Potus

By Greg Holden

President of the United States, Dwight Carl Boatwright, a former Brigadier General of the Delta Force, has served his country well. Winding down his final months in the Oval Office after a very successful two term Presidency, his life is about to take a course for which none of his experiences has prepared him.
For fifteen years, Israel has been taking an annual missile bombardment from the Hezbollah in retaliation for a top secret mission conducted by a Delta Team that General Boatwright had led to intercept missiles stolen from Israel. After Boatwrights old military dog tags are mysteriously discovered lying in the middle of the Syrian Desert, the retaliation is now focused on the United States, but not by the Hezbollah.
Over the years, each member of the Delta Team has gone their separate ways. Their last mission is just a memory of what was. A failed assassination attempt on President Boatwrights life in Berlin suddenly puts the First Family and family members of President Boatwrights former Delta Team as the new targets by unknown forces.
While agents and law enforcement officials travel the globe from the Cayman Islands to Berlin and Istanbul to Montreal to track down the assassins, President Boatwright calls on his old Delta Team for one last and final mission that would not only shock the nation, but the entire world as well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452098647

Greg Holden

POTUS is Greg Holden’s debut novel. He is a twenty-two year Army Infantry Veteran, and currently works for South Carolina Department of Public Safety and part-time at a local Home Depot. Greg Holden is a native of Indianapolis, Indiana, and resides in Columbia, South Carolina, with his wife and family, where he is now at work on his second novel titled REVENGE.

Book preview

POTUS

A NOVEL BY

GREG HOLDEN

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AuthorHouse™

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

© 2011 by Greg Holden. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 11/16/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4520-9863-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-9862-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-9864-7 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010918611

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

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Acknowledgements

There are so many people to thank, it’s impossible to list them all. First; I want to thank Doctor Arthur Wozniak and Roberta Bartholdi for their editing. If it weren’t for you, my novel would be twice as thick. Secondly; I need to thank Fabian Handy for pushing me to get it done. Your paycheck’s in the mail. Thirdly; I would like to thank Jennifer Slaybaugh and Jules Solito, Design Consultants of AuthorHouse for their patience and dedication, and Aaron Shick for guiding me through the process of self-publishing. Most importantly; I want to thank my wife and kids. I love you guys. This is for you.

Understanding and Protecting a Normal Life

It is not easy understanding the things that we do

In history we fight for freedom, for glory, for worship, for honor

For protecting you and for protecting me

Secrets has become the corner stone for protecting the truth

The secrets of politics, the secrets of churches

And the business industry too

Understanding and protecting a normal life

Is based on lies and deceit

Deceit to rally a war, deceit to cover it up as we do

Understanding and protecting a normal life

Is truly based on one thing

The right to live, and to let freedom ring

Hum… . what’s your secret… .

FABIAN D. HANDY

POTUS

BOOK

I

1

Syrian Desert 1993

THE five truck convoy moved through the Syrian Desert taking a profound beating. The shocks were shot, the tires bald, no cool air and the front windshields were removed. Everyone was wearing clear coated goggles, desert BDU’s and black combat boots except for one man. The leader of the convoy driving the third truck looked over at his passenger, shook his head and smiled. Hollywood movie star! Of all the years in this business, he had never come across anyone like him. The man was dressed in khaki pants, a Ralph Lauren polo-shirt, a pair of Hush Puppy shoes, a NY Yankees baseball cap and one cool pair of Ray-Ban mirror sunglasses. Americans!

How much longer, Hakeem? the American asked lighting up another cigarette.

I tell you five minutes ago, my friend, eight hours, yes?

No, Hakeem, how much longer to the first checkpoint?

I think ten minutes, yes?

God I hate fucking deserts, thought the American. Are all the roads this bad?

No, no. Only when you give me shit trucks, yes? Hakeem said grinning.

If I had better trucks, Hakeem, we’d be driving them.

Yes, yes, driving them.

As the convoy continued to struggle through the 120-degree heat, CIA agent Todd Sox couldn’t stop thinking about why the director chose him for this assignment. Being with the agency for only seven months, Agent Sox knew there were far better agents with a lot more experience than himself. I’ll be sure to ask him why when I get back—

We come to chick point, my friend.

Checkpoint, Hakeem. It’s checkpoint, not chick point. Damn rag head. Are there any contacts here?

Yes, yes. My cousin, Raheem.

Are the missiles covered? asked the agent.

Yes, yes. Red Cross flogs on top.

Flags, Hakeem, flags! Damn!

Yes, yes. Flags, ok. Americans must always be correct, no?

Sixty clicks southeast of the convoy’s location, United States Army Brigadier General Dwight Carl Boatwright, Commander of Delta Team 7, walked his perimeter checking on his men and calling for his communications specialist. Lieutenant Smith?

Yes, sir.

How are we looking on the communications, son?

I need another five minutes, sir, said the lieutenant.

I don’t have five minutes, Lieutenant. You have two minutes. Captain Morales?

Over here, sir.

When Smith gets the commo up, make contact with Watchdog. I want him to pay close attention to the Pews covering the westside of zone 2. I don’t need any unexpected surprises.

Yes, sir.

