Page 18 of Air Force One
“Article II, Section 1, Clause 8 of the US Constitution places no restrictions on who can administer the oath; anyone can technically swear you into office. It was once even done by a notary public, when Calvin Coolidge’s father swore him into office after word of President Warren G. Harding’s death reached him at his father’s home.”
“Anyone here a Notary Public?”
No one answered.
Miranda whispered in Andi’s ear, “Lizzy.”
But she must have done it too loudly as Lizzy turned to look at them and began shaking her head. “No, I can’t do it. Having it administered by the nominee for the next Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff would send the wrong message. Besides,” she waved a hand at the screen and mumbled softly, “Drake.”
Miranda recognized a sad face without her reference page. She’d been taught what to do about a sad face and said, “I’m sorry.”
Lizzy nodded.
Miranda then gave Andi just enough of a push forward that she took a step.
She was fairly sure that the look Andi half turned to give her was panic, but that couldn’t be right, because Andi never panicked except when attacked by her PTSD. And those attacks lay in her past.
“Uh, United States Army Captain Andi Wu (retired) willing to be of service, Madame President.”
“Elizabeth is right. It still implies a military stance I’m unwilling to promote directly due to recent events.” Sarah pointed at Miranda. She couldn’t duck behind Andi because she’d pushed Andi ahead. “At the moment there are precisely three non-military personnel in this bunker. It can’t be Felicia as she’s my Chief of Staff and I can’t swear myself in. You, Miranda are nominated. Someone find a Bible. Felicia, call CNN, FOX, and all the other majors. Get BBC, Al Jazeera, and anyone else you can think of. We go live in three minutes.”
Before turning to the phones, Felicia tossed her a hairbrush, which Sarah caught neatly. Oh, the blast of air in the PEOC’s entrance had made a mess of her hair.
Miranda tried to slip from the room three times. The first time Lizzy stopped her, the second time the scary-looking Indian woman named for the goddess of death and destruction, and the last time by her wife’s gentle hand, firmly taking her arm and guiding her to stand beside the President-to-be.
It didn’t make her feel any better that Meg had trotted along beside her each time, giving no indication that she sensed Miranda suffering an autistic meltdown. She wouldn’t mind having one rather that what she knew came next.
16
After the wedding, Holly and Mike had stayed with Jeremy and Taz in their Washington, DC, townhouse. They were enjoying a slow start to their morning. The post-wedding dinner in the White House Residence, too small to call it a reception or anything more formal, had run late. Food, alcohol, and memories had flowed freely among the small party.
“Can you believe that Clarissa was almost human?” After last night Holly just might be open to the possibility of the idea that she maybe only despised CIA Director Clarissa Reese’s merest existence rather than wishing her to die a painful and immediate death.
“She actually let her hair down.” Taz sounded as surprised as Holly was. Clarissa always wore such a severe ponytail that it made Holly’s temples ache every time she saw it. Instead, it had been a lovely towhead fall to the middle of her back that spoke far more of woman than of power.
“Maybe she’s mellowing with age. She actually spoke to me several times without any particularly vile insults.” Taz raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“It won’t last.” Holly knew that much. “But it did make for a change of pace.”
“I thought she was nice,” Jeremy was nursing his second cup of hot chocolate as they lounged in the living room.
IKEA-inspired, this was far more Holly’s style than anything she’d spotted in the White House. Of course, they’d added their own touches to it: all of Jeremy’s techy stuff balanced out by a major section of the local toy store. One of them was seriously mushy about their kids and she was betting it wasn’t Taz.
This morning, the four of them had taken it easy, except for Amy, Taz and Jeremy’s two-year-old. She might look like a miniature version of her petite four-foot-eleven Latina mother, but she had the energy of Taz and Jeremy combined, which was impossible to imagine until witnessed. Amy had run Mike ragged before collapsing against him for a midmorning naptime. Taz was nursing Davito, their second, and I swear last if I have to take a knife to Jeremy myself, child.
“I never pictured him with a kid in his arms.” Holly could feel herself smiling instead of sneering at Mike zonked out on the couch with a kid lying on his chest. He did look awfully sweet with the little black-haired girl curled up in his arms. She could imagine?—
“What the hell!”
Taz and Jeremy turned to look at her.
“Nothing. No way. Nuh-uh!”
Taz grinned at her. “You pictured it, didn’t you?”
“No. Absolutely not.” Yet she could see Mike not being a dad…but being a superdad, maybe even with a capital S. He’d been great with Amy all morning and?—
“Shit!”
