The nuclear explosions that took place during this conflict did one positive thing, if one could call it that. They gave the world a chance to see firsthand what nuclear devastation really looked like. A nuclear bomb, to the majority of people alive in 2015, had meant nothing. It was a weapon that signified something terrible, but virtually no one had any experience or memory of it, or even read books on Hiroshima any longer. There were still some aging baby boomers who remembered hiding under their desks in grammar school, as if that would have saved them when their schools heated up to three thousand degrees, but short of that, nuclear war was just a lingering threat.
Then people finally were able to see for themselves what a nuclear bomb really did, and more people than ever before were determined not to let it happen again. On the other hand, it also confirmed that there was no better weapon of terror ever invented.
And that’s what Los Angeles looked like. As if a big fat fifty-megaton hydrogen bomb had been dropped in the center of the city. The same devastation without the radiation. Thank God terrorists didn’t know how to start earthquakes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At 2:45 President Bernstein finally left the Situation Room and went upstairs to the residence to take a shower and change clothes before his meeting with the elite of the medical establishment. His original idea for the meeting, to discuss a range of issues including the problems inherent in unabated longevity, now seemed unimportant. And yet the country’s business still had to go on. There were still forty-nine states with no earthquake.
The President had one question that he wanted a real answer to. Put simply, “Are people living too long?” He had to be careful how he phrased it, just as he had had to be when he was running. It was something the other side loved to get ahold of and distort. CANDIDATE WANTS SENIORS DEAD, one headline screamed during the election. But Bernstein knew that this was an issue that had to be dealt with by someone, so it might as well be him.
The United States had already pushed the retirement age to seventy-three, trying to stave off the Social Security debacle. They raised premiums on Medicare and cut the coverage to bare bones, but nothing really made a difference. The cost for these programs had overwhelmed the country, and the bigger question was always looming: At what price life?
When Bernstein was in high school he had been on a debate team, and one of the debates was pro-choice versus pro-life. He was assigned pro-life even though he wanted to debate for the other side. But he got all of his talking points straight and tried his best. He argued that life began at conception and other humans had no right to take a life, and asked, What if they’d aborted Jonas Salk or Winston Churchill? And he was winning. Then someone from the other side said, “The pro-life movement only cares about the human while it’s still in the mother. As soon as it’s born, the pro-choice people have to take care of it.” And Bernstein couldn’t answer. He agreed. And he lost the debate.
He believed that many of the pro-lifers never thought about life as an entire journey. Just get the human beings here any way possible and the rest will be figured out. Who would do that? Who would figure it out? Maybe now that he was president, he could at least start the discussion for real.
* * *
“And at this very desk, Harry Truman made the decision to drop the first atom bomb on Hiroshima.” Betsy Bernstein loved giving the tours almost more than anything else.
Here she was, a plain girl from Detroit, showing the people who cured cancer and muscular dystrophy and Alzheimer’s exactly where former presidents had sat as they determined the fate of the world. She showed off the White House as if it were her own home, and she had done a lot to make it that way. The famous Blue Room was no longer blue, it was now off-white. In another room she replaced all of the antiques with a retro design, furniture made in America from the 1950s. She took out many of the Persian carpets that had been there for over a hundred years, and in their place put Indian rugs and added Southwestern touches throughout to give the famous home a different feel. And for the most part people liked it. There was the normal talk of too much expense, but she made sure that the items were donated and made sure to let everyone know that.
The Muellers were enthralled with the tour, as were the other guests. Betsy took them to the elevator and said, “Now, because you’re such a special group, if you would like, I will take you up to the residence. That’s something not a lot of people see.” Everyone thought that was a fine idea, and when they got to the second floor and walked down the hallway, Maggie Mueller couldn’t believe her eyes. One of the bedroom doors was open and the room was a mess. She nudged her husband.
“Look in there,” she whispered. Sam looked in the door but didn’t see what the big deal was.
“So?”
“The room looks like it hasn’t been made up for days.”
“So what? Maybe his messy brother is staying here.”
“Still,” Maggie said, “it’s the White House. You would think the room would be cleaned as soon as someone is out of it.”
“Maybe they’re still in there, honey.” Sam was now smiling. He loved these discussions about nothing.
“They’re not. You can tell.”
“Maybe the CIA makes them invisible during the tours.”
For one-tenth of a second Maggie thought he was serious. Before she could even laugh, Betsy Bernstein opened a door and said to the group, “Now, for the piece de resistance, the Lincoln Bedroom.” And when she stepped aside there he was, Abraham Lincoln, sitting in a chair, reading, looking as alive as could be. Lincoln looked up and said, “Hello, and welcome.” The people on the tour were giddy.