When the convoy passed Hakeem’s cousin at the checkpoint, Agent Sox thought about how his father made it so easy for him to get into the CIA. After graduating from Harvard Law last year, his intentions were to live in New York City. He was more interested in the Anti-Terrorist Task Force. Looking at his driver, Todd started getting the jitters as his stomach began to ache. How much longer, Hakeem?

Hakeem looked at his watch and once again he smiled at the American. Six hours, yes?

Another six hours with these hideous rag heads is the last thing I need. General, I sure hope you’re on time.

Major Wozniak, is the computer satellite up and running?

Roger that, sir.

Give me a time and their location.

I estimate forty-eight kilometers and one hour, sir. It looks like they’re moving pretty slow.

Good for us, remarked the general.

Staring at the monitor, Major Wozniak raised his eyebrow and suddenly looked at the general. Notice anything about the convoy, sir?

Everything seems to look normal. Why?

The number of vehicles, sir.

I’ll be damned! Snatching up his M-16A2 rifle leaning against his Hummv, General Boatwright ordered the major to continue monitoring the satellite and double-timed over to Lieutenant Smith’s location. Okay people, let’s put some pep into our steps, replied the one star. Where’s Handy and Davenport?

They’re heading towards us right now, General, remarked Staff Sergeant Alex, the general’s driver.

Captain Handy? Are the demolitions in place and do we have quick access to the first-aid bags and stretchers?

Affirmative, sir.

Have the drivers get these vehicles out of sight. Captain Davenport?

Yes, sir.

What’s the latest intelligence on the objective?

Sir?

What’s the latest intel on the objective, Captain? the general asked again while pausing and contemplating Davenport’s body movement. During your briefing, Captain… you clearly informed me that there would only be three vehicles. But after observing the computer satellite with Major Wozniak, I now have five vehicles heading our way. That’s one hundred more meters we need to cover with no additional bodies.

Captain Davenport was stunned and speechless. Could he possibly know? Sir, based on our contacts in Damascus—

Damascus?

Yes, sir. Our contacts in Damascus—

Captain Davenport, the general said nodding his head with disappointment. You are a military intelligence officer in the United States Army and not a civilian. So I hope that your contacts in DAMASCUS… better have been military liaison officers.

Not paying much attention to what General Boatwright was saying, Captain Larry Roy Davenport unholstered his Beretta 9mm pistol. Before his pistol was fully locked and thrust forward for a good point-of-aim, Davenport was dead. The general already knew that the captain was a traitor by the intelligence he received from his own initial briefing, and knew that the captain was dangerous and unpredictable. Once again trusting his gut feelings—which had always saved his life—General Boatwright holstered his own 9mm Beretta while staring down at the dead captain. Goddamn fucking traitor!

Lighting up his eighth cigarette in the last fifty minutes, Todd Sox recognized the terrain and knew that they were getting close to the ambush site and felt for his weapon from under his left shoulder. Hakeem noticed this and signaled for the front two trucks to slow down. Hakeem didn’t feel right with Todd Sox so jumpy and sweat pouring down his neck. Hakeem’s experience dealing with arms and narcotics for the past nine years, he had never once seen an American so paranoid. Unlike the intimidating General Boatwright, Hakeem’s gut feeling always told him to kill first and ask questions later. With American weapons on the black-market worth far more than all other countries, Hakeem had never taken any chances and today would be no exception. Todd knew this of course because that was the first point-of-emphasis the director had covered during his briefing.

Do not, Agent Sox—under any circumstances—take any chances with Adai adiz Hakeem. He will slit your throat without hesitation. He’s been running weapons and narcotics for almost nine years, and has multiple offshore accounts in Switzerland and the Cayman Islands totaling millions of dollars. He will not let anything or anyone get in the way of jeopardizing his financial riches.

When the convoy slowed to a halt, Todd knew that something was wrong. Only twenty more kilometers to the ambush site, stopping now was certainly going to put a burden on the Delta team’s execution time. Why are we stopping, Hakeem?

Hakeem opened his door and instructed Todd to get out. Exiting the truck, Todd noticed that Hakeem’s eight men had already surrounded the vehicle with their AK-47 Soviet assault rifles. In his native language of Turkish, Hakeem ordered his men to take a break and turned to his passenger. Todd, my friend; why are you so nervous?

Todd noticed instantly that Hakeem was now speaking perfect English with no broken accent.

You make me nervous when I see you sweat like you do, my friend.

First of all, Hakeem—I hate fucking deserts. Secondly; it’s 120-degrees out here, and thirdly; sand is blowing in my fucking face—not to mention the fucking missiles! That doesn’t make you a little antsy?

We are talking about you, my friend—not me.

Listen, Hakeem. We have three million dollars on this deal and no one’s going to fuck this up. Not even you.

No, my friend. Five million for me and you will die. Why must you Americans always use so much foul language? It’s not good for the soul, my friend.

Fuck you! What the fuck do you know about the soul, you Muslim fuck? And I’m not your friend. American way of life, Hakeem. It makes us feel like bad asses. You know what I mean?

Ah! And selling out your country?

It’s called getting rich, Hakeem. And my country hasn’t done shit for me lately. Now let’s go. We’re fucking losing time! The soul my ass!

