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The Schuyler Fortune V: Rose Down, Rose Home-9
I asked to use his telephone, called 411 for Richmond, Virginia and got the number of my only aunt, my dad's sister, Jean Wessel. The connection rang, and Aunt Jean's voice came over the line. "Hello, Jean Wessel!" she chirped.
"Aunt Jean, it's Jack."
"Oh goodness, Jack, is that you? We'd heard you were, well, injured. Are you OK now?"
"Getting better, Aunt Jean. Say, I won't keep you since I'm at the doctor's office and I've got a question for you."
"Do you remember me as a baby, Aunt Jean?"
"I was there when you were born, Jack. Your uncle John and I brought a bouquet of roses to your mother right after delivery. They smelled so good. Your dad was over the moon. He got his boy, you see."
I didn't but went on.
"Who took care of me when I was a baby?" There was a long silence on the other end of the line in Richmond.
"Your dad did, Jack. He fed you and dressed you and bathed you and took you to the doctor and went to your parent-teacher meetings and your baseball games until he, well... You see, your mom, well, really didn't have a maternal instinct, honey and well, that was a long time ago, right?"
A forced note of cheer entered her voice then, we finished the conversation and she wished me well.
"Don't be a stranger, Jack."
I didn't sleep at all that night. I didn't work the next day. Just catnapped. I had women that loved and cared for me. My dad had loved me. I had the old paternal instinct all right. I had lied to myself about my dad, no, strike that.
I had been mistaken about my dad for as long as I could remember, and a fatherly guy helped me figure that out. I cared deeply for my children, had almost lost track of them emotionally, but not really and couldn't wait to see them. Really see them and spend time with them.
Before I went out to the rose garden that day, I knelt by my bed and prayed to my `Father' in heaven to bless my wife and my kids and was able to trust Him to keep his promises.
The next day I called Dr. Smith and thanked him. I told him I needed to see my kids. I told him that I now knew who gave me the bath. He told me he was certain I could determine that but wasn't sure I would figure it out and said he was immensely proud of me.
I barely got off the phone before I started sobbing. Great, loud gulping cries of loss, of grief for wasted years hating my dad mixed with the slight beginnings of a hope to be normal again happened inside of me.
Out in the garden, I took a sniff of a particularly fragrant orange rose, wide open to the sun and at the peak of perfection, not a bud any longer, not beginning to wilt or fade. To my intense surprise, I had a physical reaction below the belt that hadn't happened, well, since that day in Morocco. It had been my favorite activity right up there with eating. For the first time since the attack, I felt stirrings down below that reminded me that Barbara might need me also. The tiger wasn't dead after all.
I thought she would like all of me now, in addition to that great part of me she already knew all about. I knew I liked me better.
In that instant, I couldn't wait to get back to my family. I married the best one and helped make the rest. When they looked at me, the kids saw their daddy, the only one they would ever know. My wife saw her lover—or darn soon would.
I remember running, actually sprinting back to the house, shedding gloves and hat, thinking what I would pack, how I might surprise them all. Rose, my foot!
I'd show them Rose...and raise them one.
I wasn't sure when the exact moment happened when I became absolutely convinced they couldn't live without me, but it might have been the same instant when I knew I couldn't live any more without them.
The President of the United States sat in the Oval Office with the Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defense and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. An urgent cable had arrived from the United States Ambassador to the Court of Saint James in London that required attention and a response.
Barbara listened carefully as the cable was re-read in her presence, thinking about the response, thinking that perhaps it ought to be proportionate, thought of threat or groveling perhaps, decided against either and the faintest whisper of an idea entered her mind, only to be dismissed as too dramatic to consider.
The new Prime Minister had selected the new Foreign Secretary of Great Britain after important political change in Britain, which had rattled global markets and raised more questions that it answered.
The man wasn't a diplomat and was fond of gaining attention through insult of other global leaders.
This cable had demanded removal of every American base on British and Scotland's soil forthwith unless certain trade concessions concerning the rivalry between Britain and the United States for European contracts was settled in Britain's favor.
"Dr. McCaffrey," said the President, "you studied our Defense needs in that region when you taught at Yale, I believe?"
He nodded. "Yes, the area remains vital to our interests especially now that Russian naval traffic has been noted and effectively monitored in the straits between Denmark and Sweden. Those straits determine access and egress from the Baltic whose waters bathe Russia near St. Petersburg."
"We already control egress from the Black Sea at the Bosporus. Russia sends military navel traffic to the North Sea and around Britain, not to mention the polar routes. We must continue to have good information about those movements."
"Any other input here from State, Natalie?"
"Other than our historical ties to the country, we don't seem to have the leverage we did have at one time there. They value our intelligence. They value our visitors. They value our cultural exchanges."
Barbara's eyes blinked, and the idea struck again. How about solving more than one problem at a time?
"I will make a decision today and call you."
The decision involved canceling the surprise visit to Jack in Oregon the next day, but she had to respond, and her plan seemed the best way for the circumstances.
