Chapter 39
Vice President George Gordon crawled out of bed quietly, pausing to stare down at his wife's naked body sprawled across the bed. The slight smile that lifted the corners of Harriet's sleeping lips showed a deep satisfaction that, until just a few weeks ago, he had never expected to see again.
He glanced at the clock. 3:02 a.m. He felt new, strong, young. He felt more alive now than he had since his early twenties.
Passing out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, he stared across the sink at his reflection in the mirror. How good it felt to see that old vigor back in his eyes, to feel the muscles beneath his skin. It was like being back at the Naval Academy once more, getting psyched up for the Army-Navy game that weekend. He could almost hear his fellow midshipmen raising their voices, cheering their team on toward the coming victory.
Looking back now on the last several weeks, George Gordon thanked his lucky stars. Better yet, his intuition. Something had pulled him to Los Alamos to check on Dr. Stephenson’s progress. Something had made him pressure the deputy director into showing him more. And Dr. Stephenson had responded.
Once he had learned about the second alien technology, the old Gordon recklessness had taken over, leading him to insist that Stephenson inject him with the gray fluid. In hindsight, it had been madness, a madness borne of desperation at his deteriorating heart, at the loss of the vitality that made him who he was. Thank God for that madness.
Reaching into the medicine cabinet, Vice President Gordon retrieved a pair of tweezers. Setting them on the vanity, he moved across to the cabinet atop which a small picture frame stood, a recent image of he and his wife at the inaugural ball. Moving the picture onto the vanity and retrieving the tweezers, he began carefully plucking hairs from his high forehead, removing the new growth to match his preexisting receding hairline. It would never do to let the press discover such an obvious difference in his body, at least not yet.
Throwing on his robe, George grabbed his cell phone and moved out into the hallway, heading for his office. As he dialed, a thin smile twitched his lips. One of the pleasures of power was the ability to wake your chief of staff in the middle of the night, just because you felt like it.
The phone rang three times before Gordon’s chief of staff picked up, his voice still thick with sleep when he answered. “Hello? Carl Palmer.”
“Carl, this is George.”
On the other end of the line, the vice president’s chief of staff cleared his throat. “Yes? What can I do for you, Mr. Vice President?”
George Gordon’s grin widened. Now he knew that the man was struggling to wakefulness, having used the formal salutation that he normally dispensed with in dealings with his boss.
“Carl, I need you to look up something for me real quick. When am I scheduled for my next physical examination over at Walter Reed?”
“Just a second, I’ll check.” The phone clattered as Carl set down his receiver. A minute later, he returned. “I have you down for an appointment on February fourteenth.”
“Valentine’s Day? Those doctors over there are getting a little funny with their heart jokes, don’t you think?”
“It could be a coincidence.”
“Uh-huh. Carl, you don’t believe that for a second, and neither do I. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I want you to cancel it. With all that’s going on in the world right now, I don’t want to be out of the loop, even for a day.”
“Sir, do you really think that’s wise?” A note of concern sounded in Palmer's voice.
“Carl, I feel fine. Once things settle down, they can prod me to their hearts’ content. For right now, though, make the call.”
“Okay. I’ll do it this morning. Anything else, sir?”
“No. I think I’ve bothered you enough for one night. Go back to sleep, Carl.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Good night, sir.”
“Good night, Carl.”
As he clicked off his phone, the vice president leaned back in his chair, hearing the creak of soft leather as he settled all the way into it. You just couldn’t beat the feel of Italian leather.