When the shot echoed through the desert, the entire team quickly merged around the general. The men froze looking down at Davenport with a hole between his eyes watching a puddle of blood forming from underneath his head. Before anyone could say a word, General Boatwright updated his men. We have a friendly on this convoy. His name is Todd Sox and he’s with the CIA. His job is to take out the leader named Hakeem—Adai adiz Hakeem. Handing out the photos of both men, General Boatwright noticed his team still looking down at Davenport and ignored their reactions. Mr. Hakeem normally travels with the middle vehicle of his convoys and today should be no exception. Supposedly, Mr. Sox will be with him on the same vehicle. Personally, I don’t give-a-shit. I only care about those Stinger missiles and nothing more. If this Sox character is on this convoy and gets caught up in the crossfire, he has to be one badass son-of-a-bitch or a dumbass.

The entire team began to roar.

According to our intelligence—and the satellite even verifies it, the Stingers will be on that third truck. There are a total of fifteen Stinger missiles and other various types of ammunition on this convoy. Our job is to intercept, recover, or even destroy everything on those trucks at all cost—and we will do just that. Are there any questions?

The general glanced down at the corpse and shook his head. Captain Handy… take care of this piece-of-shit.

Yes, sir.

In an encouraging and motivating tone of voice, the one star general replied, Let’s go kick some ass, men.

The convoy was approximately five minutes away from the objective when Hakeem flashed his headlights for the trucks to slow down once again. Looking through his rearview mirror, the fourth truck was smoking from the hood. Sorry, my friend, but we must stop. Kamar’s truck is smoking and needs water.

Todd turned around and looked at Kamar’s truck. Knowing that he was running out of time, Todd knew the convoy couldn’t stop for even one second. It’s only the dust from our truck, Hakeem.

Are you sure, my friend?

I’m positive, Hakeem. Three million dollars positive.

Hakeem flashed his lights once again. As the convoy picked up speed, Agent Sox reached under his shoulder and unlatched his weapon.

General Boatwright made contact with every man to make sure they were ready to go. Receiving a go from every team member, the general shifted his body into a different position. He once again thought about his best friend prior to giving the go ahead word. Delta 7—set timers to two minutes starting—NOW!

Watchdog sent out his signal.

Ninety seconds had lapsed since Todd saw his five red dot signal blinking through his prescription sunglasses that no one else could see. He knew he was in the kill zone and silently counted to thirty. Pulling out his weapon from his holster, Todd placed it between the door and his right thigh. Hakeem didn’t see it coming. Fifteen seconds later, Hakeem’s brains were splattered on the driver’s-side door window while trucks one and five of the convoy were blown to bits disintegrating all four occupants. Todd dove from the truck and hit the ground, instantly moving twenty-five meters taking cover. Seconds later after the Delta Team opened up firing with every weapon they had, Hakeem’s remaining men tried to escape when trucks two and four exploded sending body parts everywhere—but not before one of Hakeem’s men was able to get out. Hearing the explosions, Todd looked up to see what was happening and found himself staring straight at the man and an AK-47. Todd tried to get to his feet, but the man was much faster and kicked Sox in the head sending the CIA agent tumbling thirty feet down the sandy hill.

Bullets riveted all around the Turkish man striking him in the right shoulder and right thigh. Falling to the ground, the Turk saw a huge figure lying just twenty feet away and pulled out a grenade from his cargo pocket. By the time the Turk was ready to throw the grenade, Captain Handy had already taken a good point-of-aim. At the same time the Turk threw his grenade, Captain Handy pulled his trigger. The grenade landed ten feet from the general. The impact of the explosion threw the one star general seven feet from his original position as his Kevlar helmet and dog tags went flying in mid-air and taking several pieces of shrapnel to his left leg. When the captain’s bullet struck the Turk, the Turk flew back sixteen feet taking off half his head.

Once the Chinook was airborne with all equipment, personnel, and twelve Stinger missiles recovered from Hakeem’s truck, General Boatwright explained to his men the situation about Captain Davenport. The general knew he didn’t have to explain anything to his men. He knew they trusted him with their lives, but that wasn’t his style of leadership.

General?

What is it, Captain?

Agent Sox, sir, motioning the general to look towards the CIA spook.

General Boatwright looked over at Todd Sox and laughed. As the agent was coming to, General Boatwright couldn’t help noticing the white bandage wrapped around his head. He knew who the young man was, but never had the opportunity to meet him until now. Mr. Sox, Brigadier General Boatwright, United States Army. How’s your head, son?

Todd reached up and felt the bandage wrapped around his forehead and grinned. Did you kill the fucker?

Doc?

Yes, sir.

Did you kill the fucker?

Roger that, sir!

Captain Handy’s my medic, Mr. Sox, pointing towards Todd’s head.

Agent Sox felt his head once again.

You did well out there, son. The Director will be proud of you. So will your father.

You know my father?

General Boatwright smiled at the agent, winked his eye and limped away towards the cockpit.

Good execution time on that mission, General.

Why is that, Major?

There’s a terrible sandstorm coming in from the east in about sixty mikes, sir.

Who gives-a-shit! Thank you, Major.