What started out seventy-five years earlier as crude animatronics at Disneyland had transformed into a machine that looked one hundred percent human. It was as good as any robot produced in 2030. The robot Lincoln had stories to tell, would take questions, and then, after the presentation was over, said, “If you don’t mind, I’m a little tired, I think I will lie down.” And with that, the tour was over. Lincoln didn’t stand up. The very fact that he was not required to walk saved twenty million dollars, but anyone on the White House tour who was important enough to go upstairs never forgot that moment. They felt they’d actually spent time with Abraham Lincoln.
One of the scientists during the question period thought he would be funny and asked Lincoln about John Wilkes Booth. But of course the creators knew that that question would come up, so what did Lincoln do? He looked puzzled, thought for a moment, and said, “I don’t know who that is. Remember, you’re talking to me while I’m still alive.” It got a great laugh and made the questioner feel like an ass.
At three o’clock the visiting dignitaries were led into a meeting room in the West Wing of the White House. They were told to make themselves comfortable, and that the President and the chief of staff would arrive in a few minutes.
Everyone there knew each other; several of them had either won or been nominated for a Nobel Prize. Besides Mueller there was Sidney Nash, the man who was credited with curing muscular dystrophy (with, of course, plenty of help from the late Jerry Lewis). There was Heather McMillan, who was given the most credit for curing Alzheimer’s, although a new kind of memory loss was starting to occur in the elderly that did not respond to medicine. Bennett Friedman, who headed the largest pharmaceutical drug company in the world, was there, as was Cynthia Lowenstein, secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare, and of course, Patricia Twain, the surgeon general. Several other people were at the table whom Sam did not know, but they knew him. Everybody knew the guy who cured cancer. They all made light conversation before the President arrived. “How’s business, Sam?” Bennett asked.
“You’ll have to talk to the accountants,” Mueller said. “I don’t get into the business end very much anymore.”
“I heard the growth spray was a bust.”
“Was it?” Sam smiled. “That’s not what I heard.”
This was a spray they were all working toward. A safe way to a
dminister a small amount of human growth hormone to improve the overall well-being in older people, but with none of the previous side effects. The so-called “feel goods,” the drugs that served no purpose other than to make you feel younger, were the toughest to come up with. They always had a rebound effect. You couldn’t go up without coming down, which was always a problem, and many of the drugs that sailed through clinical trials showed side effects years later.
One in particular that didn’t show its dark side for almost a decade came to market in 2019, synthetic caffeine. It gave people the jolt they wanted with none of the irritating side effects. People had energy, their thinking was clearer, their moods were improved, they didn’t have jitteriness, and at the end of the day it wore off completely and actually assisted in sleep.
Clinical trials went perfectly. The drug was approved in 2022 and was marketed under the name Alert. It became the third-best-selling drug of all time, and then people’s kidneys started to fail. It was something that didn’t show up for years, but when it did, it affected almost twenty percent of the users. Global-Pharma, the company that manufactured the drug, paid out twenty billion dollars in damages.
But still, the companies continued their research. To have success with the “feel goods” was to own the goose that laid the golden egg. “Imagine if someone had the patent on coffee,” they used to say. Just to think of it made businessmen swoon.
They all stood up when the President entered. President Bernstein was not a hand shaker. Early on, he adopted an Indian-style nod with his hands clasped together. It was odd at first, but it became his trademark and many other politicians followed suit. The Chinese and Indians knew something about shaking hands. There was no reason to get a person’s cold just from greeting them. And Bernstein thought adopting this Eastern way was not only healthier but had a peaceful ring to it. It was also better than having two assistants following him everywhere with hand sanitizer. People hated that image, the President shaking your hand and then, moments later, washing you off.
“Thank you for coming. The reason I wanted to meet all of you today was to discuss various issues regarding health, but of course with the largest natural disaster in our history striking the country this morning, I feel we need to discuss what can be done to keep Los Angeles from severe outbreaks of cholera and other communicable diseases. Quite frankly, I can’t even believe I’m using the word ‘cholera’ in 2030, but here we are.”
Of course, the people at the table knew there had been an earthquake, but they could see on the President’s face that it was worse than they had even imagined. Bernstein continued. “As I say, this was not the point of the meeting, but since you’re here, I thought it would be irresponsible not to share any ideas you might have that could help in this crisis.”
He listened to everyone’s opinions about what could be done. All of their suggestions—temporary hospitals, an infusion of medicine, sending in the military, ensuring fresh water—were already being implemented.
The President heard from each person and when they were all through he thanked them and then changed the subject.
“I would like your opinion on another very important matter.” He paused. He wanted to say it properly. “Are we getting too good at longevity? Is there a point at which life is not worth pursuing?”
The people at the table just stared at him. They were not expecting this question.
“I am raising a subject that must be talked about at some point, though possibly this is not the best time. It was brought up in the election but was shot down before it could really be analyzed. We have to ask ourselves if science has exceeded our ability to handle the elderly population. I thought the people in this room would have valuable opinions on the subject.”
