Free The Cairo Code by Glenn Meade Page B

but that was where it got difficult. It wasn’t every day you got to bring the president of the United States aboard. Franklin Delano Roosevelt was a cripple, wheelchair-bound most of his life, so it posed a particular problem. He couldn’t step onto the boom, so a harness had been arranged to winch him onto the Iowa.
    McCrea looked down into the gentle swell as a succession of Secret Service agents and aides jumped from the tug onto the boom, and then it was the president’s turn. He saw the familiar sight of Roosevelt appear, the big, kindly face and the ready smile, as he was helped from his wheelchair. His lower legs were encased in metal braces, the spindly limbs as thin as a young boy’s, a legacy of childhood polio which left him in frequent agony. It took two Secret Service agents to carry him to the harness and secure him, and then it was winched up.
    It some ways it was a pitiful sight, and one McCrea was dreading. The president of the most powerful country on earth, the man on whom the world depended to win the war, being hoisted aboard the Iowa on a harness made of wood and rope davits. But there was no sign of fear or self-pity on the man’s face, just solemn determination. McCrea waited patiently, his heart in his mouth, hoping to God there wasn’t an accident, that the ropes didn’t break and the president of America slip from the harness and drown.
    Finally, Roosevelt was helped aboard, and McCrea breathed a sigh of relief. A flurry of Secret Service agents went to his assistance, the wheelchair appeared on deck, and Roosevelt was helped out of the harness and into the chair. One of the agents placed the familiar heavy naval cloak around the president’s shoulders. McCrea had noticed the admiration on the faces of his crew as they watched the whole process, young and not-so-young American seamen who had crowded on deck to catch a glimpse of their famous passenger. They looked on in awe and surprise, wanting to applaud, but the order had gone out that no honors were to be rendered when their passengers boarded. This was a top-secret mission, and the Iowa ’s crew complied to a man. McCrea saluted. “Welcome on board, Mr. President, sir.”
    Roosevelt smiled warmly, offered his hand. “Captain McCrea. So you’re the poor fellow who’s got the dubious pleasure of getting me safely to my destination?”
    â€œI am indeed, sir. We’ve got your quarters all set up. If you’ll kindly walk this way and—” McCrea left the words unfinished, remembering the president’s infirmity as he looked at him in the wheelchair. It was a dumb mistake and he blushed a deep crimson. He had been Roosevelt’s naval aide for two years, and yet the man’s steely determination constantly made you forget that not only was he a cripple, but he also suffered gravely from heart disease.
    Roosevelt brushed aside the blunder, warmly took hold of McCrea’s arm and laughed. “Don’t you worry, Captain. I get around pretty well in this darned contraption, so you just lead the way.”
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    When they entered Roosevelt’s cabin on the upper deck, McCrea said, “I took the liberty of bringing along some route maps, to show you how we’ll proceed, Mr. President.”
    The president fitted a Lucky Strike into a Bakelite cigarette holder. “That’s most kind of you, Captain.”
    A Secret Service agent offered a light before he pushed the wheelchair over to the table. Another agent stood close at hand, carrying a black doctor’s bag of emergency medicines: the president’s heart pills, his rubbing mixtures for when he became soaked in sweat, which he often did from overexertion, bottles of various painkillers, and—as always—a small bottle of whiskey.
    McCrea waited until Roosevelt had slipped on his glasses, then pointed to the map. “We’ve plotted a course south past the