Limping back down towards the end of the chopper, the one star stared down at the body bag containing the remains of Captain Davenport almost completely satisfied with the outcome of the mission. Reaching up with both hands to rub the back of his neck, General Boatwright noticed that his dog tags were missing. Sixty minutes later while flying over the Mediterranean Sea, the storm rolled in burying the general’s dog tags under four inches of sand—never to be seen again.

2

Oval Office

Present Day

MR. President, Senator Wozniak’s on line one.

Thank you, Connie. Good morning, Senator. How the hell are ya?

Good morning, Mr. President. I’m doing fine, sir. And you, sir?

I’m fine, son. Damn! I’m only going to the ranch for a week. If you’re calling about my vacation, Arthur, believe me when I tell you that I do have other important things to do.

I understand that, Mr. President. But with only seven months left in office, I might not get another chance to have dinner with the President in the White House.

Are you in town now?

Yes, sir.

Why didn’t you say that in the first place?

I thought maybe we could get together for a drink and let the ladies chat for a bit. We’re only in town until tomorrow and then back to Dallas.

Did I ever tell you, Senator, that only two things come from Texas, and that’s—

That joke’s older than you are, sir, hearing the president laughing in the background.

Come on, Arthur, it’s not like you to take a punch lying down, still laughing. Why are you in town, son?

Why does he always call everyone son? Cindy has a mandatory conference today and tomorrow. Carol and I thought we’d fly up and surprise her.

Hang on for a minute, Art, putting the senator on hold. Connie?

Yes, Mr. President.

How does my schedule look for this evening?

Hearing pages shifting in the background, the president could hear Connie humming tunes. You’re free tonight, sir.

Thank you, Connie. Major, be here at the White House at 1900 hours sharp. In fact… I’ll have Ben pick you up. Where are you staying?

At the Palamar Washington.

Bringing in the big bucks, I see.

Tax write off, Mr. President.

It’ll be nice to see Carol and Cindy again. How’s her schooling coming along?

See Carol and Cindy again? What about me, sir? Number one in her class, General.

President of the United States, former Brigadier General Dwight Carl Boatwright, missed serving his country. He served his country well for nearly twenty-eight years and had developed a very close relationship with his last special-ops unit in which he still kept in contact with today behind closed doors. Being the president for nearly eight years, there were only a handful of people that could call him anything else other than Mr. President. It would stay that way until the day he died. Only a few knew about Delta 7. When serving in a combat environment, a special bond develops among the soldiers in a unit. The general and his men had seen enough dying and killing to last a lifetime. The American people wouldn’t understand this unless they’ve been there themselves. The team would do anything for each other. Eight years in this city as the most powerful man in the world, it was amazing the secret had been kept.

Bring some of that special brandy while you’re at it, son.

Yes, sir, Mr. President. The senator already had a bottle in his hotel room.

When the president hung up the phone, Connie entered the Oval Office and placed a manila folder marked President’s Eyes Only in red on his desk. As the president watched Connie lay the folder down, David Porter entered his mind.

Connie looked at the president and smiled. I’ll be taking an extra half-hour for lunch, Mr. President.

President Boatwright just stared at Connie for an extra minute and didn’t say a word.

Would that be alright with you, Mr. President?

Connie? Why do you still call me Mr. President when I insist that you call me Dwight? I feel very uncomfortable when you do that. I’ve known you since the day you were born. Not to mention that I am your adopted father—unless you’ve forgotten that fact.

She stood there speechless and didn’t move.

Lunch with Todd, I take it? the president asked.

Yeah. He’s getting ready for the Vice President’s trip to Montana and Utah, so he just wanted to spend a little extra time with me.

Then why don’t you just take the whole afternoon off.

Thank you, Mr. Pre… Dwight. Connie walked around the president’s desk and gave him a hug as her teardrops soaked deep into the president’s jacket. Why didn’t you bring my Daddy home, Mr. President?

When the president opened the file marked President Eyes Only after Connie had left the office, an 8x10 photo laid right in front of his eyes of the First Lady in the sexiest lingerie he’s ever seen her wear in the thirty-nine years of marriage. Leaning back in his high leather-chair fantasizing about what would happen after dinner when the senator and his family leaves the White House, he started to get aroused when all of a sudden the secretary of state came barging in. Goddamnit! There’s never a peaceful moment.

3

Dinner and Football

PRESIDENT Boatwright stood in front of the mirror shaving for the second time that day. Listening to the First Lady talking with Carol Wozniak, Dwight couldn’t help himself from overhearing the conversation about their upcoming vacation to the ranch. During their almost forty years of marriage, Dwight had never eavesdropped once on his wife. The First Lady wasn’t complaining because she loved her home in South Carolina very much. Just getting out of Washington, D.C. every now and then was a good remedy to escape all the political drama. The ranch was just getting a little tiresome. She wanted something different. Eavesdropping for the first time in their relationship, the president nicked himself for the fourth time. Fuck!

Watch your language, dear.

Then get off the damn phone, woman. Yes, ma’am!

Saluting himself in the mirror, he focused on four lines of his blood flowing down his face and sighed. That’s what you get for eavesdropping, you dumbass!

After hanging up the phone, the First Lady dropped her robe and entered the bathroom. Startling the president forcing himself to cause a fifth nick, the First Lady glanced at her husband through the mirror watching four and a half red lines running down his face. The president focused on his nude wife rather than the bloody lines.

