Michael Palmer: A Heartbeat Away

So, it has begun, Allaire thought.

His concern must have shown.

“Why is he coughing?” someone shouted. “Is that the virus?”

As if answering the question, several people around the chamber joined in the chorus of dry, hacking coughs.

“We are investigating,” Allaire said over the noise. “That is all I can say at the moment. Now, please, in addition to my Capitol Police Chief Tomlinson, Agent O’Neil, and Vice President Tilden, the following are to come to the podium immediately for a briefing.”

The president summoned White House Chief of Staff Megan McAndrews; Department of Defense Secretary Gary Salitas; Health and Human Services Secretary Kate Broussard; Homeland Security Secretary Paul Rappaport; Capitol Architect Jordan Lamar; and Admiral Archibald Jakes, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Dr. Bethany Townsend, Allaire’s personal physician and longtime family friend, was the last one called forward.

The room erupted again in an anxious commotion, punctuated by continued sporadic coughing. Those occupying the floor area, reserved for officials from the Senate, House, Supreme Court, the president’s Cabinet, and diplomatic corps, obeyed the president’s edict and remained seated. Those individuals the president had called forward stood and made their way to the rostrum.

People in the upper gallery sections, however—those now-unlucky souls who had scored a coveted ticket to the State of the Union Address, as well as members of the press and broadcast network teams—were less compliant. Not a mass exodus, Allaire observed, but enough people to draw his attention decided to head toward the exits. The president watched with irritation and immense sadness as people were forcibly turned back by the guards stationed at all the doors. One particularly aggressive man, clawing at a uniformed security officer, was whipped into submission by the butt of a pistol.

Allaire gripped Sean O’Neil by the shoulder.

“Sean, please clear the area around us.”

O’Neil engaged three agents to back people away from the group. Then he quickly returned to the POTUS’s side.

“We’ve got to make sure nobody leaves the House chamber,” Allaire said urgently.

“We’re doing that, sir.”

“No, I mean make absolutely sure.”

“Sir?”

“Dammit, Sean—” The president quickly composed himself and leaned forward to whisper, “This virus is viciously contagious. If it gets out of here, there’s no telling what might happen. Have your people and the other guards immobilize anybody who tries to force their way to the outside. Use whatever restraints and force are necessary.”

“Yes, sir.”

O’Neil, tall and lean, and emotionless in every way except for the alertness in his dark eyes, delivered the president’s directive via secure radio. Allaire returned to the lectern. He leaned forward until his lips brushed against the metal mesh of the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Please settle down. Please. Quiet down this instant!”

It took several additional calls for quiet before the room settled into an uneasy silence. All eyes were now directed upon him. Allaire made a furtive glance toward his wife and daughter. In seconds, the concern etched across their faces forced him to look away.

“I must be very clear,” he said. “Until we know more about what we may have been exposed to, I cannot allow anybody to exit the House Chamber. I promise to share what information I have as it becomes available. For now, I’m requesting your cooperation.”

“And what if we don’t!”

The unidentified man shouted his thinly veiled threat from somewhere in the upper gallery.

“What we’ve been exposed to could be highly contagious,” Allaire’s amplified voice boomed out. “Until we have more information, I cannot risk a public health crisis. To ensure public safety, I’ve authorized the use of extreme measures against anyone who attempts to exit the building. That is a nonnegotiable order from your president. Now, please, you must excuse me. I’ll return shortly with additional information and our proposed next steps after I speak with my staff.”

Once more the room erupted into chaotic chatter. White House chief of staff, intense, intellectual Megan McAndrews, was the first to approach.

“Mr. President,” she whispered, “you neglected to include the speaker of the house.”

McAndrews tilted her head in a nearly imperceptible gesture toward Ursula Ellis, in her seat atop the tribune.

“If I didn’t call somebody,” Allaire said, with an edge, “either I don’t need them, or I don’t trust them.”

Ursula Ellis assumed Allaire had included her among the high-ranking officials he had summoned to meet with him. It took some time for her to realize he had not. Perhaps she had misheard over all the commotion, she wondered—either that, or the president’s gunshots had temporarily impaired her hearing.

Vice President Henry Tilden sat beside Ellis on the rostrum. He was a tall, gangly oaf of a man whom Ellis knew would never make anyone’s list of the most intellectual politicians in the land.

“Henry, did the president include me?” she leaned over and asked.

“I don’t think so, Ursula,” Tilden said, pushing himself up from his seat and carefully avoiding eye contact. “But I wasn’t listening that closely. Please, excuse me now. I’ve got to go.”

Yes, of course, you go, Ellis thought. Go be the good lapdog that you are.

Ellis remained seated in her designated chair, looking, she sensed, regal and composed. She had been a fourteen-point underdog when she won the nomination to oppose Allaire. A throwaway, many political pundits had called her, persisting with that notion even when she had shaved a good chunk of that lead away by the time of the election. One more month and she would have caught the bastard, she had thought over and over again.

One more month.

She concentrated on maintaining an appearance of composure. People were looking. Allaire had been an idiot firing that gun the way he did. She needed to appear above it. Many out there had to be aware of the slight the man had just delivered to her. She needed the power brokers and the doubters to see a woman impervious to the chaos engulfing them—a true leader, fearless in the face of impending disaster.

Ellis glanced sideways at Allaire. The sight of him churned her stomach. Perhaps now the American people would see past the smoke and mirrors of their so-called leader. Perhaps they would see that for all his cries for cooperation and unity between the legislative and executive branches, when push came to shove, the speaker of the house was being left on the outside looking in.

Well, fine, she thought. While he was slinking away to meet with his yes-men, she was where it really counted—with the people. Sooner or later that snub might prove to be Allaire’s undoing. Those waiting for him to handle whatever was going on had to have seen how his color had gone pale; how sweat dripped a rivulet of makeup down his Botox-stiffened face; how his hands shook. The man oozed weakness and uncertainty.

The moment the election results were in, the moment she had conceded, Ursula Ellis had begun thinking about the election four years from then. She had checklists in her study of her possible competition, within her party and Allaire’s. None of them was all that formidable. Privately, her advisors questioned whether this might be the time for her to step back from politics and resign her seat in Congress to gather up and re-form the scattered pieces of her campaign team. But she had the foresight to anticipate a virtual dead heat for control of the House, and had chosen to run for reelection to her seat while campaigning against Allaire. Now, here she was, elected in her district by a landslide, and back as speaker.