"Is there some sort of shot you can give him?" Magnus Lattimore asked.

Gabe stopped himself at the last possible instant from snapping at the chief of staff.

"As soon as I know what's going on, I'll treat him," Gabe said instead. "Right now, as long as he's not in immediate danger, masking these symptoms is the last thing I want to do."

Stoddard was perspiring profusely now, his face cardinal red. But the rocking had stopped. Still, he continued a rapid, disjointed chatter, jumping from topic to topic, laughing inappropriately, and mixing in often bizarre opinions on issues of public concern—opinions that Gabe knew were not typically held by the man. The Andrew Stoddard he had known since college was Dr. Jekyll. This was Mr. Hyde. Gabe wondered in passing what would happen if the nation's commander in chief suddenly started calling out for the military aide with The Football.

Moving slowly but deliberately, Gabe checked his patient's blood pressure in each arm and his pulse in the neck, arms, and feet. The pressure was up—160 over 100—in each arm, and the pulse was also up at 105. Years of training and practice had kicked in the moment Gabe entered the room, and with each second he was observing, avoiding assumptions, and considering dozens of diagnostic possibilities—rejecting some, filing others away as possible, moving still others to the forefront of probability.

Ignoring the steady stream of pressured babble, Gabe did as rapid a physical exam as he dared. There would be time for more detailed examination and testing when the immediate crisis had been dealt with. As matters stood, two things were apparent to him: The President of the United States was not having a cerebral hemorrhage or a cardiac episode and so was in no immediate danger, but also, at the moment, the man was quite mad.

CHAPTER 8

For the twenty minutes that followed and the twenty minutes just past, Gabe knew that the United States was without reliable leadership. He continued his evaluation of Andrew Stoddard, but Gabe's mind was spinning. Someone had to be notified, probably the vice president. Ellis Wright was an ass, but he had been absolutely justified in saying that Gabe had to become an expert on presidential illness and succession.

But why hadn't Lattimore stepped forward—or even Carol? Why were they standing by almost calmly as one of the greatest crises imaginable evolved before them? Why had the only even slightly emotional thing either of them uttered been Lattimore's request—a request that Gabe brushed aside as bordering on malpractice—that the president be given some sort of shot to settle him down? It didn't take a formal medical education to reason out that unless a diagnosis was either known or quite obvious, giving any sort of mind-altering medication to someone with acute brain dysfunction, from either trauma, stroke, or chemical imbalance, was contraindicated.