The President's Daughter

By Herb Field

The twentyish daughter of the President of the United States is kidnapped by local rebels with international ties on a good-will trip to Chad in northern Afria in a Cold War-era thriller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Herb Field
• Release date: Jun 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452476315

Herb Field

Herb Field is a retired newspaper editorial writer living in Pennsylvania.

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The President’s Daughter

Published by Herb Field at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Herb Field

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Cover design by Laura Shinn

THE PRESIDENT'S DAUGHTER

Chapter One

Julian Dunbar was 30,000 feet above the Atlantic cruising toward the Dark Continent at close to 600 knots and except for the comfort of the cool drink in his hand he was feeling thoroughly miserable. Further back in the cabin of Air Force 2, the president's daughter was holding court to the delight of the accompanying women reporters and her personal staff. Every 30 seconds the group collapsed into laughter and giggles, which brought a wince from Dunbar and another sip of his drink.

Julian, won't you come join us? Dunbar recognized the voice and its calculated measure of pleading and sarcasm. He raised his hand over his head and waved it back at the voice, and then drained his drink. He went forward for a refill. When he came back she was sitting in his seat with her seductively impish grin at full power. Dunbar was tempted to tell her what a smashing piece of work she was, but bowed to his inherent respect for rank and sat down in the seat beside the president's daughter without comment.

I hope you're not intending to get drunk, Julian. I think my father arranged to have you on the trip so you would keep an eye on me.

Well, that's easy enough to do, he said, looking deep into her eyes and smiling.

She ignored his meaning. I should think you would be quite happy about this assignment with all of these beautiful women on board.

Dunbar shrugged his shoulders.

Especially Rita.

Oh, you know about us? The conversation was suddenly becoming interesting.

Of course. I'm sure I know a lot more than you give me credit for.

I'm sure you do, but your information on Rita and me is a bit outdated.

I know she still cares about you.

Now, how do you know that?

I am a woman, you know. And as you might have noticed I like people. I haven't let living in the White House keep me from being human.

No, you haven't done that.

I know you meant that to be sarcastic, but I've come to expect that from you males in the press corps who seem to get a great deal of satisfaction from writing me off as the brunette equivalent of a dumb blonde.

Dunbar felt like crawling under the seat, but settled for a long sip of his drink and a good look at the pattern of the upholstery on the seat in front of him.

Well, I'm not like that at all, as you know, she continued, sitting sideways in her seat, glaring at Dunbar, who was finding the intricate design of the seat upholstery increasingly fascinating.. As much as I dislike living in an aquarium, I accept it, but more importantly - and here she grabbed Dunbar's arm and his attention - I accept the power that goes with it. The moral hypocrites among your colleagues can write what they damn well please, but I hope there will be a few of you, like you Dunbar, who will at least give me credit for trying to use what influence I have for the betterment of people.

She tried to get up but Dunbar blocked her way. Sit down for a second, he said and she obeyed. I don't write that kind of garbage as you know, and what's more I haven't paid any attention to the rumors about you. Nell, you're 25, you're beautiful, single and you're the president's daughter, but can this trip be considered anything more than a publicity stunt for your father's re-election at the expense of the starving people of the Sahel?

That's the kind of question, full of the usual press cynicism, that's enough to make a person scream. But I shall keep cool and calm, as is expected of people in the fish bowl, and tell you, my dear man, that my father had nothing to do with this trip, that in fact he only agreed to it after I spent two weeks wearing him down, and that my sole interest in making the trip is to help these people in every way I can. Now, you may think that there is not very much I can do, but let me tell you this, I know I have the power; this airplane and its passengers are proof enough of that. But what is significant is not having the power but using it. And as I have learned, there are only two things that can stop you from using that power - one's own personal fear and taking the advice of friends and relatives who love you but don't have any confidence in you. I'm going to the Sahel because the people there are in terrible need. I can't ignore their plight. I have the power to get there and by golly I expect that I have the power to do something about it, even if it's no more than to put may arm around a few of them in comfort. If you will excuse me, Julian, I think I've said enough. Dunbar looked at her, a beautiful young woman, with medium length brown hair like her mother, intense dark brown eyes like her father and the will of the two them combined. I'm on your side, Nell, he said softly, getting up from his seat to let her out.

I thought you would be, she said in a way that was totally sincere. I'm glad you came.

