Radclyffe - Oath of Honor

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and pulled her close. “Wes, this is Dana. She’s my”—Emory glanced at

Dana, an eyebrow raised—“fiancée?”

Dana laughed, a deep throaty chuckle. “Proposal accepted.” She

held out her hand to Wes. “Dana Barnett. I’m with Emory.”

“Yes,” Wes said. “I believe I’ve heard your name mentioned a

time or two…hundred.”

Dana grinned. “Same.”

“Wes,” Emory said, “I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you

had interviews and all that.”

“Circumstances are a little pressured,” Wes said obliquely. Emory

was her best friend, but her new job demanded discretion of the highest

order. “Things are moving a bit faster than normal.”

Emory’s expression grew somber. “I was so sorry to hear about

Leonard. What a tragedy.”

“It was.” Wes hadn’t known Leonard O’Shaughnessy personally,

but even though she dealt with death on a daily basis, sometimes the

seeming unfairness of life defied rationalization. A sudden twist of fate

could send so many lives, including her own, careening down paths

never anticipated. She shook off the cloud of sadness. “My orders were

to report promptly, so—”

Emory laughed. “Do they have any idea who they appointed? Dr.

Punctuality herself.”

“Probably not,” Wes said, hoping someone somewhere had

actually looked at her file, or this might be a very short posting.

“Well, it’s wonderful to see you, and now that you’ll be—” Emory

broke off as a hushed “Oh!” escaped the crowd.

Wes followed her gaze. At the far end of the room, the wedding

party descended the stairs. Oddly, no cameras flashed.

She’d been to a lot of weddings, including some extraordinarily

elaborate ones. She would’ve expected the wedding of the daughter

of the president of the United States to be a State affair. But then she

thought about Blair Powell—despite her well-known public persona,

there was very little about her private life in the public domain. Blair

rarely gave interviews and avoided media glitz and paparazzi. Her

romantic relationship with Cameron Roberts had created quite a bit of

controversy in the national media news, but Blair had had very little to

say other than to acknowledge the truth of the rumors. She might be

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the public face of the presidential family, but her personal life was a

mystery.

The gathering today was small, considering the importance of the

event, and Wes bet everyone there, with the exception of security, was

a personal friend of the first family or Cameron Roberts’s family. There

were few foreign dignitaries, no Hollywood stars, no political pundits.

Only ordinary people gathered to celebrate the special day of someone

they loved.

For a moment, Wes felt like an intruder. She was used to

boundaries—clear, solid ones. She was about to witness an extremely

personal moment in the lives of strangers, without even the excuse of

professional involvement to excuse her presence. Then she recognized

a face at the far side of the room from the briefing documents she’d

been given earlier. Dr. Peter Chang, the acting head of the White House

Medical Unit. A bulky black leather bag sat by his right leg—a bag

that carried a defibrillator, emergency resuscitation equipment, surgical

instruments, and drugs. This gathering might appear to be an ordinary

wedding, but it wasn’t. Nothing about any event with the president in

attendance was ordinary.

Chang was present along with a flight nurse and a physician’s

assistant to ensure the safety and welfare of the president of the United

States—the duty Wes would be assuming within a matter of days. As

the chief of the White House Medical Unit—her new posting—her

charge was to ensure the health and welfare of every employee, visitor,

and dignitary within the White House and grounds. But above all, her

number one responsibility was to the president of the United States. In

a crisis situation, he was her only patient, earning her the title of First

Doctor of the United States. She’d have to get used to witnessing private

moments as well as world-changing ones, since she would never be far

from his side again. Where he went, she went.

Right now, President Andrew Powell looked like every other

proud father she’d ever witnessed. He wore a dark blue suit, snowy

white shirt, and red tie. His face still held a hint of summer tan, and his

thick blond hair made him appear younger than his fifty years. Blair,

her arm linked with her father’s as they descended the staircase, had

the same midnight blue eyes, although her hair was a deeper gold.

Her full-length cream-colored dress, with its square-cut bodice and

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figure-hugging design, accentuated her svelte, athletic body. Her arms

were sleek and muscular, her carriage confident and graceful. She was

beautiful. Cameron Roberts was just behind her, holding the hand of

a beautiful woman who looked very much like her. Marcea Casells,

Roberts’s mother. Roberts—tall, thick black hair brushed back from her

face, intense charcoal eyes—was dressed formally in a gray morning

coat, silver-gray pleated tuxedo shirt, and dark trousers with a satin

stripe down the side. Her gaze followed Blair as if no one else was in

the room.