Ooooh, you poor baby… you nicked yourself again, mocking him.

Who gives-a-shit!

Let me take care of that for you, Mr. President. Glancing around for another towel, she decided to yank the one off from around her husband’s waist. The president let his wife wipe away the blood. She was good at teasing him.

What’s for dinner? Dwight asked.

Smiling while caressing his face, she let her hands glide to his buttocks. Lamb cutlets!

That’s appropriate. Baaa! kicking the door shut with his right foot.

As Ben Alex drove to the Palamar Washington to pick up the senator and his family, the blue sky had suddenly turned to a dark gray. Momentarily, the rain would begin to fall. It was almost a daily routine in Washington, D.C. during the spring months. Driving through the city, Ben began to wonder what his future held knowing that the president’s term would end in seven months.

Ben had been driving for the president throughout the president’s tenure as commander-in-chief. Big cities never did fair well with the six-foot-four-inch country boy out of North Carolina—and he damn sure didn’t like Washington. However, Ben had met a lot of important, powerful and popular people. That was the only good side of things should he ever decide to get into politics in the future. He had accumulated well over six hundred business cards from congressmen, senators, governors, foreign officials, actors, directors, musicians, athletes and others he wouldn’t care to brag, and he never threw any of them out. After all—this was America—and anything’s possible in the land of the free.

Prior to the president recruiting Ben as his personal driver, Ben drove for NASCAR’s Hendricks Motor Sports at the Busch Series level. During his four years, Ben did manage to tally up four wins, but no championships. He knew he was far better than the other young cocky drivers that had never really experienced true danger. Besides—driving for the general once again was far more exciting than driving around in circles hoping that 200,000 screaming fans would get to see you crash into the wall at 180 mph.

Pulling into the front lobby of the hotel, Ben was eager to see the major. He only bumped into the man twice since leaving the Army in 1995. He never could understand that because of the president’s annual State of the Union addresses. I guess D.C. is a big city after all when you look at it.

When Major Wozniak, his wife and daughter approached, Ben and Arthur embraced each other for the third time since 1993. Driving through the city, the car remained quiet. The senator’s wife and daughter took everything in from the monuments to the embassies, museums and other astonishing buildings surrounding the nation’s capitol. A few more minutes had gone by when Major Wozniak finally broke the silence.

Any thoughts on the upcoming elections, Ben?

No, sir. But I think we both know that the Vice President wins it by a landslide. That’s what the polls are indicating anyway, glancing into the rearview mirror smiling.

I think you’re right, Ben. Let’s hope so anyway.

The General wanted me to mention the brandy, sir.

I bet he does, laughing.

Who’s the General, Dad? Cindy asked.

The President, honey.

Why do you call him the General?

It’s a long story.

It’s good to see you again, Major. It’s been a long time.

It sure has, Ben, likewise.

As the Crown Victoria pulled up onto the White House grounds, the president, First Lady and Todd Sox were standing on the top landing of the stairs. Ben got out first and walked around and opened the senator’s door. Following the senator was his wife and then daughter. Until next time, Ben, embracing one another again.

Yes, sir.

What the two didn’t know, however, along with the rest of Delta Team 7—it would be much sooner rather than later.

Before going into the president’s den, the First Lady gave the Wozniaks a special tour of the White House. Guiding them down hallways, corridors, rooms and dens along with a small history class—she finally led them through the dining room which connected to the president’s special get away. The president always loved to have a drink in his den before dinner was served. As they entered the room, Carol and Cindy were amazed by the beauty that it held—everything from the mahogany and leather-furniture to the crystal clear chandeliers and lights. The ceiling stood twenty feet high and formed into an arc.

The room was very special to the president. He had brought in his own personal effects from his West Point and military career. The floor was made of hardwood cherry oak, and in the center of the den laid a 20x10 foot rug displaying the state of South Carolina. On top of it set an 8x4 foot pool table with the South Carolina state seal in blue-and-white on the green cloth personally setting him back $1,650. The handles of the ten pool-cues sitting in the rack mounted on the wall were carved into palm trees with the best grip that money could buy. The president never actually used them himself because he hated the damn things. He would have his opponents use them for his advantage. He had his own personal cues hidden away like a little child. While his opponents were using the cues, the carved leaves from the handles would always brush up against the side of his opponent’s thighs causing them to miss. He always got a kick out of it.

Behind the fifteen foot bar, which also belonged to the president, hung a Clemson Tigers banner. To the right of the banner was a large picture frame with a photo of the president, Tommy Bowden and Lou Holz taken prior to the Carolina and Clemson game in 2004. Clemson came out on top that day 29-7. Unfortunately, the president didn’t stay for the game because of the embarrassment from the brawl right before kickoff.

Which university did you attend, Mr. President? asked Cindy standing in front of the photo.

I didn’t go to either one, Cindy. I went to a real school, smiling at the First Lady.

Here we go again, said the First Lady.

West Point, darling, West Point! Now that’s a real school.

Of course, silly me, smiling back.

Did you play football, Mr. President? Carol asked.

Dwight held up both arms and hands like a penguin salute. Behind these closed doors, Carol, it’s Dwight.