* * * * * * * * * * *.*

It was dark and damp when the plane landed at Darkar to a low-key reception of minor officials dressed in the black trappings of their craft. Darkar was a way station on Nell Mallory's itinerary, a place to refuel before flying on to the heart of the African continent and its misery. The diplomatic niceties and rituals were still observed; a friendly nation's hospitality was accepted and returned, in this case 500 cases of powdered milk desperately needed in Senegal's parched eastern regions unloaded from Air Force 2's cargo bay. In exchange, the president's daughter received red carpet treatment, an inappropriately sumptuous meal and a night in the government's guest house.

Such are the perquisites of good family connections, thought Dunbar, who dutifully followed the proceedings and afterward spent a difficult hour putting it in a story that would satisfy his subscribers back in the States. Fortunately, he was able to buttonhole the Senegalese prime minister long enough to get a run-down on the severity of the nation's drought and the problems the government faced in coping with it. That formed the meat of the story. Trying to lend some significance to the President's daughter's one night stand and meager gift of milk in the midst of so much suffering was not accomplished without some pangs of conscience. Despite their conversation he found it difficult to look on Nell's trip as much more than a cruel publicity stunt, at best a feather fighting the wind.

After filing his story he went to his hotel at the airport, looking forward to a drink before hitting the sack. It was past midnight, but the bar was packed, the result of Darkar's position on a number of major intercontinental air routes and the ungodly hours of its traffic. Despite the crowd, Dunbar's fellow travelers in the press stood out like a sore thumb at a center table. His inclination was to head for the bar but they saw him coming and waved him over. Except for Phelps and several members of the television camera crews, whom he didn't know but instinctively disliked, Dunbar was the only male among the two dozen reporters following in the footsteps of Nell Mallory's African jaunt. He had to laugh at the natural conspiracy of the female as they moved over in their seats to provide a place for him next to Rita.

All present and accounted for I see, the hidden secrets of darkest Africa having succumbed to your collective charm, no doubt.

Not exactly, said Phelps, a balding, dapper man in his fifties, whose particular talent was getting assigned to trips out of the country for a holiday away from his grousing wife, who was notorious about Washington. We're still waiting for our drinks.

It's all a matter of how you go about it, my friend. I'll take care of it. Dunbar got up from the table and put several bills in the hands of the first waiter he came to. He was over for the order two minutes later.

Our American princess seems to think we still have something going, Dunbar said to Rita. He ritually squeezed the lime along the lip of his glass.

I can't imagine where she got that idea.

Neither can I, he said, looking at her for a moment and catching the innocent sensuality of the expressive face with its dark eyes and hair that had long ago captivated his fancy and never let go. You know how those things are. Once they get started they have a life of their own. People put you in a certain niche and they expect you to adhere to it. If you think about it, it's harder for your friends and acquaintances to accept a change in your close relationships than it is for the people directly involved. Don't you agree?

I'm sure you must be right, Julian, except...

Yes, 'except' what?

Well, I think it's possible sometimes for friends to understand and see more about a person than that person can see about himself.

I wonder how many of us would still have any friends left if that was fact. Not very many I suspect. Well, so much for heavy conversation, I'm going to get some sleep and I suggest the rest of you do the same. The Queen of the Sahara will be greeting her subjects tomorrow, and my friends, that means a long day.

Dunbar downed his drink and went up to his room.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Even with the knowledge that the Sahara is the world's largest desert, Dunbar still found the immensity - 3,000 miles across the northern half of Africa, 1,250 miles wide and growing - and the variety of the wasteland mind boggling. Along its southern perimeter the desert encroaches on the delicate Sahel, an open country of solitary trees and thorn bushes stunted by the constant winds and parched soil that gives up grasses tough as leather. The Fulani and other nomadic tribes eke out an existence with small herds of sheep, goats and cattle. They move into the Sahel when the rains come in April and May to graze their stock until the rains and grass are gone. Then they return to the lowland savanna, more plush with vegetation, but also more crowded, more muggy and rampant with tsetse flies.

There are other tribes, such as the Tuareg and the Tebu, whose home is in the desert. They dwell in the few oases and mountains rising up from the barren plateau to intercept the infrequent rain clouds that cross the continent. Magnificent paintings on rock facings attest to man's long foothold amidst a harsh environment.

