Dale left Peter’s place so late she almost missed the Sunday newscast. She didn’t know exactly when they’d leave for Afghanistan, but she was pretty sure she wouldn’t get to spend time with Peter again before she left. When he’d gotten up to make coffee, she’d followed him to the kitchen. They’d sat on the couch together under a blanket and held hands while they stared at the Sunday morning talk shows.
He’d walked her out to the car and held her to him before she left.
“I don’t want to go now,” Dale had said, clinging to him.
“I’ll see you when you get back. You’re going to be fine. It’s going to be amazing. You’re going to be amazing.”
He’d kissed her on the forehead and opened the driver’s-side door. Dale had climbed in, put on her seatbelt, and started the car. Tears had run down her face as she pulled out of the driveway. She wanted to race back inside and assure Peter that she would be fine—that they would be fine.
She made it to the newsroom in time to read through her scripts once while she had her hair and makeup done. She pulled an emerald-green jacket on over black slacks and a black silk tank. She raced into the anchor chair with bare feet twenty seconds before the show started.
“Good Sunday evening,” she said with her dazzling smile. “Violence rocked Afghanistan again today. Our chief foreign-affairs correspondent has the story.”
While Dale was on the air, the White House press secretary called and left a message with details about the trip: “We’ll leave from the White House immediately following the correspondents’ dinner Wednesday night. You’ll ride in the president’s motorcade from the dinner, and then we’ll put you guys in a car that’ll take you out to Andrews. Bring whatever you need to the press office Wednesday morning before five A.M. Call us back if you have any questions.”
Dale rushed to the airport after the newscast to catch the last shuttle to D.C. She called Peter on the way and was relieved to get his voice-mail.
“We go Wednesday. I will call you tomorrow. Love you,” she said.
Dale spent her two days off shopping and packing for the trip.
She stopped by the Patagonia store in Georgetown to look for a thin fleece to fit under her flak jacket. Dale pulled three different sizes and colors and was changing into them in front of a full-length mirror near the back of the store when she saw Stephanie Taylor, Roger’s wife, looking at men’s fleece vests.
She caught her eye and waved.
“Hi, Mrs. Taylor,” Dale said. “Dale Smith. I interviewed you about a year ago about your work with injured vets.”
“Of course, we watch you every night, or I watch you every night. It’s not like Roger’s ever home at that hour,” she said, smiling tightly. “He’s usually off saving the world with Charlotte.”
“I’m so glad you watch. I imagine it’s been a very busy time for Secretary Taylor,” Dale said.
“Yes, he keeps saying it will slow down, but I haven’t seen any evidence of that,” Stephanie said.
Dale smiled sympathetically. Everyone liked Stephanie Taylor. She was the most politically active spouse of any defense secretary in history. She served as an advocate for various veterans’ groups and had testified on Capitol Hill about the need to provide funds for spouses and children of injured troops so they could afford to stay in town while their loved ones recovered at the area’s military hospitals.
“Can I tell you something super-secret and ask you not to tell anyone, not even your husband?” Dale asked Stephanie.
“If I couldn’t keep a secret, people like you would know it by now,” Stephanie said.
“I’m going on the trip this week,” Dale whispered. She’d been given strict instructions not to tell anyone, not even her family, but Roger always accompanied Charlotte to the war zones, so Dale assumed Stephanie knew.
“This week?” Stephanie asked.
“Yes, Wednesday night,” Dale said.
Stephanie looked puzzled.
“I was told by the press office that Roger was a late addition but that he’d decided to come on the trip this week to be there for meetings with his counterpart. Did I get that wrong?” Dale asked.
“The White House press office or the Pentagon press office?” Stephanie asked.
“The White House,” Dale said.
“Of course,” Stephanie said.
Now Dale was confused. Maybe Stephanie was pretending not to know because it was forbidden to discuss the president’s travel to the region.
“I’m sorry. I understand that you can’t say anything. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I could get in a lot of trouble. Please don’t tell Secretary Taylor,” Dale begged. “If they think I broke the confidentiality agreement, they could cancel the entire trip because of me.”
Stephanie regained her composure and put one arm around Dale’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything. Is this your first time?”
“Yes.”
“Then you need some of these,” Stephanie advised, walking Dale over to the heavy-duty hiking boots. “Your feet will bleed the first day, but after that, they’ll fit like a glove.”
“Thanks,” Dale said, picking up a pair in her size.
“Be safe over there,” Stephanie told her.
“Will do. And I’d love to interview you again about the work you do for veterans.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Stephanie smiled, waving over her shoulder as she left the store.
Dale paid for her boots and fleece. She was furious at herself for opening her big mouth. Stephanie’s reaction had been so strange that she double-checked the coded message the White House press office had sent her the day before when she’d asked who was traveling to Afghanistan. It simply read: “In response to your q, POTUS, SEC DEF, dep. COS, NSA, MIL AIDES and Pool.” Translated, the list meant that the president, the secretary of defense, the deputy chief of staff, the national security advisor, military aides, and the press pool were all making the trip.
