“In the D.C. area, I forget exactly where, Virginia horse country, I think.” Jack vaguely remembered hearing that the daughter, Katryn Gerasimov, was engaged to some old-money fox-killer out around Winchester, having changed from one form of nobility to another. Well, the stipend CIA had paid to the family was enough to maintain a very comfortable lifestyle.
Cathy was used to her husband’s jokes. Like most men, he would tell amusing little stories whose humor was in their exaggeration—and besides, his ancestry was Irish—but now she marked the fact that his revelation was as casual as a report of the baseball scores. He didn’t see her stare at the back of his head. Yes, she decided, as the kids entered the room, I’d like to hear the stories.
“Daddy!” Katie said, seeing Jack first. “Mommy!” With that the morning routine stopped, or rather changed over to something more immediately important than world news and events. Katie was already in her school clothes, like most small children, able to awaken in a good mood.
“Hi,” Sally said, coming next, clearly vexed.
“What’s the matter?” Cathy asked her elder daughter.
“All those people out there! You can’t even walk around here without people seeing you everywhere!” she grumped, getting a glass of juice off the tray. And she didn’t feel like Frosted Flakes this morning. She’d rather have Just Right. But that box was all the way down on the ground floor in the capacious White House kitchen. “It’s like living in a hotel, but not as private.”
“What exam is it today?” Cathy asked, reading the signals for what they were.
“Math,” Sally admitted.
“Did you study?”
“Yes, Mom.”
Jack ignored that problem, and instead fixed cereal for Katie, who liked Frosted Flakes. Little Jack arrived next and turned on the TV, selecting the Cartoon Channel for his morning ration of Road Runner and Coyote, which Katie also approved.
Outside, the day was starting for everyone else. Ryan’s personal NIO was putting the finishing touches on his dreaded morning intelligence brief. This President was far too hard to please. The chief usher was in early to supervise some maintenance on the State Floor. In the President’s bedroom, the valet was setting out clothes for POTUS and FLOTUS. Cars were waiting to take the children off to school. Maryland State Police officers were already checking out the route to Annapolis. The Marines were warming up their helicopter for the trip to Baltimore—that problem had still not been worked out. The entire machine was already in motion.
GUS LORENZ WAS in his office early because of a telephone call from Africa returning his call from Atlanta. Where, he demanded, were his monkeys? His purchasing agent explained from eight time zones away that, because CDC had fumbled getting the money cleared, somebody else had bought up the shipment, and that a new batch had to be obtained from out in the bush. A week, perhaps, he told the American doctor.
Lorenz grumbled. He’d hoped to start his new study this week. He made a note on his desk pad, wondering who the hell would have bought so many African greens just like that. Was Rousseau starting something new in Paris? He’d call the guy a little later, after his morning staff conference. The good news, he saw, was that—oh, that was too bad. The second patient, killed in a plane crash, the telex from WHO said. But there were no new cases reported, and it had been long enough from Number Two that they could say now, rather than hope, that this micro-outbreak was over—probably, maybe, hopefully, Lorenz added with his thoughts. That was good news. It looked like the Ebola Zaire Mayinga strain under the electron microscope, and that was the worst of the sub-types of the virus. It could still be that the host was out there, waiting to infect someone else, but the Ebola host was the most bafflingly elusive quarry since malaria—“bad air,” in Italian, which was what people had thought caused it. Maybe, he thought, the host was some rodent that had gotten run over by a truck. He shrugged. It was possible, after all.
WITH THE REDUCTION in her morphine drip, Patient Two was semiconscious at the Hasanabad facility. She was aware enough to know, and to feel, the pain, but not to understand what was really happening. The pain would have taken over in any case, all the worse because Jean Baptiste knew what every twinge meant. The abdominal pain was the worst, as the disease was destroying her gastrointestinal tract throughout its ten-meter length, quite literally eating the delicate tissues designed to convert food into nutrients, and dumping infected blood down toward her rectum.
