The Survivalist (Frontier Justice)
Page 4
President Rosalyn Glass stood staring out the window of the Oval Office. The VH-60N helicopter, known as Marine One, whipped the grass with its massive blades as it slowly descended onto the White House South Lawn. They would be coming for her soon.
She held a cup of tea close to her face, the steam slowly rising to condense on her glasses. Her hands trembled, and her heart pounded so violently that she wondered if others might actually be able to hear it. She tried to steady herself by sipping the hot brew, and it immediately burned her lips. She lowered the cup and licked at the tender flesh. Pain, she thought, not just for me; enough for everyone.
She replayed the conversation that she’d had with her Chief of Staff less than a half-hour earlier, a conversation that would forever change her life and those of billions of others.
Tom Barnes stepped into the Oval Office and announced himself.
“Madam President.”
“What is it?” she asked, stepping from behind the Resolute, the 19th century desk that had served nearly every president since John F. Kennedy.
His ashen face betrayed the severity of his message.
“Ma’am, there’s been an incident.”
“What kind of incident?”
He stared at her, unable or perhaps just unwilling, to put words to the catastrophe.
She raised an eyebrow. “Talk to me, Tom. How bad is it?” They had dealt with a host of emergencies during her first two years of presidency, and she had never seen him so shaken.
“There’s been—” his voice faltered. He tried again. “There’s been a release of a viral contagion.”
President Glass moved to the sofa and sat. She struggled to keep her composure.
“Tell me.”
Her Chief of Staff sat in a chair across from the couch, as he always did.
“The incident occurred at the Army’s Biological Warfare Lab in Fort Detrick, Maryland. We don’t have all the details yet,” he said, shaking his head, “but what we do know is that a small amount of a viral agent was inhaled by a researcher.”
“What exactly was inhaled?” she asked, horrified by the thought of anyone having been exposed to a biological weapon.
“It’s known as Superpox-99. The symptoms are similar to those of smallpox: blisters, respiratory distress, blindness, limb deformation. It’s as bad as you can imagine.” He looked down to study his hands. “Worse than you can imagine.”
“Why the hell were they working with something like that?” Even as she asked the question, she knew there was little point in pretending righteous outrage. Despite the country’s public signing of the Biological and Toxin Weapons Convention in 1972, advanced research had continued to identify and isolate a superbug that might prove the ultimate deterrent and thus tip the balance of modern warfare.
Tom understood that she didn’t expect an answer, and so he offered none.
“How deadly is this thing, Tom? Give me numbers to work with.”
“As the name implies, if it’s not treated within the first couple of days, about ninety-nine percent of those infected die within two weeks.”
“My Lord,” she said, covering her mouth. “And it’s contagious?”
“Yes, Madam President, highly contagious.”
“Please tell me that it requires physical contact,” she pleaded.
He stared at her and shook his head.
“It can be passed through airborne transmission. People wouldn’t have to be any closer than we are right now.”
President Glass noticed that with the addition of each horrific detail, her Chief of Staff’s voice began to sound more and more distant, as if emanating from an old phonograph player.
“I don’t care what it takes,” she said, “the National Guard, the entire armed forces—you contain this thing. Seal off Fort Detrick. Hell, seal, off the entire state of Maryland if you need to. Just contain this thing. Do you hear me?”
Tom Barnes shook his head again.
“No ma’am.”
Her face grew splotchy, as she could no longer control her nerves.
“No? Why not?”
“If we’d known sooner, maybe. Now…” He let the words hang in the air like a promise that had been broken. “Now, it’s too late.”
“What do you mean ‘if we’d known sooner?’ When did this happen?”
He pressed back against the chair, hoping to create more distance between them. His eyes filled with tears.
“Seven days ago.”
“What!” President Glass leaped to her feet. “Why wasn’t l told?”
“No one was, Madam President. The researcher didn’t report his infection. In fact, he went to great lengths to hide it.”
“Are you telling me this was an act of domestic terrorism?”
He shrugged. “There’s no way to know for sure at this point, but yes, it’s possible.”
“No, no, no,” she said, more to herself than to him. “Seven days?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“And the researcher? Where is he now?”
“He’s in a quarantine unit at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore.”
“We need to question him, find out where he’s been, who he might have injected.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s unable to speak and is expected to die within a few hours.” The Chief of Staff pulled a glossy photograph from his jacket pocket and passed it to her.
After a quick glance, President Glass let the photo fall to the floor.
“He doesn’t even look human.”
“No, ma’am,” he said, picking up the photo.
She sat for nearly a minute without speaking.
“What are we going to do, Tom?”
He shrugged again. “What we can. We’ve alerted the CDC, FEMA, Homeland Security, and most other agencies. The Joint Chiefs are taking protective measures to keep our military viable.”
“And the broader civilian population? Can we provide a vaccination or at least some antiviral treatment?”
“There is no vaccine, Madam President. The CDC will work around the clock to develop one, but that will take weeks or months. As for the antiviral medicines, the generals are requesting the nation’s full stockpile.”
“All of it?”
“Yes, ma’am. There’s barely enough to treat a million people. Even if they begin treating every soldier on active or reserve duty, most will still die.”
“What are you telling me, Tom?” she asked, with a nervous smile. “That the world is about to end?”
Tom Barnes closed his eyes and began to weep.
“Yes, Madam President, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
The Chief of Staff had told President Glass that her husband and eleven-year-old daughter would be temporarily quarantined in a secure underground facility in Colorado. The president herself would be immediately transported to the Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center in Bluemont, Virginia. Despite everyone’s best efforts, however, there was no guarantee that any of them would survive. Precautions would be taken: protective suits, careful screening of those with whom they came into contact, and immediate dosing with antiviral medicines. But none of that would matter much if they had already been infected. Infection all but ensured death. Ninety-nine percent if left untreated. Slightly better than that if carefully monitored, but still, the odds were far from being in anyone’s favor.
President Glass wasn’t sure what was eating at her the most, that the world that she knew was ending, or that it was doing so on her watch. She had failed the country. Probably the entire world. If the experts were right, the planet would be systematically wiped clean of nearly all of mankind in a few short weeks. Save for the remotest regions, every corner of the planet would be decimated. Most people would never know how or where it had started, and by the time suspicions could be confirmed, it would be too late.
Placing her cup of tea on a small table, President Glass did the only thing she could. She dropped to both knees and began to pray.
Dear
God, in this time of great suffering, I ask only one thing. Please spare my little girl.
Chapter 4