A Heartbeat Away Page 2

  As a dense silence enveloped the room, the president suddenly heard a disturbing noise—a popping sound, immediately followed by something that, to him, sounded like the plink of breaking glass. The sound came from somewhere in the crowd to his right. Allaire and many others turned and watched as California Senator Arlene Cogan opened up the purse that she had stowed beneath her chair. Instantly, a thin, white mist wafted out from within it, covering her heavily made-up face like a steam bath. Within seconds, Cogan and those nearest to her began to cough—and cough vehemently.

  Allaire immediately gave a prearranged signal to the coordinating technical director, ordering the man to implement antidemonstration procedures and shut down the network pool controlling all television feed from the Capitol.

  Murmurs from among the crowd escalated as another pop occurred across the chamber from the first, followed by another, and another, each accompanied by the breaking of thin glass, white mist, and more coughing. The murmurs gave way to shouting. Another briefcase and a purse were opened, releasing identical thin clouds.

  “Don’t open it!” someone hollered.

  “I can’t breathe!”

  “For God’s sake, that’s you! That’s your pocketbook!”

  “Get out of here! Let’s get out!”

  The popping and breaking glass continued.

  Two more … three … four … five.

  Allaire could see that mist was even arising from some bags that were unopened. He quickly counted fifteen plumes scattered about the room, maybe more.

  “Do not open your briefcase or purse!” Allaire shouted into his microphone. He slammed his open palm on the podium. “Everybody, please remain calm!”

  Secret Service agents rushed the stage and quickly surrounded him. They attempted to escort him to safety, but he struggled against them and continued to call loudly for order. At that instant, Allaire caught sight of something on the two teleprompters in front of his podium.

  His blood turned cold.

  The speech, which seconds ago was easily legible in fourteen-point Helvetica font, had disappeared from the screens. In its place were three lines of text. Allaire’s breathing nearly stopped as he read the message.

  On THE FOURTH DAY

  God created the sun, the moon, and the stars.

  And Genesis released WRX3883.

  CHAPTER 2

  DAY 1

  9:10 P.M. (EST)

  WRX3883.

  Jim Allaire knew immediately what had happened. Genesis had struck a mortal blow at the government of the United States and at the very heart of the country. Every soul in the U.S. Capitol building, including himself, the vice president, and nearly the entire line of succession to the presidency, was in danger. If there was to be any hope of averting an even more unprecedented disaster, he had to take control of the situation. He felt his chest tightening and wondered if it was just fear settling in, or something far more horrific—something in his bloodstream, already at work, attacking his body.

  WRX3883.

  For a moment, the magnitude of the evolving crisis held Allaire immobile. From his vantage point on the rostrum, he could see that panic had already begun to overtake many of the seven hundred who had gathered for his address. Self-preservation was replacing civility. Men and women alike, some of whom he had known for decades, were shoving their way toward the exits, some of them viciously. Job one, Allaire decided, would have to be to secure all the doors.

  In the center row of the balcony, Rebecca and Samantha stood immobile, side by side, looking down at him. Even at a distance, he could make out the pallor in their faces and the fear in their eyes. Before he could act, though, several agents took him by the shoulders and began moving him away from the microphone. Others stepped in and began helping to guide him toward the rear emergency exit.

  “No!” Allaire shouted. “Tend to the doors! The doors!”

  He could see, to his horror, that people were already nearing the exits from the chamber, and he knew they would all have to be brought back in, by force if necessary. Several more agents arrived.

  They’re just trying to get me to safety, Allaire told himself. But they don’t realize that there is no place safe to go.

  There wasn’t time to explain.

  Allaire twisted his body hard to the right, breaking the hold of the agent positioned directly behind him, while simultaneously seizing the lapels of another agent’s suit jacket. He pulled the man to within inches of his face, making certain his orders would be heard over the escalating din.

  “Call and get the exits out of the chamber secured right now! Lock them down!”

  “But sir, we need to evacuate.”

  “Listen to me! Nobody is to leave this building. Absolutely nobody! Get everyone who leaves the chamber back inside right now. It is life and death. Do you understand?”

  “But—”

  “I said, do you understand?!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I want guards posted at every exit. Shut down the elevators to the gallery level, and block those doors as well. Have guns drawn if need be and use them if you have to. Nobody gets out. No exceptions.”

  “But sir…”

  “Dammit, do it now or go sit down!”

  The president’s face was flushed. He could feel the arteries pulsating in his neck. The agents guarding him peeled away, as if from a football huddle. Chief agent Sean O’Neil was just a few feet away, barking orders into his radio.

  “Sean,” Allaire said, motioning the man closer, “we’ve got a lethal situation on our hands. A virus. Get three of your guys to the press gallery and confiscate all cell phones, pagers, and anything that might record or transmit. Use force if you have to. Tell them I’ll explain soon.”

  O’Neil hesitated, a shadow of doubt darkening his face.

  “Mr. