Armbruster knew the best way to soothe a nervous cat-at least this nervous one-was to let it sniff his loose, unthreatening fingers. He let his fingers go limp and pushed them toward the hissing feline.
"Have a good sniff," he said soothingly The cat growled like a junkyard dog.
Armbruster pulled back slightly. "Whoa, there, tiger. What's your problem?"
The cat straightened its ebony back, and Armbruster approached again.
In his ear the radio voice of the assistant detail head asked, "What's keeping you with that fool cat, Armbruster?"
"Hold your horses," Armbruster barked. "I'm closing in for the kill."
And the cat pounced.
THE ASSISTANT HEAD of the White House detail was named Jack Murtha and he had just received word that Marine One was about to land.
"We're going to need as many agents as we can scrounge up to meet Big Mac. "
"Roger," Murtha said, and then into his mike he asked, "Murtha to Armbruster. What's keeping you with that fool cat?"
Back came a testy and unprofessional "Hold your horses."
Then his earphone filled with a hissing, spitting, snarling ball of sound, and Armbruster was screaming in a high, frightened voice, "Backup! I need backup! Rose Garden!"
"All available agents! Rose Garden. Armbruster in trouble."
As he ran, Murtha wondered what the hell was going on. It sounded as if Armbruster had gotten himself tangled up in the mother of all cat fights.
They found Special Agent Dick Armbruster sprawled in the Rose Garden, his face striated with streaks of red and his right hand in ribbons.
"There he goes, the bastard," Armbruster shouted, pointing with a shredded index finger.
Everyone looked where he pointed.
"There who goes?"
"That damn killer cat. It jumped me. Look what it did to my hand."
"What'd you do, kick it?"
"I never touched it. It attacked me. Christ, it was a damn cougar."
"Get that cat," Murtha said. "Two of you, stay with me. We'll get him inside before the press or the President sees this mess."
Jack Murtha was overseeing the moving of the injured agent when the sound of wildcats came in stereo. In the earpiece and just around the corner.
"Ahh!" an agent screamed.
"That sounds like Reynolds."
"It's that cat. It must be rabid," Armbruster said.
"You sure?"
"You know that cat. Mellow as pipe smoke. Look what it did. It's not itself."
"Damn," Murtha said, lifting his wrist mike on the run. "All agents. Possible rabid cat moving toward South Lawn. All available agents pursue and surround. Use extreme caution."
The wildcat sounds stopped suddenly, and when Murtha, two special agents in tow, reached the place where they heard the sound, they found the two agents squirming on the grass.
"Reynolds! What happened?"
Reynolds looked up with pleading eyes. He was clutching his throat with both hands. Blood was dripping through the cracks in his fingers, and when Murtha yanked them away, he saw exposed trachea.
Reynolds gave out a choking gurgle, and his eyes rolled up in his head.
The other special agent was sitting, holding his left eye cupped in one hand.
"I think it got my eye."
"Damn, what's got into that cat?" Into his hand mike, he barked, "Report on Flea Dip."
"Burton here. Vonier and I have that tick-bait cat in sight."
"Use extreme caution. Do not attempt to apprehend without assistance."
"The cat?"
"Yes, the fucking cat. Surround but do not approach."
"Roger," Burton said in a dubious tone.
FULLY SEVEN trained special agents converged on the South Lawn where Marine One was due to arrive shortly.
Socks the First Cat was pacing in increasingly smaller circles as it became aware of the closing net of frightened humans.
"We'll close the circle and keep it contained until Marine One sets down," Murtha said, whispering into his hand mike so as not to spook the First Cat.
A chorus of "Rogers" filtered back.
"Anybody notice if it's foaming at the mouth?"
"Negative. No foam."
"No foam from this side."
The cat continued pacing, arching its back often.