speed.
Gunner scanned the horizon ahead of them. He was the spotter, and he had to keep his eyes sharp and his head on a swivel, as his dad liked to say. They had been out together fishing three times earlier in the spring, but they hadn’t caught anything. When you went fishing and you didn’t catch anything, Dad called that being “on the snide.” Right now, they were on the snide big time.
In a few moments, Gunner spotted some splashes in the middle distance off the starboard quarter. Some white terns were diving, dropping like bombs into the water.
“Hey, look!”
His dad nodded and smiled.
“Stripers?”
Dad shook his head. “Bluefish.” Then he said, “Hold on.”
He gunned the engine and soon they were skimming, skittering, still picking up speed, as the boat got up on plane with Gunner nearly thrown backwards. A minute later, they eased up to the thrashing whitewater, the boat came off plane, and they settled back into the swells.
Gunner grabbed the two long fishing rods with the single hooks. He handed one to his dad and then cast his line without waiting. Almost instantly, he felt a tug, a heavy pull. A wild liveliness came into the rod now, vibrating with life. Some unseen force nearly yanked the rod out of his hands. The line snapped and went slack. The bluefish had broken him off. He turned to tell his dad, but the old man was hooked up now too, his rod bent double.
Gunner grabbed a net and got ready. The bluefish – silver and blue and green and white and very, very angry, was hoisted from the water and into the cockpit.
“Nice fish.”
“A slump breaker!”
The bluefish flopped on deck, caught in the green mesh of the hand net.
“Will we keep him?”
“No. He gets us off the snide, but we’re here for stripers. Blues are exciting, but striped bass are bigger and they’re better on the grill, too.”
They released the fish – Gunner watched as his dad seized the still-jerking, snapping bluefish, and removed the hook, his fingers just inches from those hungry teeth. His dad dropped the fish over the side, where with a quick tail whip, it headed for the deep.
No sooner had the fish disappeared than his dad’s phone started to ring. His dad smiled and looked at the phone. Then he put it aside. It buzzed and buzzed. After a while, it stopped. Ten seconds passed before it started ringing again.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Gunner said.
His dad shook his head. “No. In fact, I’m going to turn my phone off.”
Gunner felt a surge of fear in his stomach. “Dad, you have to answer it. What if it’s an emergency? What if the bad guys are taking over again?”
His dad stared at Gunner for a long second. The phone stopped buzzing. Then it started again. He answered it.
“Stone,” he said.
He paused and his face darkened. “Hi, Richard. Yes, Susan’s chief-of-staff. Sure. I’ve heard of you. Well, listen. You know I’m taking some time off, right? I haven’t even decided if I’m still on the Special Response Team, or whatever it’s called now. Yes, I understand, but there’s always something urgent. No one ever calls me at home and tells me it isn’t urgent. Okay… okay. If the President is serious that she wants a meeting, then she can call me personally. She knows where to reach me. Okay? Thanks.”
When his dad hung up, Gunner watched him. He didn’t look like he was having as much fun as just a minute ago. Gunner knew that if the President called, his dad would quickly pack his bags and go somewhere. Another mission, maybe more bad guys to kill. And he would leave Gunner and his mom home alone again.
“Dad, is the President going to call you?”
His dad ruffled Gunner’s hair. “Monster, I sure hope not. Now what do you say? Let’s go get some stripers.”
Hours later, the President still hadn’t called.
Luke and Gunner had caught three nice stripers, and Luke showed Gunner how to gut, clean, and filet them. It was old ground, but repetition was how you learned. Becca even got into the act, bringing a bottle of wine out to the patio and setting a cheese and cracker plate on the outdoor table.
Luke was just firing up the grill when the phone rang.
He looked at his family. They had frozen on the first ring. He and Becca made eye contact. He couldn’t read what was in her eyes anymore. Whatever it was, it was not supportive approval. He answered the phone.
A deep voice, a man: “Agent Stone?”
“Yes.”
“Please hold for the President of the United States.”
He stood numb, listening to blank air.
The phone clicked and she came on. “Luke?”
“Susan.”
His mind flashed back to an image of her, leading the entire country, and much of the world, in singing “God Bless America.” It was an amazing moment, but that’s all it was, a moment. And it was the kind of thing politicians were good at. It was practically a parlor trick.
“Luke, we’ve got a crisis on our hands.”
“Susan, we always have a crisis on our hands.”
“Right now, I am up to my ass in alligators.”
Nice. He hadn’t heard that one in a while.
“We’re going to have a meeting. Here at the house. I need you there.”
“When is the meeting?”
She didn’t hesitate. “In an hour.”
“Susan, with traffic, I’m two hours away. That’s on a good day. Right now, half the roads are still closed.”
“You won’t be sitting in traffic. There’s a helicopter on the way to you now. It’ll be there in fourteen minutes.”
Luke looked at his family again. Becca had poured herself a glass of wine and sat faced away from him, staring toward the late afternoon sun sinking toward the water. Gunner stared down at the fish on the grill.
“Okay,” Luke said into the phone.
CHAPTER SIX
6:45 p.m.
United States Naval Observatory – Washington, DC
“Agent Stone, I’m Richard Monk, the President’s chief-of-staff. We talked on the phone today.”
Luke had come off the Naval Observatory helipad five minutes before. He shook hands with a tall, fit-looking guy, maybe late-thirties, probably right around Luke’s age. The man wore a blue dress shirt with sleeves rolled up his forearms. His tie hung askew. His upper body was scientifically muscular, like in an ad for Men’s Health.