When she got home, she packed and repacked her bag a dozen times and then lay in bed checking and rechecking the two alarms set for three A.M. She was too nervous to sleep. She was already in the shower when the alarms went off. She dressed carefully in a black Akris suit with a purple blouse underneath—the first of three outfit changes before taking off for Afghanistan that night. The black suit was for her live shots on the seven A.M. and the six-thirty P.M. newscasts. A bright pink strapless gown went into a garment bag for the correspondents’ dinner, and a pair of jeans and a turtleneck sweater were folded and stowed in a tote bag for the flight to Afghanistan. She pulled a coat on over her suit and carried her bags down to the garage.
Dale drove the two miles to the White House and approached the security barricade on E Street where the press office had told her to enter. She rolled down her window, and a Secret Service agent in a black jumpsuit approached.
“Hi. I’m supposed to park on the driveway and drop some things off for transport to Andrews,” she said.
“ID, please,” he said.
She handed him her D.C. driver’s license.
“Pull up to that spot there, and turn off the motor, please,” he said.
Dale did as she was told and held her breath while a large German shepherd sniffed her car and examined the contents of her trunk. There was no reason to hold her breath, but the process was nerve-racking.
“Head up to the next gate, and show him your ID, Miss Smith,” the agent said.
“Thank you,” Dale said.
The large black pillars lowered into the ground, and she drove onto the closed street and toward the next security checkpoint. She was cleared for entry at the next gate and waited while a large iron fence swung open. She drove inside the White House complex and parked in an open spot. She pulled her bag out of her trunk and walked over to a white van, where she saw a couple of reporters she recognized doing the same thing.
“Good morning,” she said to them.
“Morning,” they replied.
Dale left her bag and walked to the spot on the front driveway of the White House where she’d give a report for that day’s morning news show. She had plenty of time before her live shot, so she decided to walk across the street for coffee.
She checked her cell phone and saw a text from Peter: “I will see u at the dinner 2nite.”
“Really? What happened?” Dale responded.
“Ralph must want to improve Charlotte’s poll numbers among sports fans,” Peter wrote back.
“I’ll be the one in pink,” Dale texted.
“I’m sure you’ll be hard to miss,” Peter wrote.
Dale smiled and put her phone back into her purse. She ordered a mocha and sipped it slowly as she walked back toward the front lawn of the White House. She laughed to herself as she thought about an alternative report for her morning live shot: “Today, the president will accompany her cheating husband to the White House correspondents’ dinner, where she will pretend to enjoy the company of her disrespectful and annoying press corps. Immediately following the dinner, President Kramer will get into a motorcade, where the slut her husband is sleeping with will ride in a car behind her to Andrews Air Force Base. From there, President Kramer will sneak out of Washington en route to Afghanistan.”
Dale laughed at her own dark humor and took another sip of coffee. The sugar and caffeine were hitting her system and warming her from the inside out. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten.
She bounced through her morning live shot and the rest of her day. The president’s schedule included a meeting with her economic team to discuss the challenges facing small businesses, an event honoring Women’s Heart Health Month, and a meeting with the British prime minister.
After her live report for the evening newscast, Dale went into the ladies’ room in the West Wing of the White House and stepped into the floor-length pink gown. Layers of fabric skimmed her body. She slid into a pair of heels and stuffed her cell phone and BlackBerry into her evening bag. A few of the correspondents shared a car to the Washington Hilton. They arrived seconds before all roads were closed to accommodate the arrival of the president’s motorcade.
The White House correspondents’ dinner was jokingly referred to as Washington’s “Prom Night.” Reporters, not known for their devotion to fashion or style, donned formal attire one night a year, and many tried to pull off looks that didn’t flatter their figures or the decade. The president, not known for her affection for the press that beat her up day in and day out, had to attend hours of cocktail receptions followed by a four-hour dinner in which her success would be determined by how hard she made them laugh. She’d also have to endure a comedy act by some B-list celebrity who would tell a new version of the same jokes they told every year about Charlotte wearing the pants in her marriage and scaring the crap out of everyone from her husband to her Cabinet.
No wonder Charlotte can’t wait to get to the war zone, Dale thought to herself.
She passed through the metal detectors and made her way to her table. Billy was already there.
“You ready for tonight?” he whispered.
“I think so. Thanks for making them take me,” Dale whispered back, hugging him warmly. He was her biggest champion at the network, and his close relationship with Melanie had come in handy more than once.
“They’re lucky to get you. I told Melanie that if anything happens to you, I’ll kill her,” Billy said in a low voice.
“You got a custom-fitted flak jacket, right?” Billy whispered in her ear.
Dale nodded.
“Take care of yourself over there, Dale. I need you in one piece.” Billy hugged Dale again before turning to greet the secretary of the treasury, who was seated on his other side.