“He’s been very cooperative.”
The President laughed. “He’s not getting the Sea Snake Sonar back,” he said. The Chief of Staff shrugged. That was a problem for next week. “I’d like to send the Majority Leader a bottle of that Irish whiskey,” the President continued.
“That’s a nice idea,” the Chief of Staff agreed. “I’ll do that.”
With that, for the first time since the beginning of the Outbreak, the President found himself with nothing urgent to do. He watched a romantic comedy for a while and then drifted off to sleep.
The Indian Prime Minister, however, had not played his last card.
88.
OVER THE NORTH ATLANTIC, ROUGHLY TWO HUNDRED NAUTICAL miles off the coast of Newfoundland, the Prime Minister took the controls of Air India One. The President was working in his office in the family quarters of the White House, having showered and dressed after the whirlwind California trip, when the Chief of Staff burst in. “Turn on the TV.”
CNN was showing live footage of the Prime Minister at the controls of the 747, ostensibly flying the plane. He checked several gauges, conversed with his copilot, and generally went through the motions of flying a plane. A banner along the bottom of the screen explained: “Indian PM takes the pilot seat on historic lifesaving flight.”
“He’s a pilot,” the President offered.
“Does he know how to fly a 747?” the Chief of Staff asked.
“God, I hope so.”
“It’s probably on autopilot, don’t you think?” the Chief of Staff said optimistically.
The two of them watched the live broadcast, transfixed like so many other viewers around the world. Some four hundred million people were watching in India as the Prime Minister piloted Air India One toward Washington. Even in bustling Mumbai, where business types typically dismissed political shenanigans, groups of people gathered informally in front of televisions in restaurants and cafés to watch their Prime Minister at the controls of the 747. The film crew on board broadcast the cockpit audio, so that viewers could hear communications between the flight crew and air traffic control, beginning when Air India One made radio contact with the air traffic station in Gander, Newfoundland.
“Greetings, Air India One,” a voice crackled over the radio, with a hint of a Canadian accent. “Maintain your current altitude and bearing.”
“Roger that,” the Prime Minister answered confidently.
Soon thereafter, the plane was handed off to the FAA Washington Center in Leesburg, Virginia. “Washington Center, this is Air India One,” the Prime Minister said loudly.
“Go ahead, Air India One,” a female voice responded.
“We are requesting permission to enter American airspace.”
“Roger that, permission granted,” the woman replied. And then, with over a billion people listening, she continued, “On a personal note, Captain Joshi, may I be the first to officially welcome you and your crew to the United States of America.”
“It’s an honor, ma’am,” the Prime Minister replied.
In the White House, the President said, “The guy is a fucking genius—a political genius.”
The Chief of Staff replied, “I just hope he doesn’t crash the plane. That would be a sad end to all this. Seriously, do we know if he can fly a 747?”
“I do think it’s on autopilot.”
“What about landing? You know he’s going to want to land it himself,” the Chief of Staff worried aloud.
The phone in the President’s study rang, interrupting their conversation. The President answered, listened for a moment, and then said caustically, “Of course he has.” He turned to the Chief of Staff and said, “The Prime Minister has requested a flyover of the Capitol.”
“At what altitude?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Would you know the difference?”
“No, but I have a bad feeling about this.”
The President went back to the phone call. “Look, I don’t care about the noise restrictions. We can apologize for that later. But could you please inquire discreetly whether this guy really should be flying a 747?” The President listened for a while and then hung up, turning back to the Chief of Staff. “They say he’s really good. He flew jets.”
As the President and Chief of Staff nervously watched the news coverage, the phone in the President’s study rang again. A White House operator informed him that Cecelia Dodds would like to speak with him. “I was worried we were going to lose you,” the President said when she was patched through.
“I’m not that easy to get rid of,” Cecelia Dodds replied warmly.
“How are you feeling”? the President asked.
“Like someone backed over me with a truck. They told me I’m not supposed to be on the phone, but I felt I owed you a call.”
“Are you watching this flight?” the President asked.
“The Prime Minister really knows how to make a point, doesn’t he?” she said.
The President laughed loudly. “Coming from you that’s high praise.”
“My intent was never to make things harder for you,” she said. “I hope you understand that.”
“Of course,” the President said honestly. “You didn’t make things easier, necessarily, but you know that. Sometimes I appreciate the moral clarity. Not always . . . Moral clarity is not usually the currency of choice in Washington.” It was not clear from the President’s tone if he was answering her question, musing aloud, or both. Cecelia Dodds listened, in any event.