Alright! Did you play football, Dwight?

Oh… I played a little, glancing at the photo on the wall from his seat.

The First Lady got up and went behind the bar to retrieve a photo album with the West Point Army Cadet emblem on the front cover. Handing it to the senator and his wife, she then went over to the president and sat on his lap.

Wow! I’m impressed, Dwight. Quarterback?

Carol, look at the size of this man… . What other position would he play? said Arthur.

The First Lady grinned. Size indeed, Arthur. If only you knew.

I played my last two years as starting quarterback. We weren’t very good back then. Our offense and defensive lines really sucked. I had more interceptions than touchdowns—more sacks than completions—and more yards lost on sacks than scrambling yards. Hell… almost every time that ball was snapped, I was on the ground with four or five of my own offensive players on top of me. Defenses ran through us like water flowing through paper towels.

Todd Sox started laughing and spilled his gin and tonic down his crotch.

Our place kicker was so short—half of his field goal attempts would bounce off our own helmets. When the running backs ran to the left or right, they’d go flying into the benches after being hit—not to mention that the damn benches were twenty-five feet away from the sidelines. If they ran up the middle—forget about it. They’d bounce right back into me and knock me flat on my ass. Every time I’d hand the ball off to a back, we’d both get hammered. I remember in my senior year when we were playing Notre Dame, the Irish were so fucking big, they made me look like Dudley Moore.

Language, dear, interrupted the First Lady.

At halftime while walking off the field with the score 42-0, and every single one of us limping—I was so fucking pissed off… sorry, honey! I was so pissed off—I went straight up to the coach and asked him if we were coming back out in the second half.

What did the coach say, boss? Todd asked.

He didn’t say anything. He fucking hit me and walked off the field. Good thing I still had my helmet on.

This time the senator dropped his drink.

While in the locker room, our coach didn’t give us his normal pep talk. The only thing he did was look at me like some damn moron and gave out my stats.

The president looked at his wife and took another sip of his Jack Daniels and Coke. He knew the question was coming. It wasn’t the first time she had heard the story.

So… what were your stats, honey?

I do believe… my stats were 2 of 17 for 22 yards, 4 interceptions, which 2 were returned for touchdowns, and sacked 4 times with 21 yards lost—not to mention the 3 fumbles. When we went back out on that field, you could see the Irish players licking their chops like the hyenas did in that Lion King movie. Before the start of the second half, you could see their coach across the field getting his team pumped up. So naturally, I looked over to our coach. The son-of-a-bitch was looking up at the sky. Probably praying to God for rain for all I know. Nobody had the balls to ask him of course. But I will say this—as officers soon to be—we were also pumped up as well.

Pumped up for what, honey? You were losing, said the First Lady.

To kick some goddamn ass! We knew we weren’t going to win the game with the score 42-0. But we weren’t going to sit there on our asses and do nothing either. We were going to play dirty whether the coach liked it or not. We knew that the second half couldn’t have been worse than the first half. Shit, I’ll be damned! That offense ran through us like a train locomotive plowing through a paper dollhouse. They ran, and ran, and ran. In the second half alone, they tallied up 381 yards rushing and didn’t pass once. We started to wonder if the quarterback was even out on the fucking field. When that whistle blew, the final score was 72-3. After that kid kicked a 52 yard field goal with 17 seconds left, we celebrated like we just won the Super Bowl. I started looking around for coach, but he was nowhere to be found. Chicken shit! Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t even make it as a fucked up soldier. During my two year college football career at West Point as starting quarterback, I believe my record was a remarkable 3-13. So yeah… I guess you can say that I played a little. Everyone was still laughing except Cindy.

When the First Lady got up to refresh the drinks, there was a knock on the door. Todd got up and went towards the door as the White House butler came in from the opposite side of the den announcing that dinner was served. Cindy saw Todd’s weapon when his left side jacket flopped open when speaking to the other agent.

Mr. President, will the Senator and his family be spending the night or returning to their hotel? asked Todd.

They’ll be spending the night, Todd, interrupted the First Lady.

Yes, ma’am. Tom, go ahead and tell Ben to call it a night.

Yes, sir, Mr. Sox.

As the party of six headed towards the dining room, Carol asked, What’s on the menu for dinner, Lisa?

Lamb Cutlets, the First Lady said grinning.

Later as everyone went upstairs to retire, the president went into his den, fixed another drink and flopped into his La-z-Boy chair.

4

Reflections

DWIGHT Carl Boatwright Jr., was born on March 23rd, 1943, in a rural town called Shannontown outside of Sumter, South Carolina. Population was six hundred with nothing around but pine trees and tall weeds. The town was easy enough and very quiet. There were no public schools within fifteen miles, one gas station, one stop light, a three person post office and the town hall with two police officers—one was the police chief weighing in at three hundred pounds. The town theater closed in 1934 right after the Great Depression started to take its toll, and the closest food market was two miles away from the Boatwright’s farm. Local entertainment was AM radio or the Simmons Cafeteria with its ten tables for local politics—local gossip—and the occasional courtship. Times were extremely hard in Shannontown, South Carolina. In 1943, times got harder for the Boatwrights and sixty other families.

