A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [156]
The drone of the engine could be heard now as the pilot banked smoothly into the light southerly breeze. H’malea knew of the events at the U.S. Capitol, and that the passengers had been central in keeping the death toll down and in saving the lives of the president and vice president, as well as close to seven hundred others. But he knew few of the details. Nor would he bother Angela Fletcher or Dr. Griffin Rhodes to fill him in.
On board the seaplane, Angie looked down from her seat by the pilot.
“I told you I didn’t like large groups of people, Dr. Rhodes,” she said into her mouthpiece. “What is that mob doing down there on the pier?”
“I’ll speak to him about crowd control,” Griff said.
Three weeks had passed since the last of the victims of WRX3883 had been treated and, after a day, sent through decontamination, out of the Capitol, and back to their lives. Although he would have preferred his role remain anonymous, Griff knew that would never be the case. Angie had spent most of the time at her keyboard, writing a series of articles for The Post and a proposal for what her new literary agent said would be the book of the century.
Before Angie began her writing, though, and before Griff accepted his newly acquired celebrity; and before he submitted to extensive debriefing from the president and his advisors, including Homeland Security Secretary Paul Rappaport, the two of them bundled into her silver Miata and drove to a small farm near Beckley, West Virginia.
“Melvin were never much for keeping in touch,” Kyle Forbush told them over a lovingly prepared dinner of pork, beans, boiled greens, and homemade bread, “but he called from time to time and came home every other Christmas or so. We knew from early on that he were more, I don’t know, unusual, than the other boys his age. If he had stayed and worked in the coal mine like we expected him to, chances are he would have been beaten to a pulp in the first month. He did his last year in high school living with my sister in Morgantown, and then put hisself through bug school—that’s what I called it—working in a video store. He were a real nice boy and a good son. We’re sad to hear of his passing.”
Forbush and his wife knew surprisingly little of the events at the Capitol, but they were pleased and impressed that President Allaire and the senators from West Virginia had declared an upcoming Wednesday Melvin Forbush Day, and would all be traveling to Beckley to celebrate.
The pilot swooped in with practiced ease, and tied up at the pier. Thirty minutes later, Griff and Angie were alone on their mattress, wearing nothing but sunscreen.
“Considering that I made this place up,” he said, “it’s hard to believe it really exists.”
“I’m proud that you allowed Congress to do something for you in addition to the medal and the citation. I’m also pleased that because our trip is privately donated—a little from each of them and from the Cabinet—I don’t have to write an exposé about it. I’m also glad the president paid for the mattress himself.”
“It’s a little out of character for me to say he owes me,” Griff said, stroking a wisp of her hair from her forehead, “but he does.”
In a contrite, impassioned speech to the world, Allaire had come completely clean about the WRX3883 virus and his role in developing it. He admitted to making choices under pressure that he might otherwise not have made, including the unjust imprisonment of the man who had subsequently saved his life and that of his family and so many others. He also promised his quick resignation should public opinion demand it.
In an affirmation of honesty from politicians, his next approval poll was the highest of any during his presidency.
Griff and Angie made love that afternoon, and