The Rivalry (17 page)

They all laughed, happy to have the mood lightened a bit.

“Sorry I have to run,” Niumatalolo said. “I have to get inside and meet with my coaches.”

“You’ll stay in touch, right?” Kelleher said.

“You have my word,” Niumatalolo said.

He waved to everyone and walked off.

“Get anything?” Tamara said.

“Yeah,” Kelleher said. “I’ll tell you about it in the car. We need to get back to the office so we can all write.”

As they were driving out the gate, Kelleher filled them in.

“Obviously we can’t use this right now for about a million reasons,” he said. “But Kenny said the Secret Service told him that they may not let the Arnott family into the game.”

“They can do that?” Susan Carol said.

“They can keep anyone they want out of the game if they believe their presence might be a danger to the president,” Kelleher said.

“Do you think the president is in any real danger?” Susan Carol asked.

“I don’t,” Kelleher said. “If there’s something going on—and that still seems like a big
if
to me—the FBI and the Secret Service are on it and they know what they’re doing. I
do
think getting into that stadium next Saturday is going to be a real nightmare.”

“So we keep after the story, then?” Stevie asked.

“Oh yeah,” Bobby said. “We’re like the Secret Service. We don’t take anything for granted and we don’t assume anything. Hey, there’s one other thing Kenny told me that may be just as interesting on another front.”

“What’s that?” Tamara asked.

“They tried to get the officiating crew changed. Kenny and Chet said they didn’t want anyone who was on the Notre Dame crew on the game.”

“How’d that go over?” Susan Carol asked, instantly intrigued.

“Not well. In fact, they’re still fighting about it. The ACC, which assigns the officials, said it wouldn’t change the crew, there was no reason to change the crew, and they were insulted by the request. Kenny responded by sending the tape of the two plays from Notre Dame with a note that said, ‘You show me where there was a hold on either play and I’ll shut up. Otherwise, I want different officials.’ ”

“And?” Susan Carol asked.

“They sent the tape Friday. They haven’t heard anything back.”

“What a surprise,” Susan Carol said bitterly. “The refs are all too busy writing letters to the editor.”

Back at the
Post
, as they were coming off the elevators, they ran into Bob Woodward.

“Hey, it’s the four Musketeers,” Woodward said. “Have you guys been able to keep Bobby in line this week?”

“Almost. Actually, it’s these two we’ve had trouble with—as usual,” Tamara said, pointing to Stevie and Susan Carol.

“Oh yes, this must be the famous Susan Carol,” Woodward said, putting his hand out. “I’m Bob Woodward. Great piece on the Notre Dame–Navy game. I’m with you on the referees. I say never trust them.”

In all the time he had known her, Stevie had never seen Susan Carol anywhere close to speechless. Now she could barely stammer back, “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Woodward.”

“Bob,” Woodward said. “Where are you from, Susan Carol? Obviously somewhere in the South.”

“I’m from …” Susan Carol paused. “I’m from …” She stopped again. Stevie was amazed. He’d seen her cool, calm, and collected while talking to Matt Damon, to star quarterback Eddie Brennan, to any number of famous people. Now she was completely flustered.

“Goldsboro, North Carolina,” Tamara said, coming to the rescue.

“I’m from a small town too,” Woodward said, patting her on the shoulder. “Wheaton, Illinois. It’s very nice to meet you. You guys keep up the good work.”

An elevator had arrived and he stepped onto it with a wave goodbye.

Stevie looked at Susan Carol. All color had drained from her face. “I—I can’t believe it,” she stammered. “I forgot where I was from.”

“Bob is so un-intimidating he can be intimidating,” Tamara said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it? I just met Bob Woodward and I couldn’t remember where I
lived
. I’ve never been so humiliated in my life!”

“Trust me, Bob will judge you only by what you write,” Kelleher said. “Speaking of which, let’s get going.”

Stevie had a lot of one-liners running through his head as they walked back to sports, but he resisted. He’d save them for when he really needed them.…

As was often the case, Stevie’s biggest problem in writing about the two quarterbacks, Ricky Dobbs and Trent Steelman, was deciding what to leave out. He had enough to write two thousand words easily.

“Write two thousand if you want,” Kelleher said. “They’ll just use the best one thousand.”

“I’m betting that line isn’t original,” Stevie said. “It sounds like something an editor would say.”

“George Minot,” Kelleher said. “One of my first editors right out of college. That was always his line when I asked for extra space. He meant it too.”

Susan Carol was given fifteen hundred words to write about the Arnott brothers and how one had ended up at Army, the other at Navy, and what it would be like for the two of them to play against each other in the biggest game of their lives.

Stevie finished first and read some of Susan Carol’s story over her shoulder.

Stevie stopped reading. “That’s really good,” he said.

“They’re both good talkers,” Susan Carol said. “Makes it easy.”

“Being good makes it easy,” Stevie said. “Don’t let one dumb letter make you think any different.”

That earned him a kiss. Which pretty much made his day.

S
tevie heard a loud cheer coming from the Navy side of the field. The stadium, which seated more than ninety-two thousand, was now filled to capacity. The Midshipmen, led by Ricky Dobbs and Wyatt Middleton, had appeared in their tunnel, wearing their white uniforms and gold helmets. A TV functionary wearing a headset stood in front of the remaining players, obviously waiting for the signal to send Navy onto the field.