Dwight Carl Boatwright Sr., along with seventy-eight other men were six thousand miles away fighting in Europe. Dwight’s father wasn’t around when he was born, and like so many other women, his mother had the brunt responsibility. During WWII, residents of Shannontown struggled along helping each other out anyway they could. Dwight Jr. weighing at twelve pounds and twenty-three inches long at birth was just another burden on the household. He required more food than the average infant and clothing for his size wasn’t even on the market.

Naturally, Dwight took after his father. Dwight Sr. stood six-feet-seven-inches, but it was his mother that caught everyone’s eye. Some say she was the sole reason for Dwight junior’s size. Bonnie Lynn Boatwright stood at an impressive six feet as well, but only four extra inches and not the seven that her husband held. She was one hell of a fighter and stunningly beautiful. When Dwight Sr. returned home two years later in April, 1945, little Jr. was already standing at thirty-four inches and weighing fifty-one pounds.

Dwight Jr. was one big boy—but very, very clumsy and uncoordinated. Kids had made fun of him for various reasons and he couldn’t understand why. As he got a little older, he still couldn’t ride a bike without losing his balance—couldn’t hold a football let alone throw or catch one—and kickball was a disaster. Every single time he would run up on the ball for a kick, he’d fall flat on his ass. To make matters worse, he ran like a girl. That was the way his school years went until junior high school.

In 1955, on the first day of seventh grade, the kids that had teased Jr. in elementary school couldn’t wait to pick up from where they left off. What the kids didn’t know was that during the summer, Dwight Jr. shot up a whopping thirteen inches and developed twenty-two pounds of muscle. After his mother had dropped him off, Dwight saw the same group of kids waiting for him like a pack of hyenas mingling in the distant. Obviously, very proud of his son’s sudden growth, Dwight Sr. made it perfectly clear to leave his tormentors alone. We don’t need any trouble from Moby Dick down at town hall.

Dwight Jr. didn’t waste anytime. He walked straight towards the pack without breaking his stride. Forty feet to go and picking up speed, he could see every chin drop to the ground. By the time he got to their location, they had all dispersed in panic and fear.

Throughout the two years at Sumter Junior High, Dwight achieved an astonishing 14-0 record as the starting quarterback. His only disappointment was that junior high schools couldn’t compete in any type of playoffs or state championships. His next four years were about to change everything.

During the summer of 1957, six weeks before football practice was to kick off, every coach from Sumter High School was either calling—swinging by the house—or both—to make sure Jr. was still going to play football. Dwight Sr. thought it was kind of comical to see grown men fighting over his fifteen year old son. After all, Jr. was bigger than any single coach at any school. Dwight suffered another blow when he learned that it was against state regulations for any freshman to play varsity level sports. Another year would have to come and go.

Dwight Sr. remembered the summer before his varsity eligibility; coaches were calling from all over the state. High schools from Columbia, Charleston, Greenville, Spartanburg and Rock Hill wanted the Boatwright family to relocate just so Jr. would play for their school. On a few occasions, Dwight Sr. would say yes just to stir up some commotion. Under one condition, he would sometimes say smirking. You call the head coach at Sumter High and inform them that we’ve decided to transfer to your school. As usual, Bonnie Lynn would give Dwight Sr. a piece of her mind. Next thing they knew, the town mayor was knocking on their front door. Dwight Sr. liked to tell that story over the years—especially when he came to Washington to visit his son.

At the beginning of high school, Dwight’s life had started to change from day one. When Jr. was strolling down the hall to his first class of the day, the assistant principle standing 12 inches shorter approached Dwight from behind. Excuse me, aren’t you in the wrong wing, son?

Dwight Jr. swung around so fast the assistant principle just about pissed in his pants. No, sir. I’m a freshman and my class is right there, pointing right behind him to his left.

What’s your teacher’s name and subject then? asked the assistant principle trying to reassert his authority.

English, sir, and the teacher is Mrs. Stevens.

Very well. Get moving then, son. Don’t want to be late on the first day now, do we?

The morning had gone well for Dwight Jr. During the first three periods, he was the center of attention. Not only was he the largest kid in the school, he was also very handsome. The girls were head-over-heels over him and the boys were jealous. During the last two years, Dwight had grown accustomed to his size and loved every bit of it. However, his parents had told him to never take advantage of it.

Except for football, his father always said.

One thing was definitely for sure; Dwight Jr. knew that there was no one in the school he couldn’t handle.

Dwight’s mother had recently told him right before school was to kick off, Dwight, honey—taking advantage of your size is like spitting into the wind. It’ll come right back in your face.

Dwight would never, ever forget that in the future.

When Dwight walked into the school cafeteria, within seconds you could hear a pin drop as all heads and eyes focused on the freshman. Word had gotten around about Dwight’s size. Once the loud noises, trash talking and food fights resumed to normal life after a few minutes of silence, Dwight noticed some strange movement from the right side of the cafeteria. Turning to look, he saw three boys sitting at a table by the front entrance of the cafeteria wearing black jackets with white scorpions sewn over their left chest. Three tables around them were completely empty. Noticing that the students were exiting from the opposite side of the cafeteria, Dwight knew that they were trouble and thought nothing of it. Ten minutes had passed by when some scrimpy little kid—for sure a freshman—tried to pass by them. The three thugs stopped the kid, had a few words, and then the kid turned around and went out the other exit. The three thugs along with everyone else in the cafeteria hit the floor laughing. Dwight thought for a moment looking at the thugs and just smiled. They returned Dwight’s smile by flipping their middle fingers. Larry, Moe and Curly.

