Michael Palmer - A Heartbeat Away

But he didn’t.

Instead, Griffin Rhodes had a sinking feeling that he might have just replaced one layer of hell for another.

“Sir, I have President Allaire on the sat phone,” Captain Lewis said. “He’s ready to speak with you.”

The marine passed over a bulky, stainless steel case with a satellite phone inside. Griff had to take off his helmet to speak. The constant churn from the rotors made it hard to hear, but not impossible.

“Dr. Griffin Rhodes? This is President Jim Allaire,” the voice, distinguishable despite the background noise, said.

“Mr. President.”

Griff knew all about Allaire’s involvement with Project Veritas. But only Sylvia Chen and a few higher-ups had any direct contact with the man. Griff suspected he might now come to regret having joined the ranks of those accorded the honor.

“Dr. Rhodes, there has been a massive exposure to WRX3883,” Allaire said.

Griff’s jaw tightened. Captain Lewis apparently felt the tension and turned away to look out the window. Bad news could wait, Griff imagined him thinking.

“Where? How bad?”

“We have reason to believe Genesis is behind the attack.”

“Who?”

The president paused.

“You don’t know about Genesis?”

“Well, I haven’t exactly been given a wealth of reading material for the last nine months.”

“Understood. I can explain that later.”

“Where was the exposure?”

“It occurred during my State of the Union Address.”

“Pardon?”

“Yes. You heard correctly. In the chamber of the House of Representatives. Fifteen separate exposures around the hall.”

“How was the virus released?”

“Exploding glass cylinders. Widespread. Somehow, the containers were inserted into purses and briefcases, and then detonated, probably by radio signal.”

“Have you locked down the building?”

“Yes.”

“Tightly?”

“No one in, no one out. The chamber has been sealed and the building as well. Plus there’s an absolute perimeter set up fifty yards outside the Capitol. One man—a senator from Kentucky—tried to sneak out of a little-used exit. He was taken out by a sharpshooter, and his body incinerated.”

Griff breathed a deep sigh. At least they had done that.

“Sir, were you directly exposed?”

“It’s been five hours. We’ve all been exposed—or will be.”

“You authorized Veritas. You know about the progressive mental deterioration?”

“I know. That’s one of the reasons why I ultimately suspended the research and closed down the lab.”

“When?”

“About eight or nine months ago.”

Griff felt himself sink. He had warned Sylvia Chen that the project was too dangerous, the virus too unstable in terms of mutation. He had warned all of them.

“You know we don’t have any treatment,” he said.

“That’s why I’m bringing you to Washington, Dr. Rhodes. I need you to come up with one.”

Griff respected Allaire’s acumen for biology and physiology. According to Sylvia Chen, the president had not only read Griff’s lengthy scientific reports, he understood them as well. The president must have been aware of his slow progress toward an antimicrobial treatment for WRX3883, which meant he also knew he was asking the impossible.

“Mr. President, before we go any farther, there is something I need to know.”

“Go ahead.”

“Were you the one who authorized my arrest?”

There was a prolonged pause.

“We had evidence,” the president said, “irrefutable security film of you stealing canisters of the virus on which you were working. Under the provisions of the Patriot Act, you were a terrorist. What would you have done?”

“I am no terrorist and I stole nothing. Now tell me, did you authorize my arrest?”

“Will my answer affect your decision about helping us?”

I can’t help you because there is nothing I can do before you and the others are dead .

“Regardless of what you say, I will do what I can. But I want the truth.”

“The truth is, yes. Yes, I did authorize your arrest, and I would do it again.”

“And the solitary confinement?”

“I was convinced you had turned. I believed you were a terrorist and a severe threat to the United States of America. I did what I thought was in the best interests of our country. Our plan was to isolate you, and then eventually—”

“To torture me.”

“There were those close to me who wanted to do it immediately,” the president said.

Allaire had done all he could. Despite his obvious contempt for Rhodes, the man was now en route to Washington. The first of two planned portable airlocks with connecting tunnels was in place. Boxes of supplies were now being sent into the Capitol along a bed of metal rollers. At last report, the second tunnel was nearing completion.

The military continued to request expanded access to the Capitol, but Allaire was keeping them at bay. Until Griffin Rhodes had a chance to evaluate the situation and provide a preliminary assessment, the Capitol would remain off-limits to anyone who wasn’t absolutely essential.

Using House Chamber surveillance video, Allaire and Salitas sorted out the group assignments faster than either thought possible. They used the location of the fifteen aerosol blasts to define the breakdown. Group B, those with moderate exposure, numbered just above three hundred. Group A, lowest exposure, were allowed to remain in the House Chamber. There were sixty people whom Allaire marked as having the heaviest exposure. Those individuals were assigned to Admiral Jakes’s C Group.

They would be the first to die.

Gratefully, Rebecca and Samantha were As.

Sylvia Chen’s reports detailing how WRX3883 spread from host to prospective host gave Allaire the idea to establish the quarantine groups. Chen had presented compelling evidence that extended exposure to carriers with later-stage infection increased the amount of virus passed to a new host. Allaire had good reason to believe those with heavy exposure to WRX3883 would speed up the progression of symptoms in people with less virus in their system.

The president understood that he was largely responsible for this disaster. He should have pulled the plug on Veritas sooner. Perhaps he should have taken more people into his confidence before authorizing the program in the first place. He always felt his job was about being true to himself and standing up for what he believed in.

But this time, he had been wrong. His closest friend and advisor, Gary Salitas, had been wrong. And worst of all, given his background as a physician, the scientists he had decided to believe in had been wrong. They had convinced him that the power of WRX3883 could be harnessed—that the adverse effects of the virus could be eliminated. Now, by having supported their view, he had, in all likelihood, signed his own death warrant, as well as those of his wife and daughter, and many, many others.

The report of crusty Harlan Mackey’s grisly demise had been a terrible jolt. Now, death from the virus had a face—probably the first of many.

At the president’s request, Gary Salitas, Jordan Lamar, and Dr. Bethany Townsend remained in the Hard Room. Allaire strained to get his mind around the enormity of what lay beyond the door. This wasn’t the time for remorse and self-pity. Now, more than ever, he had to connect with what it meant to be presidential, knowing his actions might be among the last of his administration.

The others watched and waited.

“How much are you going to tell them?” the defense secretary asked finally.