Chapter 8

Bob was impressed at the efficiency of the Secret Service, which got the president into a cart and to the first tee within two minutes of the limo's arrival at the course. There were two men with him, but Bob didn't know who they were. That wasn't in the mission brief.

The president teed off of tee number one within six minutes of getting out of his limo. Bob dutifully clicked his mouse, and the crosshairs of camera four on sat number 5672 followed what to Bob's eyes were the invisible ball, as it flew down the fairway. When it stopped moving, the computer beeped and Bob zoomed in until he could see the distinctly colored ball.

He glanced in the corner of the screen and muttered the numbers he saw there into the microphone of his headset. "Got it," came a disembodied voice in his ear. Maybe thirty seconds later a pair of shoes appeared on each side of the president's ball, protecting it from foreign governments, assassins, or other ne'er-do-wells.

Bob zoomed back out. The other two players hit, one after the other. Their balls didn't get tracked.

The cart carrying the most powerful man in the free world zoomed to where his ball was safe and secure under an armed guard. He grasped the club somebody handed to him and hit the ball again. The computer followed that ball, and Bob reported its GPS location to a Secret Service Agent on the ground. He didn't zoom in this time, since that wasn't actually necessary to determine its position. He saw a no doubt fit young man running for the ball. Bob wondered if he had seen where it fell, or was watching the screen of a handheld GPS device while he ran.

"You got this?" Jim's voice was disgusted, which made Bob feel a little better.

"I won't get either of us fired," said Bob.

"Thanks. I owe you."

"I'll remember that."

"You need anything? I don't want you to leave the console until they're done, or until either Steve or I relieve you."

"Yeah, bring me a Coke and some chips. And a calculator."

"Calculator?"

"I'm going to try to figure out how many hundreds of thousands of dollars it costs every time the president hits a golf ball."

"Har-de-har-har," said Humphreys. "You can starve. Do it long hand."

He left. Bob turned the hallway feedback on. All he really had to do was listen for the computer to tell him the president's ball had moved. He got something to eat while the other two were catching up to the man, and almost screwed up when a new ball was brought into play for the president to putt with.

He decided that, once the ball was on the green, the fifteen Secret Service agents surrounding said property were probably capable of seeing where it went without his assistance.

Twice, he wished somebody might actually be hiding in the woods with a sniper rifle.

The first was when the ball landed in the rough, near the trunk of a tree on the side of the fairway. Bob couldn't see the ball, because the crown of the tree obscured it. But the computer knew where the ball was, because it didn't use sight to track it. At least not sight in the visible wavelengths. The balls the president was using on this particular day had been dipped in a chemical solution that made them just radioactive enough that the satellite could see them. It wasn't more than twice the radiation in an old fashioned watch with a radium dial, so nobody was in any danger.

"The president insists his ball was moved from where it originally landed," came the voice in his earphone.

"Nope," said Bob. "It hasn't moved since it stopped moving after he hit it."

"He says it should be a yard closer to the fairway," said the voice. "Actually in the fairway, I mean."

"A billion dollar KH-11 satellite says he's wrong," said Bob, trying not to let his disgust bleed into his voice.

There was silence, but then the computer beeped, and then beeped again as the ball was moved one yard south south west.

"You gotta be kidding me," said Bob. "The president of the United States cheats at golf?"

"Shut the fuck up," came a whispered voice in his ear.

The next time Bob had thoughts the Secret Service would have investigated him for was when the shot sliced hard, and ended up thirty-five feet into the woods. He dutifully reported the position.

"It's in the woods. We weren't able to see where it went."

"That's why I'm giving you its GPS coordinates," said Bob.

"We've always been able to see where it went before," complained the voice.

"You mean you're spending a quarter billion dollars of the taxpayers' money for me to tell you something you're not even listening to?"

"I'm listening now, motherfucker. Give me those numbers again."

"Just throw out another fucking ball on the edge of the fairway," suggested Bob.

"We have to recover that ball," said the Secret Service agent. "We can't afford for anybody to find it and put the fucking thing on EBay."

It turned out nobody had practiced with the GPS device. In the end, Bob had to lock on to another ball and have an agent hold it while Bob guided him to the missing ball.

Thankfully, Steve Campinelli relieved Bob and took over at 1600. He had already been briefed by Jim Humphreys, who was still there. Bob later found out Steve only had to work an hour on the golf game, because the president only had time for nine holes.

He knew he should sleep. He only had eight hours off. But after the golf debacle, he needed to talk to Riley so he'd think about her instead of what was still making him mad. Maybe then he could sleep.

He didn't want to use government assets to Skype, so he ducked out to a little restaurant a couple of blocks up the street from the agency building. They had wifi, and he was able to get a booth in the back where he could sit where nobody could see the screen.

By the time he "dialed," it was five in the evening, D.C. time, which meant it was three PM in Colorado. Luckily, Riley was at her computer working, so when Skype alerted her to his presence she opened her screen immediately.

It turned out she was still dressed the same as the last time he saw her. He didn't know that immediately, because all he could see was her head and upper chest, but it was obvious she wasn't wearing anything with shoulder straps.

"Are you ever a sight for sore eyes," he sighed.

"Really? Did you see me earlier?" She grinned.

"I did," he said. "You're the only reason I'm sane right now."

"So you liked it?"

"You're kidding," he laughed. "You even have to ask?"

"I'm still wearing it," she said, suddenly coy. "Wanna see me again?"

"Desperately!" he gulped, leaning forward.

She stood up and moved back, suddenly revealing her body from the thighs up. She held her arms out, as if posing, and then brought her hands to cover her breasts. She moved toward the computer and sat back down.

"It's amazing how different it is to show you in my back yard, versus right here on the computer," she said.

"You are very brave," he said.

"Oh, I don't think you'd do anything to hurt me," she said.

"That's not what I'm talking about," he said. "I think you're brave because if I'd actually had the heart attack I thought I was having, you'd have had to call 911 and tell them you caused it and where I was and to come save me and all that."

She laughed. "You always make me feel so good, Bob."

"I can't tell you how you make me feel," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm in a restaurant, and the patrons would call the police," he said.

"You let me do that in front of people?!" she squealed.

"Nobody saw you," he said, urgently. "I'm in a booth, in the back, where nobody can see."

"You better be," she said. Suddenly she was coy again. "Am I pretty?"

"You know you're gorgeous," he said. "Don't fish for compliments. I'm just really glad you were there."

"Because I'm almost naked?"

"No, because you're you. I had a terrible day at work, and I needed something nice to think about so I could get to sleep."

"And I rate as nice?"

"You have no idea," he said. "You rate as life-saving wonderful." He grinned. "Plus you look great naked too."

"Almost naked," she said, archly.

"Almost naked," he agreed.

"Maybe I'll be all naked tomorrow when I lay out," she teased.

"I won't be at work then," he reminded her. "Next time I'll be able to see you is 1600 day after tomorrow."

"Sixteen hundred?"

"Two O'clock PM your time, Monday," he said.

"I won't be laying out naked at two O'clock PM, Monday," she said. Why don't you just Skype me. It's so much easier."