The President made appropriate calls to the participants of the day's meeting at four p.m. They alternately gasped and chuckled at her plan. The Secretary of State was given a direct order about the trip and they both were asked to come along for the ride. As it turned out, they wouldn't have missed it for the world.
Air Force One swung east from Andrews Air Force Base a day later with Barbara, the Secretaries of State and Defense and Carol on board. Carol had left Hillsboro for Washington D.C. two days earlier to visit the kids and do some business in New York at the Museum. She had checked Michael's schedule and wangled tickets for three at an Il Divo concert that Michael, Marcus and she enjoyed.
Now on-board Air Force One, Carol had joined the President and her two Cabinet Secretaries for the trip to Great Britain. She had an appointment at the Palace and Rainier needed an extra day to follow her over.
Through the long evening, the President and her Secretaries of State and Defense rehearsed the steps in the plan.
The Ambassador to the Court of St. James was not informed of their impending arrival. He had to live with these people after the President went back to the United States. As far as they could tell, only one personage in Great Britain was aware of their impending arrival in London, since the air traffic controllers had no flight plan indicating that Air Force One was planning to drop in.
The Marines at the front gate of the American Embassy in London were always alert. That was their job. On the other hand, compared to say, Yemen, the probability of real surprise and action was not high on their expected duty list.
At precisely six a.m., a telephone call from the Secretary of State rang in the duty office of the Embassy alerting that officer to an event that shocked him intensely. As he understood it, his boss was standing at the front door of the embassy at this very moment with the President of the United States and party and requested him to tell the Marines, no, not to tell the Marines since apparently the Secretary of Defense was there too and telling them himself to `open the damn door or be fired'.
She tried to diplomatically paraphrase what he really said.
The duty officer, shaking, nervous, thinking he'd missed a cable or something, called the Marines to `open the citadel', called upstairs to the Ambassador, and got him out of his bed with the news. A predictable set of events ensued and after the dust settled and the inevitable questions were asked and answered, the Ambassador welcomed them to Great Britain.
He didn't have a choice really.
A small charwoman was going off duty on the night shift after she had polished and swept all night. She had two jobs, one as charwoman and the other as an 'eye on site' for the Prime Minister's office.
Her cell wasn't charged, there was a ticket on her car, her mother called an embassy number and relayed the message the baby had a rash and fever, and to please come get him, so the char's decision was to call Downing Street as soon as she got home through the expected morning rush.
No decision of hers was to ever have the same consequences again of which she knew.
Two limousines pulled up in front of Number 10 Downing Street within the next hour. Barbara Darnell emerged from one, walked over and rapped on the front door in front of an astonished policeman.
"You can't do that," he snapped, "and I don't..." His eyes opened wide, his skin a shade of off-white, "Oh, excuse me, Madam President, I didn't know..."
"I know," smiled Barbara. "I just dropped in. It's what friends do, you know."
The door opened, and the PM nearly fell over, still glorious in her night attire, looked out into the smiling eyes of Barbara Darnell and thought Barbara looked like she had just stepped out of a bandbox.
"Please come in, Madam President. Oh, my goodness, I'm afraid we weren't expecting you."
"I know, I know. Dropping in is so naughty but it's what friends do." To her credit, the PM smiled for a cameraman while nearly dragging Barbara inside.
"Our countries have been friends since just after George R wanted taxes on tea," said Barbara, "and I wanted to talk to you about this note I just got handed from Boris Johnson."
"What note is that? What has that wicked man done now?" The Prime Minister read the cable briefly and started to giggle.
"This is wonderful. We can sack his arse now, I think, with some justification and proof. I'm afraid he has both fallen below and risen too far above his pay grade on this one. I've wanted to see the man absolutely chastened and have lived to see the day."
"Oh, what a day! Can you stay for a cup of tea? I won't charge or tax you." The Prime Minister grinned. "The cook always has some fine scones or if Scottish oatmeal is your thing?"
"We will have what you are having."
"The menu I saw last night includes the usual, I'm afraid. The sideboard will groan with bangers, bacon, tomatoes, beans, mushrooms, rashers of raisin or white toast with butter and peach preserves, and the piece de resistance, because I'm the PM now and I like it, sticky toffee pudding for breakfast."
"We? Oh dear, did we slam the door on others in the car?" She sent an aide to haul them in. "Oh, jolly good. Make yourselves at home and I'll change into day clothes."
Two hours later, the problem solved and still great friends, the Prime Minister and the President shook hands for the cameramen and camerawomen, for a great mob of them had gathered. The crowd of Bobbies had also swelled to cover the occasion.
"Come back when you can, love! It's a standing invitation."
"And you to the White House anytime, dear. Thank you for letting us visit."
"Never you mind. That's what friends are for."
Air Force One flew back west with few hands and the cook. The four powerful Boeing 747 jet engines were lightly burdened. Even though facing a jet stream in the opposing direction, the work was easy for the engines. No reporters were on board. Just three passengers who had just saved vital information necessary for national security and avoided a trade war with an ally, the flight crew up front, the communications people upstairs, the Secret Service agents, the photographer, the chef and flight attendants. It had been a good day's work for the team, Barbara thought as once again she wondered about Jack.