Dunbar was the only one on the plane with experience in the desert. Ten years earlier he had made the treacherous run from Djanet to Zouar with three companions in what was the last great adventure of his youth before getting down to the serious business of a journalist. The experience had taught him that the common conception of the desert as a monotonous stage of ever-shifting sands and unbearable heat was a popular fantasy propagated by films romanticizing the French Foreign Legion. Only about one-seventh of the Sahara's more than three million square miles is sand. Most of the desert is layered with stone, from a fine gravel to sections that contain coarse rocks that are almost impassable. Body heat evaporates readily in the dry air minimizing the intensity of high daytime temperatures. Colds cause more suffering than the heat. Though dying of thirst is not unknown even in recent times, drowning probably takes more victims. Sudden cloudbursts can turn a dry river bed into a raging torrent in a matter of seconds. The desert teaches its lessons quickly and with a firm hand.

The Sahel is a transition zone, a front-line where the desert slowly captures the land from the savanna. In bad years, the desert gains as much as 10 miles in places. The process is relentless and of ancient origin. One may surmise that the misery it has brought to the peoples living in the path of desiccation was no less in the past than it is today, except that perhaps the number of afflicted and uprooted is greater today. An estimated 3 million people in the Sahel region are no longer able to provide sustenance for themselves and have gathered in settlements amidst deplorable conditions to be near water and the irregular handouts of food made available by charities and foreign governments. Hundreds die of starvation every day.

Despite the bleakness and impoverishment of the region it is an area of political contention. Beneath the barren surface lies the potential for substantial wealth in the form of vast aquifers, petroleum, iron ore, uranium, diamonds and other minerals. This, the weakness of the post-colonial governments and the age-old animosities between tribes have prompted the emergence of revolutionary groups, supported from outside, with sufficient strength to control large areas without being seriously challenged. The internal strife only compounds the plight of the desert's victims.

All of this Dunbar knew and he knew it far better than anyone else on the plane. Among Washington's prestigious corps of journalist he was considered an Africa expert, though he certainly wouldn't lay claim to the title; it was just a judgment of comparative knowledge. Except for the presence of communists - and that only mattered when the Cold War was hot - and South Africa's apartheid was causing international waves, Washington had little interest in the continent and even less understanding. All it took was a little over a year in Africa, including two months driving through the Sahara, and contacts with the African embassies, which were almost totally ignored by the rest of the press corps, and one was accorded the distinction of Africa expert. He knew that accounted for his presence on this trip. Somehow President Mallory had pulled some strings with his editor to gain the respectability of a Dunbar byline to report on the African exploits of his daughter. As far as Dunbar was concerned, the assignment was better suited for the reporters who spent their time chronicling every move and utterance of the First Family. Dunbar had no taste or patience for that sort of thing. He had made it clear to his editor that he only accepted the assignment with the proviso that the problem of hunger would be the central theme of his reporting, not making a showcase of Nell Mallory. There would be more than enough reporters holding down that end.

Despite Dunbar's journalistic pride, he was on good terms with the president, his daughter and the rest of the Mallory family. He was probably the only Washington reporter who knew the family before it became nationally prominent. Dunbar had done a feature piece early in Mallory's year-long, steerage-class run to capture the New Hampshire primary. They had developed a warm friendship since then, and though it provided him with easy access to the president he declined to take advantage of it to advance his own journalistic standing. And he slightly resented the way the president had taken advantage of him. But only slightly. Seeing the desert again from his plane window rekindled the old excitement of the place. He was glad to be back and it was an opportunity to write a good story - about hunger - and to put it on the front page where it belonged.

* * * * * * * * * * *

N'Djamena, the steamy capital of Chad, had never received a high-ranking American visitor before but it greeted the president's daughter with style. Long files of ebony-skinned soldiers, immaculately clad in the khaki desert uniforms of the French military style, flanked a crimson carpet running from the entrance to the modest airport terminal to the foot of an unloading ramp that was moved up to the side of Air Force 2 when it pulled into position, four and one-half hours after leaving Darkar. Two of the three military officers who formed the ruling clique of the central African state welcomed the president's daughter as she alighted from the plane. All stood at attention as a military band struggled through renditions of the respective national anthems. A large group of spectators, some in fancy native dress, watched the proceedings from