No one at the table had ever heard this put so directly by a sitting president. Sure, people talked about this issue, a lot. Even the companies that came up with new longevity products would joke, “Who the hell will take care of these walking corpses?” But it was always someone else’s problem. Now the President was asking them.
Before a real discussion could start, a woman walked in and handed Bernstein a note.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got to go. Thank you for your ideas on Los Angeles, and I would appreciate it if the longevity issue would remain confidential. We will meet again soon, hopefully under different circumstances, and I would like to really delve into this discussion.”
And then, backtracking so he didn’t appear too callous, he said, “Of course, it is a true achievement when science helps people live a longer life, and we must always strive for that. My own mother is ninety-four and for that I’m grateful. I just wanted to hear your thoughts on the ramifications of life extension. Thanks again for coming today.” And with that, the President was gone.
Bennett Friedman turned to Patricia Twain. “What the hell was that about?” The surgeon general was a big Bernstein supporter and came to his defense.
“It’s something that needs to be discussed. The President knows this is a serious issue with the younger generation. It must be addressed.”
“Are you sure that’s the reason?” Friedman asked. “Maybe he just hates his mother.”
And the whole table laughed, including Twain.
* * *
After the meeting with the foremost health minds in the country, the President prepared for his address to the nation, really to the entire world. When deemed important enough, which this was, the President appeared on every single device that could transmit voice and picture. And it was available in real time around the globe. With instant translation, a laborer in China or a construction worker in Kuwait could watch as the president of the United States talked to his people. At eight o’clock, Eastern Standard Time, Bernstein solemnly faced the camera and spoke:
“Good evening. As you know, early this morning the United States of America experienced the worst natural disaster in our history. A nine-point-one earthquake, followed by several severe aftershocks, hit Southern California, doing unimaginable damage. We have already dispatched thousands of our finest military and medical personnel to ease the pain and attempt to get things back to some reasonable semblance of normal. I promise you tonight, we will make tremendous strides in a very short time to get America’s biggest city back on its feet and to get its great people the help they need. Let no nation on earth think that we are weakened by this event. Our country not only has the capacity to deal with whatever crisis is thrown at us, but in the end it bonds us as Americans and strengthens our will as a free and democratic people. I wish to thank all of the countries that have offered their help; your concern and your generosity are greatly welcomed. Nature does not tell us when or why she makes her decisions, but we must accept them and try to let them transform us into a stronger and better people. And to Los Angeles, your best days are ahead. I assure you of that. May God bless us all. Thank you.”
When the President was through, he just sat very still behind his historic desk. John Van Dyke said, “It was brilliant, sir. I couldn’t have imagined a better speech.”
“Too bad it was a lie,” the President said. Van Dyke knew what Bernstein meant. America did not have the funds to fix this disaster. Where would these “best days” come from? But that didn’t have to be discussed tonight. Van Dyke thought the administration had acted perfectly during the first day of the crisis, and he had learned from his years on Capitol Hill that if you didn’t enjoy the moments when you performed your job in an admirable way, you would find no joy of any kind in public service.
The President left his office and went upstairs to the residence. Betsy had watched the speech and thought it was perfect. “That was all you could do for now,” she said.
“I feel so helpless. I don’t know how to make this okay.”
“You have to let it go tonight. Give yourself a little break and you’ll figure something out. Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
“I’ll have Henry make a deep-dish
pizza. Maybe you should go mountain climbing.” The President smiled. Mountain climbing was one virtual experience he absolutely loved. He would climb on the machine and it made him feel as if he were in the Alps, or any other mountain range he programmed in. It took his mind off everything.
When they had first made the mountain-climbing program for the President, they had put in virtual Secret Service agents climbing along with him. Bernstein was furious. “What the hell did you do that for?”
“Well, Mr. President,” the genius Indian programmer said, “we wanted to make it as realistic for you as possible.”
“Are you crazy? Get them out of here.”
“Yes, sir. Do you want anyone there?”
“Other mountain climbers, people who have no idea who I am. Maybe Lincoln.”
“Yes, sir, I understand now. I forgot, sir. I was just going for realism.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Stewart Bernard was moved out of intensive care and into a room shared by six other people. When Kathy came to visit him, she had no idea his room would be so crowded. It looked like an army barrack, for God’s sake. She sat by her father’s bed and tried to keep up a positive attitude. He didn’t bring up the money issue, so she certainly didn’t want to introduce it. But that was all that was in the back of her mind. How the hell will we pay for this? She forced herself to make light conversation.
“You look great.”
“Thanks,” her father said. “I don’t feel that great.”
“The doctors said it went perfectly. You’ll make a complete recovery.”
“I can’t believe I almost died just keeping some kids from playing basketball. I would have done the same thing myself when I was their age.”
“You can’t think like that. You were doing your job. For all you know, they might have been hurting someone.”
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