Michael Palmer - A Heartbeat Away

Dr. Bethany Townsend turned and walked away, struggling to regain composure before she could face the president again.

“No more games, Jim,” she said finally. “No more half-truths and dammit, no more outright lies. As your physician and friend I expect full disclosure, right now, or consider this my resignation.”

Allaire encouraged his physician to take a seat and poured her a glass of water.

“I agree. Promise. Bethany, I need you to devise a means by which we evaluate my mental state.”

“By ‘means,’ are you talking about some sort of test? I know from the Kalvesta files what the virus did to the Jacksons’ central nervous systems. But I thought that danger had been taken care of. Are you implying that there are mental status side effects of this incarnation of the virus as well?”

“Not exactly side effects. After the Jacksons’ disaster, before we stopped the Veritas project altogether, the virus had been working perfectly. You know what interferon is, yes?”

“Of course.”

“I remember the name,” Salitas said, “and I know certain anticancer protocols use it, but I don’t remember what role it plays here.”

“Interferon is a protein made naturally in the body,” Townsend said. “It’s produced in response to certain infections, and also to attacks by cancer cells—particularly those cancers caused by viruses.”

“Sort of like an antibody,” the president added.

“Only not nearly as specific and probably not as powerful. Think about cold sores or other herpes infections. The outbreak happens, then goes away, but the virus is usually not completely removed from the body. Instead some of the germs remain in the skin or along nerve roots in a dormant state. Then a stress or other some factor awakens them. There’s an outbreak, and the cycle is repeated again. We believe that interferon is one of the natural chemicals that drives the virus underground, so to speak. It is manufactured in response to an outbreak.”

“Got it,” Salitas said. “So common colds might be good for us if they stimulate interferon production.”

“Exactly,” Townsend replied. “The interferon produced in response to a common cold could be protective against viruses that cause leukemia. That possibility is still being investigated.”

The president took over the explanation.

“Well, it appeared as if the WRX3883 virus was held in check or even destroyed by interferon and antibodies.… Until it wasn’t.”

“Mutation,” Townsend said in more of a statement than a question.

“All of a sudden Dr. Chen and her team just couldn’t keep it in check. It was as if the virus had become immune to interferon. Remember what I told you about their clinical trials—getting cats to willingly swim across a pool, or mother monkeys to stop feeding their young?”

“Yes.”

“Well, just as Chen thought the virus was under control, her animal subjects, mostly monkeys, began to undergo a progressive neurological degeneration—dementia, erratic mood swings, serious aggression, weakness.”

“Jesus,” Townsend muttered, shaking her head. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

“There was no reversal once their animals began to come apart. The virus continued to replicate and attack their brains. Death was due to seizures and central nervous system shutdown.”

“So you think we’re all headed for dementia and death.”

“I do.”

“And you want me to come up with a psychological test that will demonstrate when you are mentally no longer able to be president.”

“Yes.”

“And what then?”

“Gary, is Paul Rappaport in a secure location now?” Allaire asked.

Salitas nodded.

“He’s being transported to the 934th Airlift Wing, Minneapolis-St. Paul Air Reserve Station on the north side of the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. They have an encrypted line. Actually, he may be there already.”

“Good. Get ahold of him for me, please.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

Salitas’s return to formality was his way of asking Bethany Townsend if she was in or out in terms of unencumbered support for her patient.

“Mr. President,” Townsend said by way of response, “what can we expect with this virus now? How will it manifest?”

“Working that out is your second assignment, though I want you to stay clear of Group C—Chief of Staff Jakes’s group. We have to assume they’ll soon all be causalities.”

“How so?”

“Anybody at ground zero, say within ten feet of any of the blasts, will initially suffer several hours of uncontrollable coughing, vomiting, dizziness, profound headache, loss of balance, lethargy. Within seven to ten days the bleeding will start due to the destruction of clotting factors. In that respect, WRX3883 is like the Marburg hemorrhagic fever viruses, specifically Ebola. Massive bruising will develop, along with bloody diarrhea. The victim’s skin will begin to loosen and detach from the underlying tissues. The sclerae of their eyes will turn bright red. Black, soupy vomiting will hail the end. Death will occur from dehydration and hemorrhage anytime between ten and fourteen days after infection.”

“Mr. President, Group C is over sixty people. Is there anything we can do for them—anything at all?”

“I’ve sent for the virologist who was in charge of developing a treatment for WRX. Hopefully he’ll be able to come up with something. Meanwhile, Dr. Broussard is arranging for every antiviral drug we have to be delivered here in large quantities. You and she will be responsible for coordinating their administration. It’s your decision, but I would focus on groups B and A. I don’t think we have the means to kill this bug, but maybe you’ll be able to slow it down.”

“What can we expect neurologically?”

“From what I got from Dr. Chen’s report of her animals, with moderate exposure there will be a period of progressive confusion and emotional lability, followed by a loss of will and profound suggestibility. That somewhat stable period will last for two or three days. That’s when the infection was supposed to subside.”

“After that?”

“Neurologic deterioration—staggering, grunting, salivating, uncontrollable arm and leg spasms, progressive dementia, violence, and finally grand mal seizures, high fevers, and death.”

“Damn. So the three of us are in Group A?”

“Gary is close to being a B, but yes.”

“So how long have we got?”

The president shrugged.

“Two weeks. Maybe three. Eventually, death will be due to seizures and central nervous system shutdown.”

“So while I’m testing your mental status,” Townsend said bitterly, “who’s going to be testing mine?”

“Mr. President,” Salitas cut in, “I have Paul Rappaport on the line.”

Allaire flashed on Rappaport’s daughter, the reason his Homeland Security secretary had asked to fill the role of designated survivor. He had met her at Rappaport’s swearing-in ceremony. She was a pale, rail-thin, somewhat mousy woman. The people who had vetted the nominee reported her as having two past hospitalizations for anxiety and depression, but Allaire saw no reason her psychiatric history should lead to withdrawing his support for what was otherwise a nearly spotless résumé. In fact, if anything, Rappaport’s devotion to his daughter was a mark in the man’s favor.

Over the first four years the one-time governor of Minnesota had been in the Cabinet, he had overstepped his bounds from time to time. But by and large, he had been a good and loyal soldier to the president.

Allaire took the satellite phone from Salitas, set it on speaker, and sat down on the high-backed oxblood leather chair at the head of the conference table.