Charles Wheelan - The Rationing

“We’ll just have a conversation,” I offered.

“Exactly,” she said.

From somewhere behind the bright lights beating down on me, I heard, “We’re on in five-four-three-two, and live.”

THE PRESIDENT AND HIS SENIOR ADVISERS WATCHED ON THE television in the conference room on Air Force One. Linda Schuham looked somberly into the camera and delivered her introduction: “Many of you are waking up to the news that America is suffering a potentially devastating public health crisis: a previously benign virus, widespread in America, has turned deadly. This is happening at a time when America’s supply of Dormigen, the one drug that can be used to treat this virus successfully, is in short supply. Our guest is one of America’s top scientists and an adviser to the White House.” She turned to me and said, “Welcome to the program. Why are we just learning about this now?”

“That’s a good question, Linda,” I said, trying to buy myself time. It really was a good question. As the chaos had unfolded that morning, I found myself wondering if our secrecy had done more harm than good.

On Air Force One, the Communications Director yelled at the television, “No. No, that is not a good question. Do not answer that question .”

It felt awkward, almost rude, but I went with the talking points. “The most important thing to realize is that there has been no terrorist attack—”

She cut me off: “The White House put out a statement to that effect. If that’s true—”

“It is true,” I said firmly.

On Air Force One, the Communications Director continued his commentary: “Okay, good, good.”

Unfortunately for me, Linda Schuham had faced more than a few guests who showed up with talking points in their pockets. “Back to my original question,” she pressed. “How long has the White House known about this virus, and also about the looming Dormigen shortage?”

The Communications Director pleaded with the television, “Do not go down that rabbit hole.”

I answered, “The most important thing right now is to manage the public health situation. What people need to realize is that the Capellaviridae virus is extremely common. Many of us are already carrying it. Only in some small fraction of cases will it become dangerous.”

The President, watching with the others, said, “That’s good.”

“Nice pivot,” the Communications Director added.

Linda Schuham took the conversation in my direction. “So I might have the virus right now? Or you might have it?” she asked.

“Yes, we’re probably both carrying Capellaviridae ,” I said.

“Might the virus be spreading through our studio as we speak?” she asked in mock alarm.

“No. Absolutely not,” I answered. “That’s the wrong way to think about Capellaviridae . The virus is already out there. You and I have probably been carrying it around for twenty or thirty years, maybe since we were born. The danger here is more like cancer than the flu.”

On Air Force One, the Strategist asked loudly, “Did he just say ‘cancer’?”

“Fuck me,” the Communications Director said.

Linda Schuham asked, “Cancer? Is that supposed to make people feel better?”

I tried to climb out of the hole. “What I mean is…” No one heard the rest of the answer, during which I tried to explain how lurking viruses work, without actually understanding how lurking viruses work.

Linda Schuham threw me a lifeline. She asked, “When Capellaviridae turns dangerous, Dormigen is effective, yes?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“And yet the nation is running out of Dormigen. How did that happen? How many people might die as a result?”

She put talking point number three on a tee for me. I explained, “The White House and all federal agencies are working around the clock to bolster the nation’s Dormigen supply. Our allies have shipped us millions of doses. We are working on alternative ways to treat the virulent form of Capellaviridae. We are managing this public health challenge.”

On Air Force One, the Chief of Staff said, “That’s a strong finish.”

The Strategist replied, “But you can’t mention the c -word. That’s going to be the headline: an epidemic of cancer, spreading.”

“Cancer doesn’t spread from person to person,” the Chief of Staff said. “That’s why he made the comparison.”

“No one’s going to understand that,” the Communications Director complained, shaking his head in frustration.

“At least we’re beating back the terrorist story,” the President offered.

In fact, the terrorist story was alive and well. We had not yet even seen the worst of it. In a nondescript suburb of Houston, Tony Perez was just finishing his work for the day. He had been up early, about four-thirty Central Time, digesting the news of the day and then, as he would tell the Outbreak Inquiry Commission, “Putting a different spin on it.” In fact, Perez was the reigning king of fake news: creative, compelling, prolific, and shockingly well read. In a burst of imagination that morning, Perez had reported that a Latino separatist group had introduced Capellaviridae to the United States and would provide an antidote only if Congress agreed to their demands.

I WALKED OUT OF THE CNN STUDIO INTO THE BRIGHT MORNING sunlight, not sure what to do next. The rain had cleared and the day was pleasant in an early spring kind of way. There was no car waiting for me. I heard nothing from the Communications Director after my segment. Maybe that was because he was displeased with me; more likely it was because there was so much else going on. I knew I should not have used the cancer analogy. I felt that even as I was saying the words. My impression had been reinforced by Linda Schuham’s reaction as I made the comparison. I saw a glimmer of surprise in her eyes—recognition that she had knocked me off my talking points and unearthed something newsworthy in our conversation. That is what CNN paid her a lot of money to do.

I sat on a bench across from the CNN building, taking in the surreal scene around me: harried, concerned people walking purposefully on a beautiful spring day. Now what? I looked at the cell phone the Communications Assistant had given me. There were 151 voice messages—so many that it seemed pointless to return any of them. Tie Guy had left me a text on my secure phone: “Call me ASAP.” I had not spoken to him since the news broke. I figured he wanted to hear firsthand what was happening, or maybe he wanted to critique my CNN performance. (No one appreciates how difficult it is to stay on message in a very short conversation with a host who is working hard to steer the discussion somewhere else.) Or he might be angry, given that I had been less than forthright with him. In any event, I was not eager to have any of these conversations, so I did not call him back. Instead, I sat on that bench in the sunshine, watching people in face masks scurry by while I waited for someone to tell me what to do next.

Tie Guy sent me a second text on the secure phone: “Call me ASAP. It’s important re: Capellaviridae.” This time I decided to call him back, but as I was searching for his number in my contacts, the Communications Director called. I answered immediately: “Hey, I’m sorry about the cancer comparison—”

“It’s over,” he said quickly. “Don’t do it again. The President is speaking in about thirty-five minutes. Get someplace where you can watch the speech. You’re going to do a satellite radio tour—all the drive-time shows. They’ll give you the details when you get there. Stick to the talking points,” he said, hanging up before I could answer. I had no idea what he was talking about, but he texted me an address for a studio about fifteen blocks away. I would be able to watch the President’s speech there, but I would have to hustle to get there in time. There were far fewer cabs on the street than usual; the safest option was a brisk walk. I should have called Tie Guy back as I was walking, but my mind was already on the President’s speech and the radio interviews I would have to do immediately after he finished.