Air India One did a low (1,750 feet), slow flyover of the Capitol Mall, dipping its wings as it passed over the White House. Tourists gawked at the enormous 747 flying bizarrely low over the city. Government workers hustled outside to witness the arrival of the historic flight. The Prime Minister was at the controls the whole way. Moments later the plane landed without incident at Joint Base Andrews. The landing and subsequent arrival ceremony was the most watched television event in Indian history—half a billion viewers—with many viewers in remote villages watching on their new televisions. The jumbo jet and its precious cargo taxied to a halt in an area where the President and First Lady were waiting. Seats had been set up on the tarmac for other VIPs. The entire NIH crisis group was there, as well as the White House staff who had worked on the Outbreak and the senior diplomats from the Indian Embassy. I was sitting in the second row with Jenna. The NIH Director, part of the official delegation welcoming the Prime Minister, stood slightly behind the President. Rows of Army trucks were parked near the terminal building, ready for the Dormigen to be unloaded and then reloaded onto the Air Force cargo planes that would fly it to the major population centers. One could feel the logistics folks ready to spring into action; the President had ordered them to stand down until the Prime Minister had his moment in the spotlight. (Of course, no one in the White House had anticipated how good the Prime Minister would be at shining the spotlight on himself—all down the Eastern Seaboard and over the Capitol at 1,750 feet.)
I found it all thrilling. The disappointment that we could not ward off the crisis with a scientific miracle had given way to the realization—valid, I still believe—that we had been part of a successful team effort. We were watching history, like being at Cape Canaveral when the moon shot was launched. The 747 taxied into position, the huge Indian and American flags on the fuselage gleaming brightly in the afternoon sun. Was that choreographed, or was it just luck? In any event, the perfectly illuminated flags provided an idyllic backdrop for the subsequent photos. A Marine band struck up a tune, something I could not identify but that felt vaguely familiar. The staircase was wheeled into position as the jet door popped open. The Prime Minister appeared and waved jauntily to the crowd.
The President walked to the bottom of the stairs, leaving the First Lady (wearing her wedding ring once again) and the others in the welcome party behind. The Prime Minister descended slowly, pausing about halfway to give a crisp salute in the direction of the Marine color guard standing at atte
ntion on the tarmac. The President, almost instinctively, began to climb the stairs so that the two men met on the second step. The Prime Minister extended his hand, which the President grasped, pulling the Prime Minister into an embrace, almost like two children. This was the photograph broadcast around the world: the two leaders locked in a bear hug. The Prime Minister was looking over the President’s shoulder, beaming at the adoring crowd. The President had closed his eyes in an expression that looked like profound relief.# Two politicians. Two statesmen, I suppose, though even now I would be hard-pressed to explain the difference. “I’m very glad to see you,” the President whispered to the Prime Minister, who laughed heartily.
“It’s good to be here,” the Prime Minister replied. “Yes, it’s good to be here,” he repeated. “And how are you doing, Mr. President?”
In a moment of candor—one elected head of state to another—the President of the United States replied, “I’m very tired.”
* At the beginning of the administration, some observers had suggested—presciently, it would appear—that the President had passed out the military planes to legislative leaders so that he could threaten to take them away, not unlike giving a teenager a car and then using it as leverage.
† We know this was the exact language the Strategist used, as the Secretary of State devoted a page and a half to this conversation in her memoir.
‡ Language worked out in the progressive caucus that the Tea Party subsequently adopted as well.
§ As most readers will recall, the strange feature of this kidnapping—children being released as their parents turned themselves in—provided an opportunity for U.S. and Saudi Special Forces to sneak a soldier into the compound. The still-unnamed female Army Ranger, who posed as the U.S. Deputy Counsel General, was given only a cursory search by the male kidnappers, as the U.S. officials had anticipated. Six of the ten kidnappers were killed; all but two of the hostages were rescued safely. The fact that a woman had foiled a fundamentalist terrorist group with Stone Age views toward women was, of course, a profound irony.
¶ Some of the questions for the President, as reported by the Springhill Chronicle, included: “Why don’t you have a cat?” and “What do you normally eat for breakfast?”
# This photo would win the Pulitzer Prize that year for Best Spot News Photography.
Epilogue
THE FOLLOWING EVENING THE PRESIDENT HOSTED A DINNER at the White House for the Indian Prime Minister. It was not an official state dinner. The exact protocol of that was lost on me, other than it meant I could wear a suit rather than having to rent a tuxedo. The guest list included White House officials, the Washington diplomatic corps, a handful of CEOs, prominent members of the Indian-American community, and an array of celebrities, including some Indian film stars. I took Ellen as my guest—I figured I owed her that much—though I spent much of the evening talking to Jenna. We would start dating several weeks later. Giscard was there, of course; he spent most of his time hitting on an Indian film star. I could not say that I had come to like him, but I had grown to appreciate his force of personality. He was wearing a burgundy suit with a matching scarf—always the scarf. Who else could pull that off?
The Chief of Staff was there with her entire family: her husband and two daughters. The daughters looked like they would rather be anywhere else. At one point I watched the Chief of Staff tell the older one to put her phone away, which apparently prompted some snippy response, because the two of them argued briefly before the daughter went storming off, high heels wobbling slightly, as only a teenager (in the wrong) can manage. I found the whole scene oddly reassuring, even sweet. It made me feel like life was back to normal.
There were elaborate toasts before dinner. By then the Indian Dormigen had been distributed across the country with relatively few hiccups. The American supply would be back online in hours. The crisis was unequivocally over. “This is the beginning of a new chapter in American-Indian relations,” the President declared in his toast. I had been around him enough to know when he was being sincere and when he was going through the motions. This felt genuine to me, not least because the world is a dangerous place and I had been persuaded that the world’s most powerful democracy and the world’s most populous democracy ought to be close allies.