Dwight’s initial thought was to try his luck going out their door. Remembering what his mother had told him, he thought against it. Besides, Dwight knew they would let him pass and causing trouble was not a good idea on the first day of school. The last thing he ever wanted to do was to embarrass his parents.

When football practice started that afternoon, Dwight was pumped. Arriving on the field, the closet kid to his height and size was three inches smaller. Obviously a receiver. Damn! He’s boney as hell. A kid that skinny couldn’t come close to absorb any type of impact unless he’s diving into water.

After the break down of positions, there were six kids including Dwight competing for the starting quarterback position. Watching the receivers—sure enough, Boney was running routes on the far side of the field. Come to find out later in practice, Boney turned out to be a freshman as well. Watching him running sprints, Dwight was amazed by the speed the skinny kid carried. He was faster than a bolt-of-lighting and an Indianapolis race car put together. When the coaches put the two positions together for a few plays, Dwight couldn’t wait to see what the two could accomplish together. A strong quarterback and a fast receiver equaled a few state championships.

The last half of practice was nothing but success. After Dwight completed twenty-five passes, 9 for 9 for 105 yards to Boney, the rest was history. The JV squad finished the season at 7-0. Dwight compiled up stats that no other quarterback in the state even came close to comparison. The remarkable story, however, was Boney. Boney was the only receiver in state history as a freshman to catch twenty-two touchdowns—all coming from Dwight C. Boatwright. At the end of the season, the coaches were already thinking about the following year as the Varsity squad finished at a devastating 2-7 record.

Boney and Dwight ended up being best of friends throughout high school. Boney’s real name was James Jackson Hamlin. Everyone called Boney J.J. except Dwight. One day in April after school, Dwight had asked J.J. why he never had a problem with him calling the receiver Boney.

I never wanted any trouble, Dwight. I just wanted to play football. The president still thinks about Boney today.

After their freshman year was completed, the two friends continued to practice during the summer. Dwight had finished out his six-feet-seven-inches of growth, while Boney had done the same at six-feet-two-inches. Both boys GPA were 4.0 consecutively as college scouts were already looking at them as upcoming sophomores.

Later that summer, Dwight and his mother had gone to Sumter shopping for clothes. Dwight’s parents had hoped that his growth during the transition from junior high to high school would have stopped—but no such luck.

Shannantown was still recovering slowly from the Great Depression and WWII. Men were a rare breed in those days. The Korean War had put another burden on the small little town during 1950-1953. World War II had taken eleven lives while the Asian conflict had taken thirty-two. As the two were walking down Calhoun Street, Dwight stopped in front of an Army Recruiting office. The poster outside had caught his attention. Dwight’s mother knew right then and there that her son would be wearing a military uniform.

During the remaining three years of high school, Dwight and Boney continued to break all school and state records while maintaining their 4.0 GPA. They took the school to a sensational 36-0 record and three state championships. Midway through their senior year, Boney committed to the University of Texas while Dwight was still waiting for Congress to approve his West Point application. Boney couldn’t understand why Dwight was so interested in the military. The world was at peace so why not play pro football.

It’s all about patriotism, Boney, was all Dwight ever said.

While every major college and university was calling the Boatwright’s residence trying to sign Dwight Jr, Dwight was already researching and studying for West Point. Already knowing for certain that he would get accepted because of his school academics and off campus curriculum, Dwight couldn’t understand the hold up. His father had told him, It takes time, son. The Army wants the best candidates for West Point.

Nine days later the letter arrived. Walking in the front door after eight hours of working at the Burger Barn, Dwight heard his mother crying. Dwight’s heart sank as he thought the worst. God, please not dad. Running into the living room, Dwight saw both of his parents sitting on the couch with a letter in his father’s hand. Before Dwight could ask, Who? his father got up and handed the letter to Dwight and shook his hand. It’s okay, son. Your mother and I are so happy for you.

When Dwight finished reading the letter, he ran straight over to Boney’s. He couldn’t wait to tell his best friend. When Mrs. Hamlin answered the door, she immediately recognized that Dwight had good news. Come on in and tell all, Dwight.

Is Boney home, Mrs. Hamlin? Dwight asked breathless.

For all the years Mrs. Hamlin had known Dwight, her only disappointment was the nickname he gave her son. Yes, Dwight, J.J’s up in his room.

Running up the stairs, Dwight charged into Boney’s room and slammed the door right into Boney’s back, knocking him into the wall causing him to fall to his knees. Fuck, Dwight! Slow down, man. Getting up on his feet, Dwight busted out laughing after noticing a red spot on Boney’s forehead.

Sorry, Boney. I was so excited about showing you my letter.

What letter? Boney asked while rubbing his forehead.

Dwight handed Boney his letter. After reading the letter, Boney snapped to attention and saluted. Congratulations, sir!

Not yet, Boney, but fuck you anyway.

"I hope you know what you’re doing, man… because I could definitely see us winning four