It felt as though her entire body were being twisted and crushed and burned at the same time. She needed to move, to do something to make things different, just to make the pain come briefly from a new direction, and so briefly relieve that which tormented her, but when she tried to move she found that every limb was restrained with Velcro-coated straps. The insult of that was somehow worse than the pain, but when she tried to object it only caused violent nausea that started her gagging. At that indication the blue-coated spaceman rotated the bed—what sort of bed was this? she wondered—which allowed her to vomit into a bucket, and what she saw there was black, dead blood. It distracted her from the pain for a second, but all the distraction told her was that she could not survive, that the disease had gone too far, that her body was dying, and then Sister Jean Baptiste started praying for death, because this could have only one end, and the pain was such that the end needed to come soon, lest she lose her faith in the process. The prospect sprang out into her diminished consciousness like a jack-in-the-box. But this childhood toy had horns and hooves. She needed a priest at hand. She needed where was Maria Magdalena? Was she doomed to die alone? The dying nurse looked at the space suits, hoping to find familiar eyes behind the plastic shields, but though the eyes she saw were sympathetic, they were not familiar. Nor was their language, as two of them came close.
The medic was very careful drawing blood. First he checked to see that the arm was fully restrained, unable to move more than a centimeter. Then he had a comrade hold the arm in his two strong hands, careful himself to keep those hands well away from the needle. With a nod of agreement, the first selected the proper vein and stabbed the needle in. He was lucky this time. The needle went right in on the first try. To the back of the needle-holder he attached a 5cc vacuum tube, which took in blood that was darker than the usual purple. When it was full, he withdrew it, and set it carefully in a plastic box, to be followed by three more. He withdrew the needle next, and placed gauze on the puncture, which wouldn’t stop bleeding. The medic released the arm, noting that their brief grasp had discolored the skin badly. A cover was placed on the box, and the first medic walked it out of the room, while the second went to the corner to spray his gloves and arms with dilute iodine. They’d been fully briefed on how dangerous this duty was, but in the way of normal men they hadn’t really believed it, despite all the repetitions and the films and the slides. Both men believed it now, every cursed word, and to a man the army medics wished and prayed for Death to come and spirit this woman off to whatever destination Allah had planned for her. Watching her body disintegrate was bad enough. The thought of following her in this horrid journey was enough to quail the stoutest heart. It was like nothing they’d ever seen. This woman was melting from the inside out. As the medic finished cleaning the outside of his suit, he turned, startled by her cry of pain, as if from an infant tortured by the hands of the devil himself. Eyes open, mouth wide, a rasping, liquid cry escaped into the air and penetrated the plastic of his suit.
The blood samples were handled quickly, but under the greatest care, in the Hot Lab up the corridor. Moudi and the project director were in their offices. It wasn’t strictly necessary for them to be in the lab for this, and it was easier for them to view the tests without the hindrance of the protective garb.
“So fast, so remarkably fast.” The director shook his head in awe.
Moudi nodded. “Yes, it overwhelms the immune system like a tidal wave.” The display on the computer screen came off an electron microscope, which showed the field full of the sh
epherd-staff-configured viruses. A few antibodies were visible on the screen, but they might as well have been individual sheep in a pride of lions for all the good they might do. The blood cells were being attacked and destroyed. Had they been able to take tissue samples of the major organs, they could have found that the spleen was turning into something as hard as a rubber ball, full of little crystals which were like transport capsules for the Ebola virus particles. It would, in fact, have been interesting, and maybe even scientifically useful, to do laparoscopic examination of the abdomen, to see exactly what the disease did to a human patient over measured time intervals, but there was the danger of accelerating the patient’s death, which they didn’t want to risk.
Samples of her vomitus showed tissue fragments from her upper GI, and those were interesting because they were not merely torn loose, but dead. Large sections of the patient’s still-living body had already died, come loose from the living remainder, and been ejected as the corporate organism fought vainly to survive. The infected blood would be centrifuged and deep-frozen for later use. Every drop that came out was useful, and because of that, more blood was dripped into her via rubber IV tubes. A routine heart-enzyme test showed that her heart, unlike that of the Index Patient, was still normal and healthy.
