Charles Wheelan - The Rationing

“Yes,” the Prime Minister said.

“And then he could couple that statement—”

“A live statement, not just a press release,” the Prime Minister clarified.

“Absolutely,” the Secretary of State agreed. “Perhaps a short address to the nation. In any event, I could imagine him coupling that dire news with the announcement that India will be providing the Dormigen necessary to ward off the crisis. That makes perfect sense to me.”

The U.S. Ambassador interjected, “I can’t speak for the President, but I’m sure he would be comfortable running the text of those remarks by you in advance.”

“It would be the least we could do,” the Secretary added.

“Excellent,” the Prime Minister said, visibly excited. “Then I think we have a deal!”

“You had a second request?” the Secretary of State said, while thinking, Please, God, do not make it the F-80, because then this whole thing will unravel, but what else could it possibly be?

“Oh, yes, it’s a tiny favor, I can’t imagine the President would object.”

Help me , the Secretary thought , because when anyone asks for a “tiny favor” it’s usually a complete disaster, like when the bullying Turkish President tried to persuade her that arresting some of his critics in the U.S. would be “such a small thing” —

“I’d like to fly the Dormigen there myself.”

“Pardon?” the Secretary asked. Her thoughts were racing so quickly that she had missed the essence of what the Prime Minister was asking.

“I’d like to deliver it myself—the Dormigen. I’d like to ‘fly west!’ as the President would say.”

The Secretary of State was still struggling to catch up. The Ambassador, seeing her confusion, said, “You’re saying that you would like to be on the plane that takes the Dormigen to the United States?”

“Exactly.”

The Secretary of State felt a wave of euphoria sweep over her. This was going to happen. “The President would be delighted to have you deliver the Dormigen,” she said confidently. “I’m not sure we can plan a state visit with two days’ notice, but we will do everything short of that. We will plan an event befitting what you and your country are doing for the United States.”

And you can wear a fucking superhero outfit, if you want , she thought . The Secretary of State is not a profane woman, but according to her memoirs, that was exactly what was running through her mind as she shook hands with the Prime Minister, consummating the deal.

THE SECRETARY OF STATE IMMEDIATELY PHONED THE CHIEF of Staff, who was traveling with the President. “We did it,” the Secretary of State reported breathlessly. The excitement in her voice was laced with fatigue.

“You’re certain?” the Chief of Staff asked.

“Yes. We have a firm commitment: five hundred thousand doses. Technically it’s a loan. The embassy is preparing the documentation. There are some other things: the civil nuclear cooperation—”

“He’s not going to go back on his word?” the Chief of Staff asked.

“The Prime Minister? No. For all his foibles, he’s rock-solid when he makes a deal. That’s the military in him.”

“Thank you,” the Chief of Staff said softly. And then, after a pause: “I’m going to tell the President now.”

The President was standing alone on the tarmac at Dover Air Force Base. He and the Chief of Staff had traveled there to greet the remains of the two U.S. diplomats who had been killed in the Saudi school kidnapping. The plane carrying their bodies was expected to land shortly. The families would be coming, too, along with a Marine honor guard. The President had been here many times before, greeting the fallen soldiers on their return at all hours of the night. He felt it was his duty; the families were always grateful, despite the horrific circumstances. He also enjoyed the solitude and used it as a time for reflection. On this morning he had made a point of arriving early. The Chief of Staff walked over to where the President was standing. The air was pleasantly cool and the sun was just coming up over a runway on the horizon. The Chief of Staff’s heels clicked loudly on the asphalt. The President turned slightly as she approached, seemingly annoyed by the interruption.

“We got the Dormigen,” she said without undue drama. “The Prime Minister is offering up everything we need.”

The President nodded, betraying little emotion. “I need to call Cecelia—”

“Done. It was my first call.”

“And?”

The Chief of Staff shrugged. “She’s very sick. They gave her Dormigen immediately, but her daughter says it could go either way.”

The President nodded in acknowledgment. “What does he want?”

“Who?” the Chief of Staff asked.

“The Prime Minister.”

“No problems,” the Chief of Staff assured him. “Just the stuff we talked about: civil nuclear, intelligence-sharing, visas—he didn’t even ask about the F-80.”

The President exhaled audibly. Someone watching from a distance would have no idea that he had just received great news, but the Chief of Staff knew him well enough that she could see some of the tension go out of his body. “We’re not out of the woods yet,” the President said. “We still have to make sure the Dormigen gets on a plane. There’s not a lot of time, and it is India, after all. There’s a big difference between offering five hundred thousand doses and actually getting it loaded on a plane and off the ground.”

“The Ambassador is on it,” the Chief of Staff assured him. She wished the President would take more time to savor what they had accomplished. “There’s one other thing,” she said.

“There’s always one other thing. You know how I feel—”

“I think you’ll find this amusing,” the Chief of Staff said. “The Prime Minister wants to fly the Dormigen here himself. Apparently you’ve started quite a thing—this whole ‘flying west.’”

The President smiled in genuine amusement. “Whatever makes him happy,” he said. They stood in silence for some time, appreciating the peace. “There is going to be a lull, while we wait for the Indian Dormigen,” the President told his Chief of Staff. “You should get some time with the family.”

The Chief of Staff gave a short, sardonic laugh. “My daughter is failing trig. I think she’s doing it just to get back at me.”

“Does anyone really need to know trigonometry?” the President asked.

“Don’t tell her that,” the Chief of Staff replied, with a more mirthful laugh. “Dan’s been a saint.”

“Don’t take that for granted.”

“No.”

Moments later a minivan arrived on the tarmac carrying the parents of the slain consular officer. They had traveled to Dover from a suburb of Detroit. Their son had been in the diplomatic corps for thirteen years, having done tours in Belgium, Ghana, Jordan, and then Saudi Arabia. The President walked purposefully toward the van. The Chief of Staff watched as he helped the couple out of the vehicle, hugging the mother and shaking hands with the father. She could see the President pointing toward the runway, presumably explaining that the plane carrying their son’s body would arrive shortly. A few minutes later another minivan arrived carrying the second family.

OUR “WAR ROOM” WAS BUZZING WITH ACTIVITY WHEN THE NIH Director walked in shortly after daybreak. The large conference room had no windows; the fluorescent lights bathed the room in bright light, disguising any sense of what time it was. Most of the scientists and staff had been there all night. The pace of discovery was intoxicating; even those who had planned to leave found it hard to do so. I was on the phone with a science blogger, walking her through all that we had learned in the past twelve hours. “This place smells like a locker room,” the NIH Director said. The French camera crew, having tired of footage of slovenly people hunched over keyboards, eagerly turned their cameras on her.