When it finally came, the players streamed from the tunnel. Two players carried American flags, and five cheerleaders streaked across the field carrying massive flags that said
N
,
A
,
V
,
Y
and
GO MIDS!
The crowd on the Navy side went crazy. Stevie noticed Dobbs and Middleton, escorted by cops and at least one Secret Service agent, break away to head for midfield.

As soon as the Navy players had begun their sprint, the Army players raced onto the field from the opposite tunnel, and now the explosion of applause came from behind where Stevie and Susan Carol were standing at the 25-yard line.

Both bands were playing their fight songs. The place was impossibly loud.

But then it got louder still. Six F-15E Strike Eagles flew in formation low over the field. The sleek gray jets were gone almost as soon as Stevie noticed them. But the sound of them came a couple seconds later, and Stevie could feel it vibrating up through his feet and rattling in his chest. That drowned out even the crowd noise for a minute.

Everything seemed to be happening fast now.

Tim Kelly, Dick Hall, and Dean Taylor were jogging down the sideline, having followed the Army team onto the field. They spotted Stevie and Susan Carol and waved.

Secret Service agents were also pouring out of the tunnel and fanning out around the field.

“Stay close to us now,” Dowling said. “You wander off somewhere, you’re apt to be taken off the field by an agent who doesn’t know you.”

“Even with all-access passes?” Stevie said.

Dowling laughed. “They mean nothing once the president walks in here,” he said. “
I’m
your all-access pass right now.”

Even though he’d laughed briefly, Susan Carol could sense the tension in his voice. The president was about to
arrive on field. This had to be the scariest time for the agents.

Then the Army band started to play “Hail to the Chief,” and everyone turned to face the Army tunnel. And suddenly, there he was—the president—looking just as relaxed and happy as he had when she’d met him in his office last Monday.

S
tevie was dressed up in a blue blazer and gray pants and a carefully knotted tie, but he gawked when Susan Carol came downstairs in a tailored blue dress and high heels.

“Heels?” Stevie said.

“I’m goin’ to the White House to meet the president of the United States,” she said. “Should I be wearin’ sneakers?”

“No,” he said. “But it isn’t a state dinner, it’s an interview.”

“Lay off, Stevie,” said Kelleher, who was standing at the stove making eggs. “She looks great and so do you. Just make sure you both remember a tape recorder
and
a notebook. They’ll probably have someone there taping the interview too, but it’s always good to have backup.”

Stevie had been pretty calm about the interview—right to the moment they pulled up at the White House gate.

Bob Campbell was waiting outside for them.

“Right on time,” he said, looking at his watch.

“I don’t imagine too many people are late for appointments with the president,” Susan Carol said.

“True,” Campbell said. “Most of the time it’s the other way around. President Obama is actually pretty good as presidents go about staying on time.”

“Anyone who was really bad?” Stevie asked.

“President Clinton.” Campbell laughed. “On a good day he was two hours behind schedule. Come on, let’s get you through security and I’ll give you a ten-minute tour.”

The security check was thorough but not too bad. They had already been given clearance since their social security numbers had been submitted a couple of weeks earlier. The guards were friendly, no doubt in part because of Campbell’s presence. Once they were inside the gate, they walked through a small parking lot that sat between the White House and a massive older-looking building that was connected to the White House with a canopy.

“What’s that building?” Stevie asked, hearing Susan Carol sigh loudly as soon as the question was out of his mouth.

“That’s the OEOB,” Dowling said.

“The OEO what?” Stevie said.

Susan Carol was now rolling her eyes. “Steven Thomas, have you never even watched
West Wing
?” she said. “The OEOB is the Old Executive Office Building. It’s where most of the White House staff works.”

“I have watched
West Wing
,” Stevie said. “I just didn’t
memorize it. So the White House staff all works over there?”

“Most of it, actually,” Campbell said. “Only those who need to be closest to the president actually work in the White House itself.”

They walked into a small lobby filled with photos of President Obama with various people, most of whom Stevie didn’t recognize. One he did recognize was Ken Niumatalolo, standing next to the president, who was holding up a Navy football jersey with his name and a number 1 on it. Seeing him staring at the photo, Campbell pointed at it.

“That’s the only one up there now that wasn’t taken in the last month,” he said. “Most of the photos put up here are recent. But for Army-Navy week they dug that one out. It’s from last April when the Navy team came here to officially receive the Commander-in-Chief’s Trophy.”

“So the winner of the game gets to come to the White House,” Stevie said.

“The winner of the
trophy
does,” Campbell said. “Since Army and Navy both beat Air Force this year, yes, the winner Saturday will be coming here at some point.”

They continued down a hall and Campbell stopped at a door with a guard on it. “Hey, Mike, I just want to give the kids a quick look if nothing’s going on,” he said.

“All quiet,” Mike said, hitting some kind of button on the wall that swung the door open. They walked into a small room with a long table in the middle, clocks on one of the walls, and what looked like a computer screen of some kind on the far wall.

“Know what this is?”

“The situation room, right?” Susan Carol said.

“No way,” Stevie said. “It can’t be this small.”

“That’s what most people say. But you’re right, Susan Carol. Come on, we’ll go upstairs and I’ll show you the press room. You’ll be surprised at how small it is too.”

They went up a flight of stairs, down a couple of very busy hallways, and through a door into an interview room that was about half the size of the interview room Stevie had been in at West Point a week earlier and maybe one-tenth the size of an interview room at the Final Four or the Super Bowl.

“The White House press room,” Campbell said.

The only reason Stevie believed him was that he could see a podium with the presidential seal and a White House logo behind it. It appeared to seat fewer than a hundred.