Carol was glad she had Rainier shadow their flight over. She had an appointment with the King and Kate, who both appreciated art and other beautiful things. They had, after all, one of the largest collections of Caravaggio oils in the world right there at Buckingham Palace. She had not yet met Prince George, now grown and handsome, or Princess Charlotte, lively and cheerful.
A staff member at the palace, vaguely military in appearance, in uniform with medals and decorations, called Carol over to one side of a very large room.
"Madam, the palace has requested that I speak with you. I work for one of the departments of the government. The PM and the palace have talked a bit about your family's difficulty in Morocco. Would you be interested in an appointment this afternoon at the Ministry of Defence at three p.m.?"
He gave her an address to which she took a plain taxi that afternoon and arrived promptly.
Carol arrived by herself as requested; after her appointment she decided to forget what she saw there at the request of the palace...and because she didn't want to give it another thought.
She was led to a room filled with electronic equipment and video monitors and given a comfortable seat around a glass-topped conference table. The staff member seemed to be in charge of the meeting and a good deal more.
A video began. The view seemed to be blue sky, no clouds, a slight sensation of movement tilting right and left on occasion; a radioed voice or two sounded, to and from an unseen pilot in a jet high over somewhere. "Confirmed no friendlies in the area." Orders were being issued and checked. Someone said, "Permission to fire."
A quick flicker of the video screen and the monitor showed a button on a stick in a cockpit, a gloved finger pushed the button, a tiny jolt, "missile away clean", then more blue sky.
Another video flickered on, a switch to a steady view of a small Toyota pickup driving along a rough dry canyon floor and projected on that view were the hairs of a scope forming a target which followed the clear, now zoomed-in, view of a man driving the pickup. The staff member looked at Carol. "This is satellite live, ma'am."
Carol watched as a great fireball arose, then a cloud of dust, smoke, sand and rock fragments obscured the pickup. A moment later the shell of a pickup, ruined, black, empty, a few flames still flickering, no movement after five minutes.
The staff member stood, "I don't think that man will bother anyone again. We'd been looking for him with an eye to stop his particular talents."
Carol thanked him and left, thinking that consequences were consequences anywhere in the world.
She wanted to meet the with director of the British Museum, who was just working the final touches on `The Great Treasures of Monet' exhibition which included two of Carol's Monet oils from her temporary loan to the Prado in Madrid and four of her Monet paintings from the Schuyler Museum itself.
She felt tired and decided to skip the visit. Instead she called the director and asked if all was well with the exhibition. Assured all was and thanked for her loans which helped to complete it, she left London for Teterboro on Rainier.
Her legs ached a bit until she remembered to take her enteric-coated aspirin.
Carol was proud of her daughter who, after pulling out of the Evergreen Project, after losing her family, had used her steely resolve and resourcefulness learned during the process to `preserve, protect and defend'.
The Secretary of Defense, who had promised not to tell the story until he wrote his memoirs, thought later that somewhere between the list of lions Winston Churchill and Lady Thatcher should be inscribed the name of Barbara Darnell, President of the United States.
President Darnell was tired and cranky. She had not exactly caught up on sleep after the trip to Great Britain, had spent an hour with the Prime Minister of India sometime in the middle of the night over deteriorating relations with Sri Lanka and their cozy flirting with China, a fruitless conversation.
She now faced the White House Press Corps about what she planned to do about the refusal of the House to pass the latest education funding bill. Her initial thought was to tell them that the House could solve their own problems and where they could put them, but she knew how the game was played.
For some reason it seemed like every accredited correspondent in the world had packed the Press Briefing Room and it was hot under the lights and there were twice as many cameras as she was used to. Not one seat was empty. If she wasn't mistaken she saw some of her cabinet members in the back of the room and a huge bouquet of lovely, large, fragrant roses sat on a plinth near the podium. A recording of an orchestra playing her and Jack's song softly in the background came to her attention. What in the name of...
From behind the Podium, she saw all of the eyes in front of her pivot to the Presidential entry door, she saw, rather than heard, a rustle of excitement and her head just kind of turned and followed their eyes over there.
Jack stood just inside the door looking at her, only her, with a look only she knew about, head held high, eyes clear, hair combed, healthy, radiant even, tanned and—she didn't finish the evaluation.
They ran to each other and in conduct entirely becoming to the Presidency, they held each other as if they would never let go.
The clapping, the wolf whistles, the clicking and flashing of cameras, the raucous tumult just passed them by for a while before Barbara turned to the podium, raised her hands in a kind of victory sign and informed the Press that this briefing was over, since she had an unscheduled conference with the First Gentleman, followed by a briefing for the First Children.
A clueless international reporter cried out his need for an answer about Education funding. Barbara just looked at him, smiled and said she was pretty sure the House could solve the problem all by itself.
Arm in arm, Barbara and Jack left the Briefing Room.
Rose was home.