Rawhide Down_ The Near Assassination of Ronald Reagan - Del Quentin Wilber [43]
Unrue handed him the microphone, its cord connected to the dashboard.
“Rawhide is okay, follow-up,” Parr radioed Shaddick in the follow-up car. “Rawhide is okay.”
“Halfback, roger,” Shaddick replied. “You want to go to the hospital or back to the White House?”
“We’re going, we’re going to Crown,” Parr said, using the code name for the White House.
“Okay,” Shaddick said.
A few seconds later, Parr turned back to Reagan. Despite his assurance that he was all right, the president looked as if he was in pain.
“I think you hurt my rib,” he growled. “I’m having trouble breathing.”
“Is it your heart?” Parr asked.
“I don’t think so,” Reagan replied.
Reagan was pressing his left arm hard against his chest. Reaching into his right jacket pocket, the president pulled out a paper napkin that he’d taken from the hotel’s holding room. He wiped it on his lips. When he pulled the napkin away, it was coated in blood.
“I think I cut the inside of my mouth,” he said.
Half kneeling, half sitting in the speeding limousine, Parr leaned in and studied the napkin. Then he spotted blood on the president’s lips.
* * *
HUNCHED FORWARD IN the driver’s seat, with the limousine’s sirens wailing and its hood-mounted flags flapping in the wind, Drew Unrue tried to keep calm and alert as they sped down Connecticut Avenue. There was no traffic, because D.C. police had shut down all the intersections in anticipation of the president’s departure from the Hilton.
Unrue’s big worry, though, was that he would hit something. As they sped away from the hotel, he had swerved just in time to avoid crashing into a stalled police car. Then, as they raced down Connecticut Avenue, a woman pushed a stroller into their path. Unrue dodged left, barely missing her. “Don’t hit anything,” Unrue repeated to himself as he checked his mirrors and watched the road ahead. “Don’t make this worse.”
It didn’t help that they were alone. They’d pulled away from the Hilton so fast that they’d left the rest of the motorcade behind. Unrue checked the rearview mirror again but still didn’t see the follow-up car.
He forced his mind to slow down. This was the most important drive of his life, and he could not afford to make a mistake. Don’t compound this, he thought.
He scanned the road ahead and then took another quick look in the rearview mirror. This time he spotted the spare limousine and the black follow-up car, both racing to catch the Lincoln. At least he was no longer alone.
A few moments later, the spare and the follow-up car drew up behind them. Unrue saw two agents, their Uzis drawn, clinging to the armored Cadillac’s running boards. About a mile from the Hilton, the tan Lincoln pulled to the right and allowed Halfback to race ahead and settle in behind the president’s limousine, in its proper spot.
D.C. police officers were not far behind, and soon at least one squad car and several motorcycles sped ahead of the Secret Service vehicles, taking the lead. The president now had a makeshift motorcade.
* * *
IN THE BACK of Stagecoach, Jerry Parr examined the president. Not only was his face gray, his lips seemed a little blue. Clearly Reagan had been hurt in some way—was a rib broken? And whatever his injury, could it be treated by doctors at the White House?
Parr spun quickly through his options, wondering whether they should return to the White House or head straight to the nearest hospital. But what if the assassination attempt was part of a coordinated attack? What if there were other assassins out there? In that case, the White House was the safest place on earth, and that was where he should go. Besides, if he decided to take the president to a hospital and he hadn’t been seriously injured, the visit might unnecessarily panic the country or trigger a financial crisis. Moreover, the hospital wouldn’t be guarded, so he would be putting the president at great risk, especially if coconspirators were lurking there, waiting, if need be, to finish the job.
Still, what if Reagan was badly injured? Going to the White House could be disastrous; they’d be much