The Strategist was there, basking in the success of the fake polling that had set the India strategy in motion. “I got it wrong,” he said with false modesty (to the small group who knew about this activity). In fact, the Prime Minister’s heroic flight to the U.S. had been even more popular than the Strategist’s fictional polling had suggested: 91 percent of Indians supported the Dormigen donation to the U.S.; 83 percent felt relations between the two countries should be closer. I said hello to the Strategist and exchanged pleasantries. “What do you think of my date?” he asked, nodding toward a large-breasted woman in a very short dress who had to be at least twenty years younger than he was. “She’s a professional,” he said with a wink. I had no idea what to say. I think he was telling the truth.
The menu was vegetarian out of respect for the Indian vegetarians among the guests. The centerpieces were made of lotuses, the national flower of India. (I did not notice this detail; someone pointed it out to me.) I was amazed by what had been pulled together in thirty-six hours. The President had nothing to do with the planning, obviously. There was an entire White House office for this kind of thing: flowers, food, seating arrangements, protocol. The President did make one specific request for the evening: the Speaker of the House and the Chinese Ambassador were seated next to one another. I could not help but look at them as they sat there glumly all night.
We would eventually unravel the mysteries of Capellaviridae—and of lurking viruses more generally. It would take more than a year for the pieces to fall into place, with many significant discoveries along the way. To the surprise of no one, Giscard was the lead author on the article that wove the intellectual strands into a coherent theory, though I think he deserved the credit for this one. In the end, we confirmed most of what we had hypothesized in the early days. Over the course of many millennia, the North American dust mite had turned Capellaviridae into an instrument for its own survival. The dust mite bite transmits the indolent form of Capellaviridae, which is essentially a flu virus with antibodies pre-attached. Eventually, as the indolent virus replicates, the proteins that render the virus harmless begin to detach, creating the more virulent form of the pathogen. Unless . . . more dust mite bites. Each bite transmitted more Capellaviridae—benign—as well as an enzyme that destroyed any of the viruses that had turned virulent. In other words, the best cure for a North American dust mite bite was more bites. That is how the dust mite made itself invaluable to humans.
“Fantastic!” Professor Huke exclaimed as I walked him through what we had learned. He had invited me to campus for a lunch with students. From an evolutionary standpoint, what we had discovered was fantastic. And it was consistent with the theory I first formulated while sitting at my dining room table: The North American dust mite effectively holds its human hosts hostages; as long as I’m fine, you’re fine. When humans tried to eradicate the dust mite, or when they moved away to an area without them (which from a biological perspective was the same thing), Capellaviridae turned dangerous.
Our discoveries paved the way for other important work. The enzyme the dust mite uses to eliminate the virulent form of Capellaviridae has enormous medical value. It is essentially a targeted assassin, which may transform some kinds of cancer treatment. Meanwhile, our “wiki science” has become a template for how cutting-edge research ought to be shared. We are now using more sophisticated platforms than Google Docs, and there is recognition that peer review is still an essential tool for validating work, but our Capellaviridae “war room” demonstrated the power of openness and collaboration. Last year the National Academy of Sciences promulgated a set of standards for sharing scientific work in parallel with the peer review process.
Some months after the dra
matic Air India One flight, those of us who worked on the scientific effort during the Outbreak were invited to a small White House reception with the President. The event was postponed twice—once during the intervention in El Salvador and again when the First Lady had her cancer surgery. Eventually we gathered at the White House. The NIH team was there, along with the other principals who had been involved in the response: the Acting HHS Secretary (now retired), the Secretary of State, and so on. The President and First Lady welcomed each member of the team as we entered the East Room; the NIH Director stood at the President’s side, introducing each of us as we reached the front of the receiving line. “You remember our expert on lurking viruses,” the NIH Director said to the President as I stood in front of him, offering my hand.
“Of course I do,” the President said, looking down subtly at my name tag. “Thank you for your service.”
I moved along to the First Lady. “So nice to meet you,” she said. “The nation owes you a profound debt.” Jenna was right behind me. I waited for her as the First Lady said, “Thank you for your important work.”
Jenna was chuckling when she joined me. “Hah,” she said, “the President forgot your name.”
“No,” I replied with a smile. “He never knew it in the first place.”
Acknowledgments
I TYPICALLY WRITE NONFICTION—BOOKS ABOUT ECONOMICS and statistics and monetary policy. Bringing a novel to fruition was an entirely different undertaking. I am deeply appreciative of those people who guided me through this new process. As always, it has been a pleasure to work with W. W. Norton, a partnership that is approaching two decades. John Glusman steered me expertly through the new territory associated with fiction. His faith in the story and its characters made the book possible. Helen Thomaides is the one who made the production process run far more efficiently than the rest of my life. I owe a special debt to copyeditor Dave Cole and his remarkably careful eye. This is a complicated story that takes place in the future over a handful of days in multiple time zones. Dave was the one who made sure that the details were consistent and always supported the larger narrative.
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