Page 14 of The First Gentleman
CHAPTER 10
National Mall
C ole Wright unfastens his seat belt before the Secret Service Suburban comes to a halt on the National Mall in the center of Washington.
On the hard-packed gravel lanes, DC bureaucrats are heading home after long hours at work, and tourists of all nationalities are gawking at the capital’s impressive collection of stone and marble monuments to this magnificent country’s lofty dreams of democracy.
Most of those dreams are routinely dashed, of course—despite the efforts of the present administration.
Cole steps out with his Secret Service detail and leads them in some quick stretches.
Then they start running east at a medium jog.
A young female agent falls in beside him, matching his pace, her ponytail flipping from side to side.
Her name is Leanne Keil and this is her regular assignment, so Cole has made it a point to remember not only her name but her impressive achievements on the NC State track team.
There’s no chance of his speeding away from an athlete who ran the two-hundred in twenty-one seconds.
As they pass Constitution Gardens, the illuminated obelisk of the Washington Monument looms into view on the right.
Behind them, the Suburban is already merging back into traffic on Constitution Avenue to join the other armored vehicles circling the Mall for his protection.
Cole looks like your average middle-aged guy out running with his daughter or his personal trainer, but it’s all choreographed.
No one sees the carefully positioned special agents among the pedestrians on the Mall and the sniper teams on the roof of the Smithsonian National Museum of African Art and the National Gallery.
Four miles away, at Reagan National Airport, a pair of helicopters—one carrying trauma doctors and nurses, the other filled with heavily armed members of the Secret Service counterassault team—are poised and ready to take off and fly to the Mall.
In the very first days of Maddy’s term, Cole had pushed back hard about Secret Service protocols around his evening exercise.
“I can walk to the Mall and back in thirty minutes!” he argued, adding that Harry Truman took daily walks outside the White House.
No way, the Secret Service supervisor, mindful of cell phones, tracking software, and terrorists, had told him.
Too open, too vulnerable, no quick means of escape.
“Sir, you can run any route you want—with our transport and protection.”
Now Cole picks up the pace.
Despite the January chill, he’s starting to sweat a little under his blue windbreaker, and it feels good.
Here and there, people point and whisper.
Others hold up their cell phones.
Cole nods if somebody waves to him, but he never draws attention by waving back.
As he runs, Cole brushes a round embroidered patch on the front of his windbreaker.
It has the seal of the United States with six stars, and the lettering around it reads PRESIDENT’S COUNCIL ON PHYSICAL FITNESS .
It’s vintage, more than sixty years old, from the JFK era.
In the early days of Maddy’s presidency, Cole had struggled to identify his role.
He’d spent hours with Burton Pearce, his onetime college housemate and now the president’s chief of staff, trying to determine where he should put his focus.
Cole was clear on one point.
“Burton, I want a job.”
Burton chuckled.
“See all these folders on my desk? Every single one represents a congressperson or senator who says they were mistaken in opposing your wife for president. They’re apologizing and making nice because they want jobs in her administration—and jobs for their assorted nieces and nephews. And I’m going to take great pleasure in telling them no.”
“Nicely, of course,” Cole said.
“Now back to me.”
Pearce sighed.
“You, Cole, already have a full-time job. First Gentleman.”
“That’s not a job,” said Cole.
“Okay, then,” said Burton, “what do you want to do? Every presidential spouse I can think of had some kind of special mission.” He ticked them off on his fingers.
“Jackie Kennedy was a supporter of the arts. Lady Bird was into highway beautification. Nancy Reagan had ‘Just Say No.’ Laura Bush was all about literacy. Michelle Obama was into nutrition—”
“Right,” said Cole.
“Here’s my mission.” He reached into his pocket and tossed a circular cloth patch onto Burton’s desk.
Burton picked it up.
“What the hell is this?”
“Read it.”
Burton held the patch up and squinted.
“‘President’s Council on Physical Fitness.’” He worked it between his fingers.
“This is a relic. From the JFK era.”
“Exactly my point,” said Cole.
“A relic. I want to resurrect it. Make it mine, officially. That’s what I want as my mission.”
Burton tossed the patch down.
“Why this?”
“Burton, you and I have been on the campaign trail together,” said Cole.
“You know that whenever I’m in front of some group, nine times out of ten, they want to talk about my football career. They never ask me about trade balances, voting rights, or foreign affairs. I’ve got a megaphone now and I want to use it to get America off its collective ass.”
Burton passed the old badge back to him.
“Doesn’t something like this already exist?”
“In name only,” said Cole.
“JFK was smart enough to focus on physical fitness. Over the years, the program got watered down. Special-interest groups changed its name and mission, and now it’s a goddamn mutant—the President’s Council on Sports, Fitness, and Nutrition. And it’s pretty much dormant. Give it to me and I’ll wake it up, bring it back to its roots, and get things done.”
Burton rubbed his temples.
“There’s a certain symmetry to this. Vital, attractive president replaces the stodgy old guard. Gets America moving. Happened in 1960…” Burton sat quietly for a few seconds.
“Okay, but you run your programs and speeches by me. Clear?”
Cole waved the badge like a talisman.
“This will work. Trust me.”