Michael Palmer: A Heartbeat Away

“Mr. President—” Lamar called out again.

Allaire motioned for the man to hurry. Together on the rostrum they were joined by Hank Tomlinson, chief of the fifteen hundred men and women of the Capitol Police force.

“What the devil is going on, Mr. President?” Lamar asked. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

“I’m not going anywhere. No one is. Now, listen. I need every person back in his original seat immediately. Make sure every door leading to the outside is sealed. No one gets in and no one gets out. I mean no one .”

It was hard to hear over the clamor behind them in the main chamber and a story above in the gallery. Now there were also some shrieks as word spread that the ways out were being sealed.

“Sir, I don’t understand,” Tomlinson said. “What’s happened?”

Allaire struggled to maintain his composure—seldom a difficult task for him. Behind and above the Capitol Police chief, he could see that Rebecca and Samantha, along with some others, had instinctively sat back down.

“I’ll tell you, Hank. I’ll tell everyone,” Allaire said. “First, though, we need order in this room, and we need it now.”

“But how…?”

Allaire had heard enough. Gripping Tomlinson firmly by the lapel, he pulled the man close to his body, distracting him long enough to extract the officer’s gun from his shoulder holster. Allaire had learned how to fire the semiautomatic SIG P226 as part of Operation Keepsake, a long-standing Secret Service program. As an emergency security precaution, Operation Keepsake was designed to impart Special Forces combat training to the president of the United States, or as he was commonly referred to by the agents, the POTUS. Before Tomlinson could react, Allaire raised the gun high above his head.

Four shots, fired in rapid succession and amplified by the sound system, exploded from the black-steel barrel. The discharges echoed deafeningly inside the enclosed chamber. Plaster from the ceiling where the bullets struck dropped onto several startled attendees. Silence quickly followed. Allaire wasted no time taking advantage of the change. He grabbed the microphone, turning up the volume until he heard feedback.

“This is the president of the United States. Please return to your original seats—precisely your original seats. I am commanding the military, the Secret Service, and the Capitol Police to see to it that there are no further attempts to leave this building. All exits have been secured. Right now, I need each and every one of you to sit down at your original seat immediately. You must be seated exactly where you were prior to the disturbance. This is a direct order from your president. As soon as you are back in your seats and have quieted down, I will explain what is going on.”

At first, only a few dozen seemed to be responding. Then Allaire dispatched two more shots, and within half a minute, nearly all the seats were filled. The few who refused to comply with the demand were roughly deposited in their places by the nearest soldier or policeman.

Allaire’s eyes swept across the rows of dignitaries, many of them among the best and the brightest his country had to offer, many of them his friends, all of them now in grave danger. Rebecca and Sam were together in the seats his staff had earlier reserved for them. For a moment, Allaire held his wife’s desperate gaze. Then he mouthed the words I love you and touched his finger to his eye, and next to his heart, before pointing it at Sam. It was a sign of affection they invented when their daughter was a child. She and her mother, in return, made the same gesture to him. Allaire could not think of a time that he loved them more.

As the president panned the faces in the crowd, a single thought would not let go. Never had he seen so much fear.

And yet, the seven hundred had no idea just how afraid they really should be.

Allaire stood with his hands pressed firmly on the lectern, trying to construct what he was going to say and how he was going to say it. His eyes, nearly unblinking, gazed forward. His mouth was dry. He had always loved being a physician, but after fifteen years as a practicing doc, he felt as if he wanted to do more, and turned to politics. How many times over the years before he left medicine had he sat with patients and given them the horrible news that barring a miracle, they were going to die from their illness? He used to feel that, because his sensitivity and empathy were genuine, he was reasonably effective at it.

Not this evening.

The crowd’s attention remained fixed on him. The anxious quiet was beyond tense, interrupted only by scattered volleys of coughing. Allaire knew it was time. These people wanted—needed—explanations, but he felt strongly that if he disclosed the whole truth about the virus, there would be no way to contain the ensuing panic.

“What’s happening?” a man suddenly shouted, preempting Allaire from the gallery.

“Does this have anything to do with Genesis?” a second man called out.

“Yes,” he heard his voice say with forced calm. “Yes, unfortunately, it does.”

The first act of terror for which Genesis had taken credit was the Great New York Blackout, eight or nine months before. THE FIRST DAY, the terrorists had labeled it in a call to the FBI. God said, “Let there be light,” and Genesis said, “Let there be darkness.” Something like that. Three men were brutally murdered during the sabotage of several substations, and another hundred people were estimated to have died as the result of the three-day power outage. No demands were made by Genesis.

THE SECOND DAY, creation of the sky, was marked by an off-hours explosion that destroyed a wing of the San Diego Air and Space Museum. Three killed—hundreds if the blast were six hours earlier. Again, no demands.

Also no real suspects, despite the most intense FBI/CIA/ATF investigation since 9/11.

THE THIRD DAY, just two months ago, represented the creation of dry land and the bringing forth of plants and fruit-bearing trees. On it, the spectacular all-glass National Horticultural Building was leveled by a powerful blast, killing twelve and injuring fifty more.

Now, more than seven hundred, including Allaire himself and his wife and daughter, had their necks in a noose.

It was THE FOURTH DAY.

Without warning, the president coughed.

His chest tightened as panic washed over him. He risked a peek at his palms, praying that no red blotches or discs would be there. Is it happening already? No, his palms were unmarked and unremarkable. He let out a relieved sigh, which the microphone broadcast to all. Just a tickle in his throat. For now, just a tickle.

A woman, seated in the gallery, dead center to the president, stood up, clutching the hand of a boy no more than thirteen years old, whom Allaire presumed to be her son.

“Are we in danger?”

The president inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.

“I don’t have enough information to answer your question at this moment. It is possible,” he went on, choosing his words carefully, “that we might have been exposed to a pathogen—a virus. As a protective measure, until I have more information, I am asking that everyone stay calm, and more importantly, that everyone remain seated. I will speak more precisely about the situation when I have discussed what we know with my advisors. Until then, as your commander in chief, I have ordered the security forces here to use any measures necessary to keep you in the room and in those seats. Now, please be patient. I must review these developments with my advisors.”

At that, a dozen or so people leapt up and began shouting questions at once. It was Georgia senator Saul Kennistone who caught the president’s eye. Kennistone opened his mouth to yell something at him, but a sudden, body-shaking fit of coughing choked back the senator’s words.