“Strange how the disease varies in its mode of attack,” the director observed, reading the printout.
Moudi just looked away, imagining that he could hear her cries of anguish through the multiple concrete walls of the building. It would have been an act of supreme mercy to walk into the room and push in 20ccs of potassium, or just to turn the morphine drip all the way open and so kill her with respiratory arrest.
“Do you suppose the African boy had a preexisting cardiovascular problem?” his boss asked.
“Perhaps. It wasn’t diagnosed if he did.”
“Liver function is failing rapidly, as expected.” The director scanned the blood-chemistry data slowly. All the numbers were well out of normal ranges, except the heart indicators, and those but barely. “It’s a textbook case, Moudi.”
“Indeed it is.”
“This strain of the virus is even more robust than I’d imagined.” He looked up. “You’ve done well.”
Oh, yes.
“... ANTHONY BRETANO has two doctorates from MIT, Mathematics and Optical Physics. He has an impressive personal record in industry and engineering, and I expect him to be a uniquely effective Secretary of Defense,” Ryan said, concluding his statement. “Questions?”
“Sir, Vice President Kealty—”
“Former Vice President,” Ryan interrupted. “He resigned. Let’s get that right.”
“But he says he didn’t,” the Chicago Tribune pointed out.
“If he said he had a talk with Elvis, would you believe that?” Ryan asked, hoping that he’d delivered the prepared line properly. He scanned faces for the reaction. Again, all forty-eight seats were filled, with twenty more reporters standing. Jack’s scornful remark made them all blink, and a few even allowed themselves a smile. “Go ahead, ask your question.”
“Mister Kealty has requested a judicial commission to ascertain the facts of the matter. How do you respond to that?”
“The question is being investigated by the FBI, which is the government’s principal investigative agency. Whatever the facts are, they have to be established before anyone can make a judgment. But I think we all know what is going to happen. Ed Kealty resigned, and you all know why. Out of respect for the constitutional process, I have directed the FBI to look into the matter, but my own legal advice is absolutely clear. Mr. Kealty can talk all he wants. I have a job to do here. Next question?” Jack asked confidently.
“Mr. President”—Ryan nodded fractionally at hearing the Miami Herald say that—“In your speech the other night, you said that you’re not a politician, but you are in a political job. The American people want to know your views on a lot of issues.”
“That makes good sense. Like what?” Jack asked.
“Abortion, for one,” the Herald reporter, a very liberated woman, asked. “What exactly is your position?”
“I don’t like it,” Ryan answered, speaking the truth before thinking about it. “I’m Catholic, as you probably know, and on that moral issue I think my Church is correct. However, Roe v. Wade is the law of the land until such time as the Supreme Court might reconsider the ruling, and the President isn’t allowed to ignore the rulings of the federal courts. That puts me in a somewhat uncomfortable position, but as President I have to execute my office in accordance with the law. I swore an oath to do that.” Not bad, Jack, Ryan thought.
“So you do not support the right of a woman to choose?” the Herald asked, smelling the blood.
“Choose what?” Ryan asked, still comfortable. “You know, somebody once tried to kill my wife while she was pregnant with our son, and soon thereafter I watched my oldest child lying near death in a hospital. I think life is a very precious commodity. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way. I’d hope that people would think about that before deciding to have an abortion.”
“That doesn’t answer the question, sir.”
“I can’t stop people from doing it. Like it or not, it’s the law. The President may not break the law.” Wasn’t this obvious?
“But in your appointments for the Supreme Court, will you use abortion as a litmus-test issue? Would you like to have Roe v. Wade overturned?” Ryan scarcely noticed the cameras changing focus, and the reporters concentrating on their scribbled notes.
