President Ronald Reagan threw himself into bed. It had been a long day for the Gipper, one that he wouldn’t soon forget. In fact, the whole year of 1987 had been quite the busy one for the Chief of State. For now, however, he simply wanted to sleep. He had already changed into his bedclothes and gave Nancy a good-night kiss. That night, however, was not going to be a normal night for the old Great Communicator. After a few hours of fitful sleep — one no doubt plagued by the problems of the Union and the world as a whole — the President rose from his bed and let his elderly — yet still very much capable — legs carry him to the Executive Washroom. He sent the water running forth with a nimble turn of the tap and a familiar squeak. Splashing the cool liquid on his face, Reagan stared at his wrinkled visage in the mirror. He couldn’t deny it — he was getting up there in years. Not that he would admit it to the American people or anyone else, but he couldn’t deny it to himself or his First Lady.
Just then, Ron couldn’t help but hear the red phone ringing in the Oval Office. The Kremlin didn’t normally call this late, so he figured it must be urgent. Sprinting down the hallway as fast as his wrinkled frame could carry him and the Presidential bathrobe he fastened around himself, the Gipper snatched the phone off the hook and held the receiver to his ear. Panting and out of breath, Reagan asked, “H-hello?”
“Hello, Mister Reagan.” A thick Russian accent greeted the Chief Executive.
“Yes. Meet me at Russian embassy alone. I have a surprise.”