"When they contract rabies, they lose their minds," Murtha said grimly.
"It does have that stupid look rabid animals get."
"You ask me, that fool cat was born looking stupid."
The circle continued closing. Socks walked in tighter and tighter circles, starting in one direction and retreating when it realized there was no loophole in the circle of polished cordovans.
The distinctive echoing rattle of Marine One came at the worst possible time.
The First Cat gathered itself up.
"Okay," Murtha said urgently. "Just everybody hold your ground. It's too well fed to jump very high."
In that, Jack Murtha was wrong. From a standing start, Socks jumped straight backward. Everyone expected a forward leap. So the agents behind the First Cat were caught by surprise.
The cat hopped backward like a bullfrog to land between Jack Murtha's legs.
"Mother-" he said, reaching down to grab the cat by the neck in both hands. Maybe he could immobilize it by cutting off its oxygen. He had been taught that hold at the service's training center at Beltsville.
Jack Murtha wrapped all ten fingers around the cat and lifted. It was an adaptation of his training and looked good in theory.
In practice it was a disaster.
The cat squirmed, clawing, and its rear claws raked his wrists and hands. It was like trying to hold on to a threshing python. Its strength was incredible.
Marine One settled closer. He could feel the hair at his neck stir under the fierce prop wash.
"Give me a hand!" he cursed.
But it was too late. Frenzied claws forced him to let go.
The First Cat sprinted off, tail curled high, a halfdozen Secret Service special agents in hot pursuit.
"Damn it! Don't let it get near the President," Murtha said, holding up the ribbons that were now his wrists. "Shoot it if you have to, but don't let that the little fucker get near Big Mac!"
THE PRESIDENT of the United States looked out the window of Marine One as the great expanse of the South Lawn came into view.
He saw a knot of Secret Service special agents pounding toward the landing pad.
"Don't you think they're overdoing it?" he asked his Secret Service bodyguard.
"Until a conspiracy is proven or disproven, there is no such concept as overdoing it, sir," said Vincent Capezzi.
"That, I plan to take up with your superior."
"I understand he's en route to the White House, Mr. President," Capezzi said as the big helicopter touched ground. He unbuckled and leapt from his seat to open the door for the Chief Executive.
The President of the United States emerged from Marine One to see a frantic clot of agents pounding toward him. Leading the group, as if in welcome, was Socks the family cat.
Despite his bad mood, the President let a smile come to his puffy face. "Now, isn't that just the cutest thing you ever did see?"
"What is?"
"Socks. Looks kinda like he's leading the Secret Service."
Vince Capezzi turned and saw the look on the faces of his fellow agents. Their shouting blended into a hoarse burst of sound.
Reaching for his belt, he turned on his radio.
Through the earphone came a blur of frantic shouting.
"Shoot him!"
"Shoot the fucker!"
Capezzi spotted the guns in his fellow agents hands and jumped to a reasonable conclusion.
There was no one between the frantic special agents and the President but himself and the family cat. They obviously weren't out to shoot the cat. They must mean either the President or himself.
Either way, Vince Capezzi's duty was clear.
Throwing the President of the United States to the grass at the foot of the blue-carpeted fold-down helicopter steps, Capezzi snapped his MAC-11 from its whip-it shoulder sling, simultaneously throwing himself across the President's bulky form, and prepared to mow down his fellow agents and ask questions later.
He just hoped a stray round didn't catch the First Cat. Ballbuster would kill him.
Chapter 13
Capitol Hill police cruisers and sawhorses had blocked all approach roads to the White House, so the taxi driver turned to Remo Williams and said, "This is as far as I can take you."
"Thanks," said Remo, throwing the cabbie a twenty and stepping out of the car.
Marine One was coming down at a shallow angle toward the the dull green expanse of the South Lawn, so Remo figured matters were reasonably well in hand.
The burst of gunfire brought him from a standing position to a floating run that was deceptively fast.
Remo went over the White House fence and flashed over the ground so fast his feet never tripped the seismic sensors buried under the turf.
There were no guards to stop him as he whipped toward the South Lawn. Not that any guard would have been fast enough to react.
Remo's senses were trained to absorb and analyze dangerous situations in a split second. A microsecond was sometimes all he had to dodge a bullet or evade other forms of sudden death.
Coming around the corner, Remo saw a clot of Secret Service agents dropping into firing positions.
The weapons were pointed toward Marine One. At the foot of the fold-down blue-carpeted steps whose risers were emblazoned with the words, Welcome Aboard Marine One, a lone agent was sprawled over the President of the United States and was shooting short bursts over the heads of the others, crying, "Lay down your arms! Goddamn it, lay down your arms!"
Confusion marked the faces of the crouching agents. Some hesitated. Others were throwing up their hands in surrender.