“I don’t like Roe v. Wade, as I said. I think it was a mistake. I’ll tell you why. The Supreme Court interjected itself into what should have been a legislative matter. The Constitution doesn’t address this issue, and on issues where the Constitution is mute, we have state and federal legislatures to write our laws.” This civics lesson was going well. “Now, for the nominations I have to make to the Supreme Court, I will look for the best judges I can find. That’s something we will be addressing shortly. The Constitution is sort of the Bible for the United States of America, and the justices of the Supreme Court are the—theologians, I guess, who decide what it means. They aren’t supposed to write a new one. They’re supposed to figure out what it means. When a change in the Constitution is needed, we have a mechanism to change it, which we’ve used more than twenty times.”
“So, you will select only strict-constructionists who are likely to overturn Roe. ”
It was like hitting a wall. Ryan paused noticeably before answering. “I hope to pick the best judges I can find. I will not interrogate them on single issues.”
The Boston Globe leaped to his feet. “Mr. President, what about where the life of the mother is in danger, the Catholic Church—”
“The answer to that is obvious. The life of the mother is the paramount consideration.”
“But the Church used to say—”
“I don’t speak for the Catholic Church. As I said earlier, I cannot violate the law.”
“But you want the law changed,” the Globe pointed out.
“Yes, I think it would be better for everybody if the matter was returned to the state legislatures. In that way the people’s elected representatives can write the laws in accordance with the will of their electorates.”
“But then,” the San Francisco Examiner pointed out, “we’d have a hodgepodge of laws across the country, and in some areas abortion would be illegal.”
“Only if the electorate wants it that way. That’s how democracy works.”
“But what about poor women?”
“It’s not for me to say,” Ryan replied, feeling the beginnings of anger, and wondering how he’d ever gotten into this mess.
“So, do you support a constitutional amendment against abortion?” the Atlanta Constitution demanded.
“No, I don’t think that’s a constitutional question. I think it is properly a legislative question.”
“So,” the New York Times summarized, “you arepersonally ag
ainst abortion on moral and religious grounds, but you will not interfere with women’s rights; you plan to appoint conservative justices to the new Supreme Court who will probably overturn Roe, but you don’t support a constitutional amendment to outlaw freedom of choice.” The reporter smiled. “Exactly what do you believe in on this issue, sir?”
Ryan shook his head, pursed his lips, and bit off his first version of an answer to the impertinence. “I thought I just made that clear. Shall we go on to something else?”
“Thank you, Mr. President!” a senior reporter called loudly, so advised by the frantic gestures of Arnold van Damm. Ryan left the podium puzzled, walked around the corner, then another until he was out of sight. The chief of staff grabbed the President by the arm, and nearly pushed him against the wall, and this time the Secret Service didn’t move a muscle.
“Way to go, Jack, you just pissed off the entire country!”
“What do you mean?” the President replied, thinking, Huh?
“I mean you don’t pump gas in your car when you’re smoking a cigarette, God damn it! Jesus! Don’t you know what you just did?” Arnie could see that he didn’t. “The pro-choice people now think you’re going to take their rights away. The pro-life people think you don’t care about their issue. It was just perfect, Jack. You alienated the whole fucking country in five minutes!” Van Damm stormed off, leaving his President outside the Cabinet Room, afraid that he’d really lose his temper if he said anything more.
“What’s he talking about?” Ryan asked. The Secret Service agents around him didn’t say anything. It wasn’t their place—politics—and besides, they were split on the issue as much as the country was.
IT WAS LIKE taking candy from a baby. And after the initial shock, the baby cried pretty loud.
“BUFFALO SIX, this is GUIDON SIX, over.” Lieutenant Colonel Herbert Masterman—“Duke” to his peers—stood atop “Mad Max II,” his M1A2 Abrams command tank, microphone in one hand, and binoculars in the other. Before him, spread over about ten square miles in the Negev Training Area, were the Merkava tanks and infantry carriers of the Israeli army’s 7th Armored Brigade, all with yellow lights blinking and purple smoke rising from their turrets. The smoke was an Israeli innovation. When tanks were hit in battle, they burned, and when the MILES gear receptors recorded a laser “hit” they set off the marker. But the idea had been for the Israelis to count coup that way on the OpFor. Only four of Masterman’s tanks and six of his M3 Bradley Scout tracks were similarly “dead.”
Executive Orders (1996) Page 40