Charles Wheelan - The Rationing

It took about nineteen hours to gather the Dormigen in Delhi and load the 747 (plenty of time for the paint to dry on the large Indian and American flags on the fuselage and tail). The plane was scheduled to depart around six p.m. Delhi time. A small diplomatic contingent was invited for a departure ceremony. Takeoff was pushed back to eight p.m. and then nine; the Prime Minister’s spokesperson did not offer a reason. The President phoned the Secretary of State to ask about the delay. “It’s never too late for them to ask for the F-80,” he said. “They’ve got us over a barrel now.”

“I don’t think the Prime Minister would do that,” the Secretary of State assured him.

“We don’t have a big buffer here. Tell them we need that plane in the air,” the President insisted.

“I’ve made that abundantly clear,” the Secretary of State replied. “If I were to guess, the PM is stalling for time so more televisions can get to the villages.”

“You can’t make this shit up,” the President muttered.

The departure was postponed once again, this time until seven the following morning, putatively because of a mechanical issue with the plane. The U.S. Ambassador called Sumer Patel to implore the Indians to get the flight in the air. “Don’t worry,” Patel said. “The seven o’clock departure is firm.”

“You think the mechanical issue will be resolved by then, do you?” the Ambassador asked sarcastically.

Patel laughed. “The Prime Minister wants ten thousand televisions installed before he takes off, and another five thousand in operation before he refuels in Germany,” he explained.

The U.S. Ambassador did not know how to respond. Finally, he said, “ We have absolutely no cushion. You realize what’s at stake here?”

“Of course I do,” Patel bristled. “And so does the Prime Minister. You’ll get your Dormigen. Just let him have what he wants.”

THE DELAYS IN NEW DELHI NOW PUT THE DORMIGEN DISTRIBUTION plans in the U.S. in jeopardy. An Air Force logistics officer arrived at the White House to brief the President on the disruption. She was a stocky woman with close-cropped hair who stood at rigid attention after the Chief of Staff ushered her into the Oval Office. The President was finishing a call with the Mexican President, who had called to express his displeasure with an immigration bill making its way through Congress. The President motioned the Air Force officer to a seat, but she remained standing. “I can’t promise you I’m going to veto it—that would be unwise—but I can tell you that I think it’s a lousy bill and I don’t think it has enough votes in the Senate,” the American President told his Mexican counterpart. He then listened for what appeared to be an excessively long time.

“Lots of translation,” the Chief of Staff explained to the Air Force officer.

“I appreciate your thoughts on this,” the President said in a tone meant to wrap up the call. He waited for assorted pleasantries to be translated, said goodbye, and then hung up. He looked at the Chief of Staff plaintively and said, “This isn’t on the schedule.”

“We’ve run into a snafu with the logistics for the Dormigen distribution,” the Chief of Staff said.

“Why can’t we get that goddamn plane in the air?” the President snapped. The Chief of Staff nodded to the Air Force officer, inviting her to speak.

“Sir,” she began nervously, “even if that plane takes off right now, we are bumping up against the time we need to deliver the Dormigen to all the specified hospitals and clinics.”

“How long do you need?” the President asked.

“Our plan requires thirty-six hours from the moment the Prime Minister’s plane touches down in Washington.”

“I was told twenty-four hours,” he said angrily.

“That’s to reach ninety-five percent of the population, sir,” the officer explained. “That’s typically how the logistical people—”

“Thirty-six hours?” the President exclaimed. “Are you kidding me? Are you delivering this stuff on bicycles?”

“No, sir.”

“When is the Prime Minister’s plane supposed to take off?” the President asked the Chief of Staff.

“Now they’re saying seven a.m. Delhi time,” she answered.

“And that’s for real?”

“The Ambassador says it’s firm,” the Chief of Staff replied.

The President turned to the Air Force officer. “So what are our options?”

“I’ve prepared three plans,” she answered, holding a briefing book out to the President.

“I don’t have time for the bad ideas,” he said sharply. “Just tell me what you think we should do. What’s the best option?”

“Yes, sir. If we act reasonably soon, we won’t have a problem, but we have to change the sequencing of the plan.”

“What does that mean?” the President asked.

“I think she was about to explain that,” the Chief of Staff said, trying to calm the President.

The Air Force officer continued, “We can take the Dormigen we have now and begin moving it immediately to more distant areas. Then when the relief shipment comes from Delhi it can be distributed relatively quickly to the major population centers. We would just turn the plan on its head, so that the shipments to our far-flung areas can happen before—”

“I understand,” the President said.

“That’s clever,” the Chief of Staff added.

“It buys us a lot of time,” the Air Force officer suggested.

The President nodded in acknowledgment. He was calmer now that there was a feasible option on the table. He began thinking out loud. “That’s asking a lot: hospitals have to give up a dwindling supply of Dormigen for the promise of a replacement that’s still sitting on a runway in Delhi.”

“Do we even have that authority?” the Chief of Staff asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” the Air Force officer said confidently. “I’ve consulted with the legal counsel at Homeland Security. The President has the necessary authority to set the plan in motion.”

The President was still talking mostly to himself. “What if they don’t give it up? I don’t want to be in a situation where federal marshals are wrestling Dormigen away from doctors and nurses.”

“Mr. President, if we go with this option, we’ll have a cushion again,” the Air Force officer said, gaining confidence. “We can afford to wait until the plane is aloft.”

“Assuming it takes off at seven,” the President said.

“Yes, sir, that’s right.”

The Chief of Staff offered, “Everyone would be much more willing to pass along their Dormigen if they were confident the replacement was in the air and on its way to the U.S.”

“I agree,” the President said. “Let’s do that. And, for God’s sake—”

“I will call the Prime Minister’s office and tell them to get the plane in the air,” the Chief of Staff assured the President, finishing his thought.

THE SEVEN A.M. DEPARTURE WAS IN FACT FIRM. A SMALL group of diplomats assembled on the tarmac. The Prime Minister, dressed in his former military flight uniform, shook hands with each of the assembled officials. As a military band played the Indian national anthem, he climbed the stairs to the hulking 747 with his wife and two children. The Prime Minister’s family disappeared into the plane. The Prime Minister paused at the top of the stairs, and as the band finished, he turned and briskly saluted the assembled guests (and, of course, the hundreds of millions of Indians watching on television). The door to the jet was closed and moments later the plane was aloft. Flying west.

It was nine-thirty p.m. on the East Coast of the United States; the major news channels all cut away from their normal programming to cover the takeoff. The President watched the dramatic departure in his study in the family quarters of the White House with the Majority Leader, the Strategist, and the Chief of Staff. They broke into spontaneous applause as the 747 left the ground. The news channels cut to the Seattle hospital where doctors reported that Cecelia Dodds was “responding to Dormigen” and had been upgraded from critical to serious condition.