A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [30]
But this time, he had been wrong. His closest friend and advisor, Gary Salitas, had been wrong. And worst of all, given his background as a physician, the scientists he had decided to believe in had been wrong. They had convinced him that the power of WRX3883 could be harnessed—that the adverse effects of the virus could be eliminated. Now, by having supported their view, he had, in all likelihood, signed his own death warrant, as well as those of his wife and daughter, and many, many others.
The report of crusty Harlan Mackey’s grisly demise had been a terrible jolt. Now, death from the virus had a face—probably the first of many.
At the president’s request, Gary Salitas, Jordan Lamar, and Dr. Bethany Townsend remained in the Hard Room. Allaire strained to get his mind around the enormity of what lay beyond the door. This wasn’t the time for remorse and self-pity. Now, more than ever, he had to connect with what it meant to be presidential, knowing his actions might be among the last of his administration.
The others watched and waited.
“How much are you going to tell them?” the defense secretary asked finally.
“I don’t know. I’d like to hold back on talking about Mackey.”
“Agree. So long as no one starts making a big deal about where he is. And even then I think we can just speculate. What about the virus?”
The president shrugged. “Bit by bit might be best,” he said.
Townsend looked at the two friends curiously, but said nothing. She had been the Allaires’ physician since the man was first nominated, and was widely respected for her candor with the media, and her loyalty to the first family. She had grown comfortable issuing warnings about rising cholesterol levels in the most powerful man on earth, but in this situation, she felt helpless. She was a Group A, but how long before the horrific symptoms that claimed the Jackson family materialized inside her? She could not access the Kalvesta, Kansas, files from within the Capitol, but she could recall specifics from the case in gruesome detail.
Townsend’s vision blurred as a bolt of pain hit just above the bridge of her nose. Another migraine. They occurred infrequently, usually under tense situations, but nobody really knew about them. Or could it be the virus, attacking her body in unexpected ways? From now on, every twinge, every cough or pain would be seen as a possible harbinger of debilitation and death.
Townsend had decided to resign her position as first doctor following Allaire’s initial debriefing. The revulsion she felt over biological warfare of any kind cast doubt over her ability to support the president as his physician, his friend, or even, for that matter, as a fellow citizen.
Then, as he spoke to her, one to one, and requested she remain with him in the Hard Room—he knew her well and sensed her revulsion at his decision to develop WRX3883, and he needed her scientific brilliance and insight, as well as her deep compassion—her anger began to lessen. She had often tried to imagine herself in his position, making gut-wrenching choices on a daily basis that had the potential to affect millions, even billions of lives. In the end, she had learned to think carefully before second-guessing his decisions.
“Gary, what’s our ETA on Rhodes?” Allaire asked.
“He’ll be arriving here at Bolling AFB at approximately oh six hundred hours, Mr. President. We’ve got a chopper standing by to bring him here.”
“Good. I want you to coordinate his entry into the Capitol. How are we progressing in getting ahold of the guy Rhodes wanted?”
“That would be his former lab assistant,” Salitas said, consulting his BlackBerry. “Forbush … Melvin Forbush. We’re ready to set up a call when Rhodes arrives.”
“Do we have anything on the guy? Do you think he was involved in the theft of the virus?”
“The answer appears to be no. We’re checking into all that again right now.”
“And where is he?”
“He’s still at the lab in Kansas.”
“But we closed the place.”
“He’s the only one there, Jim. Sort of a caretaker.