Treat Griswold lowered the sleeve transmitter and turned next to him where Gabe was sitting. "You doin' okay, Doc?"

"Aside from being a little afraid I'm going to stretch my legs and blow my foot off, I'm fine."

He gestured to the submachine gun that was lying on the floor of the limousine.

"I told them we should build a gun rack in the limos for these things," Griswold said.

"Or else make your shoulder holsters a lot bigger."

Martin Shapiro, the young speechwriter, glanced up from the passage on which he and the president had been working.

"I'm always looking for crisp, punchy lines, Doctor," he said. "Okay if I appropriate that one? If not for this speech, then for something down the road."

"I want to see it when you do," Gabe said.

"Here," Drew said, pointing to a spot in the manuscript. "Why make him wait? Right here where I'm talking about our Korean friend, President Jong, and his goddamn obsession with nuclear reactors. Let's say something like having him persistently claiming that the massive towers on our surveillance photos are for sewage treatment and not nuclear production is a little like our maintaining that the three-foot-long shoulder holsters we have just issued to the Secret Service-"

"Have nothing to do with submachine guns." Shapiro grinned as he finished the thought. "Give me a minute or two to get the wording and the timing right and I think we can use it."

"There you go, cowboy," Drew said. "Just like that, you're immortal."

"Just like that," Gabe said, genuinely impressed.

In spite of his long-standing friendship with the president, and the secrets he knew about Drew's mental imbalance and attacks of irrationality, throughout the ride from the White House to the Baltimore Convention Center, Gabe could not help but bask in the true greatness of the man.

Maverick.

Gabe knew the moniker had been chosen because Drew had been a stellar pilot. But now Gabe found himself thinking about the original meaning of the word-the meaning everyone from Wyoming understood: a range animal, usually a calf or steer, who had left the herd and would belong to the first person who could manage to capture and brand it. Over time, the meaning had been expanded to include people-specifically, a dissenter, who refused to abide by the dictates of a group.

It was an awesome privilege to watch and listen as Drew and his writer sculpted a speech that would be delivered to only two hundred or so well-heeled supporters but would be heard, instantly, around the world. The main focus this day was foreign relations, but over the course of the thirty-minute presentation Drew would touch on a number of the accomplishments of his first term in office, the progress that was being made in his Vision for America program, and several failures of the Dunleavy administration, which had preceded his. He would even manage somewhere along the line to comment on the evolving miracle of the Baltimore Orioles and Washington Nationals, local teams still leading their respective divisions in baseball and possibly headed to a million-to-one long-shot World Series match-up.

By the time the motorcade turned off Route 395 and headed into Baltimore, Gabe felt more committed than ever to get to the bottom of Drew's bizarre breaks with reality and to keep him in office if at all possible. A good deal of Gabe's resolve still depended on the findings and conclusions of Kyle Blackthorn, but as things stood, invoking the Twenty-fifth Amendment and effectively elevating Tom Cooper from running mate to presidential candidate was not a move he was going to make.

It wasn't as if the vice president had made that terrible an impression on him, although it did seem a bit naïve for a man of his stature to expect the president's doctor to share any information about his patient's medical condition. It was more that Cooper was just… eager. That was the most descriptive word Gabe could think of at the moment. Eager.