At the bottom of the staircase, Blair and her father turned toward

an area ringed with arrangements of wildflowers and white roses in

front of the glass doors opening out onto the veranda. An army chaplain

awaited them. The president moved a few steps away from his daughter,

allowing Cameron Roberts to take her place by Blair’s side. The guests

filled the seats set up in one half of the room.

Wes made her way around the perimeter toward Peter Chang. She

wasn’t officially the head of the medical unit yet. Until her final security

clearance, she was in limbo. She hadn’t felt quite so displaced since the

day her mother met her at the bus stop after school one late June day

when she was eight and said they were moving in with her grandmother.

They couldn’t afford to live in the house she’d grown up in any longer.

Wes pushed the uneasy feeling aside. She wasn’t eight anymore, and

she had learned since then that destiny was hers to determine.

Chang nodded to her when she stepped up beside him. He’d

obviously been briefed too, but there was no time for conversation. The

chaplain’s deep voice filled the room.

Dearly beloved …

The president’s daughter and Cameron Roberts faced each other,

hands lightly clasped, eyes locked.

I, Blair Allison Powell, take you, Cameron Reed Roberts, to be my

friend, my lover, the mother of my children, and my wife. I will be yours

in times of plenty and in times of want, in times of sickness and in times

of health, in times of joy and in times of sorrow, in times of failure and

in times of triumph. I promise to cherish and respect you, to care for

and protect you, to comfort and encourage you, and to stay with you,

for all eternity.

A willowy blonde stepped to Blair’s side, and Blair lifted a

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gleaming gold band from her palm. She lifted Cam’s left hand and slid

the ring securely on her third finger. With this ring, I thee wed.

Cameron Roberts’s gaze never wavered from Blair’s face, her

voice ringing strong and clear. I, Cameron Reed Roberts, take you, Blair

Allison Powell, to be my friend, my lover, the mother of my children,

and my wife. I will be yours in times of plenty and in times of want, in

times of sickness and in times of health, in times of joy and in times of

sorrow, in times of failure and in times of triumph. I promise to cherish

and respect you, to care for and protect you, to comfort and encourage

you, and to stay with you, for all eternity.

Roberts accepted the matching ring from a young dark-haired

woman who leaned on a plain wood cane, and slipped it onto Blair’s

finger. With this ring, I thee wed.

An anticipatory breath shuddered through the crowd. Six

uniformed officers, the Guard of Honor, stepped in sync to form a path

from the proceedings area, facing one another in a line, white-gloved

hands on shining saber hilts.

By the power vested in me by the United States Army, the President

of the United States, and the Commonwealth of…

The three male and three female officers drew their swords with

a slick of steel, their blades raised and touching to form the Arch of

Sabers.

…I pronounce you wed.

The couple kissed, the crowd clapped, and Wes turned to Peter

Chang.

“I guess you know who I am.”

Chang held out his hand. “Welcome to the hot zone, Captain.”

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chapter three

Hot zone. The term wasn’t new to Wes, but somehow she

didn’t think Dr. Peter Chang was using it in the usual medical

sense, meaning an area of contamination—typically bacterial or viral

or chemical. In combat, the term referred to the region under fire. When

teaching battlefield evacuation, Wes stressed that the hot zone was the

area where the injured were still in the line of fire, and those charged to

secure their safety would be too. Working in the hot zone was a way of

life for a battlefield surgeon, and though her career path had been one

of teaching, she’d done her tour at the front.

She hadn’t had much time to think about the tactical aspects of her

new job, and she wasn’t sure who she should talk to about the specifics.

One thing any team leader learned quickly was to keep their inexperience

to themselves. She wasn’t too proud to ask for help when she needed to

know something, but she didn’t plan to walk into her first day on the job

acting like a rookie, either. No one needed to explain the critical nature

of her assignment; she had only to look around the room. The president

of the United States, his chief of staff, his military liaison, his daughter,

her newly wedded partner, several ranking members of the cabinet, at

least one member of the Joint Chiefs, the national security advisor, and

the president’s security chief were all gathered in one room. A strike

against this location would effectively paralyze the government of the

most powerful nation in the world. It wasn’t her job to worry about the

security of the nation, only the health, welfare, and safety of its leader.

Right now, that leader was dancing with his daughter, as any

father of the bride would. Ushers and valets in crisp white jackets and

black tuxedo pants had magically secreted the chairs somewhere out

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of sight. A four-piece band had set up adjacent to where the vows had