Michael Palmer: A Heartbeat Away

Allaire beamed as those on both sides of the aisle, and in the gallery, rose to their feet as one, cheering loudly. He could hear whistles over the applause, and hesitated long enough to draw in a slow, deep breath. The next several crucial minutes of his speech would focus on international and domestic terrorism. The crowd settled down. Allaire scanned their faces. He would know when they were ready for him to resume.

As a dense silence enveloped the room, the president suddenly heard a disturbing noise—a popping sound, immediately followed by something that, to him, sounded like the plink of breaking glass. The sound came from somewhere in the crowd to his right. Allaire and many others turned and watched as California Senator Arlene Cogan opened up the purse that she had stowed beneath her chair. Instantly, a thin, white mist wafted out from within it, covering her heavily made-up face like a steam bath. Within seconds, Cogan and those nearest to her began to cough—and cough vehemently.

Allaire immediately gave a prearranged signal to the coordinating technical director, ordering the man to implement antidemonstration procedures and shut down the network pool controlling all television feed from the Capitol.

Murmurs from among the crowd escalated as another pop occurred across the chamber from the first, followed by another, and another, each accompanied by the breaking of thin glass, white mist, and more coughing. The murmurs gave way to shouting. Another briefcase and a purse were opened, releasing identical thin clouds.

“Don’t open it!” someone hollered.

“I can’t breathe!”

“For God’s sake, that’s you! That’s your pocketbook!”

“Get out of here! Let’s get out!”

The popping and breaking glass continued.

Two more … three … four … five.

Allaire could see that mist was even arising from some bags that were unopened. He quickly counted fifteen plumes scattered about the room, maybe more.

“Do not open your briefcase or purse!” Allaire shouted into his microphone. He slammed his open palm on the podium. “Everybody, please remain calm!”

Secret Service agents rushed the stage and quickly surrounded him. They attempted to escort him to safety, but he struggled against them and continued to call loudly for order. At that instant, Allaire caught sight of something on the two teleprompters in front of his podium.

His blood turned cold.

The speech, which seconds ago was easily legible in fourteen-point Helvetica font, had disappeared from the screens. In its place were three lines of text. Allaire’s breathing nearly stopped as he read the message.

On THE FOURTH DAY

God created the sun, the moon, and the stars.

And Genesis released WRX3883.

WRX3883.

Jim Allaire knew immediately what had happened. Genesis had struck a mortal blow at the government of the United States and at the very heart of the country. Every soul in the U.S. Capitol building, including himself, the vice president, and nearly the entire line of succession to the presidency, was in danger. If there was to be any hope of averting an even more unprecedented disaster, he had to take control of the situation. He felt his chest tightening and wondered if it was just fear settling in, or something far more horrific—something in his bloodstream, already at work, attacking his body.

WRX3883.

For a moment, the magnitude of the evolving crisis held Allaire immobile. From his vantage point on the rostrum, he could see that panic had already begun to overtake many of the seven hundred who had gathered for his address. Self-preservation was replacing civility. Men and women alike, some of whom he had known for decades, were shoving their way toward the exits, some of them viciously. Job one, Allaire decided, would have to be to secure all the doors.

In the center row of the balcony, Rebecca and Samantha stood immobile, side by side, looking down at him. Even at a distance, he could make out the pallor in their faces and the fear in their eyes. Before he could act, though, several agents took him by the shoulders and began moving him away from the microphone. Others stepped in and began helping to guide him toward the rear emergency exit.

“No!” Allaire shouted. “Tend to the doors! The doors!”

He could see, to his horror, that people were already nearing the exits from the chamber, and he knew they would all have to be brought back in, by force if necessary. Several more agents arrived.

They’re just trying to get me to safety, Allaire told himself. But they don’t realize that there is no place safe to go.

There wasn’t time to explain.

Allaire twisted his body hard to the right, breaking the hold of the agent positioned directly behind him, while simultaneously seizing the lapels of another agent’s suit jacket. He pulled the man to within inches of his face, making certain his orders would be heard over the escalating din.

“Call and get the exits out of the chamber secured right now! Lock them down!”

“But sir, we need to evacuate.”

“Listen to me! Nobody is to leave this building. Absolutely nobody! Get everyone who leaves the chamber back inside right now. It is life and death. Do you understand?”

“But—”

“I said, do you understand?!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I want guards posted at every exit. Shut down the elevators to the gallery level, and block those doors as well. Have guns drawn if need be and use them if you have to. Nobody gets out. No exceptions.”

“But sir…”

“Dammit, do it now or go sit down!”

The president’s face was flushed. He could feel the arteries pulsating in his neck. The agents guarding him peeled away, as if from a football huddle. Chief agent Sean O’Neil was just a few feet away, barking orders into his radio.

“Sean,” Allaire said, motioning the man closer, “we’ve got a lethal situation on our hands. A virus. Get three of your guys to the press gallery and confiscate all cell phones, pagers, and anything that might record or transmit. Use force if you have to. Tell them I’ll explain soon.”

O’Neil hesitated, a shadow of doubt darkening his face.

“Mr. Pres—”

“Don’t challenge me, Sean! Move now!”

The cries of those in flight intensified as Capitol Police and Secret Service agents moved into position and began the difficult task of herding them back inside the House Chamber. Allaire estimated that no more than twenty-five or thirty had actually made it out the doors to the vestibule. His wife and daughter remained in front of their seats, two of the few who weren’t in motion. Then he saw Rebecca cough several times. Further down the row she was in, a congressman from New Hampshire was also coughing.

Allaire searched for the plumes of smoke nearest to his family, but by now, the mists had almost totally dissipated.

I am responsible for this, he thought, forcing his way back to the rostrum. I should never have allowed it to happen.

“You can’t block these exits!” a senator’s familiar voice boomed. “Let us out!”

“They can’t do this!” a woman cried. “They can’t trap us in here like this!”

“What the hell is going on?”

“I won’t go back in there. I won’t!”

Sweat, something Allaire had felt certain would not be an issue tonight, cascaded down his brow, stinging his eyes, then salting his lips.

“Mr. President—”

Allaire turned toward the voice, which came from the center aisle, along which, just a few minutes ago, he had made his grand entrance. The architect of the Capitol, Jordan Lamar, a portly African American man, was pushing toward him through the dense crowd.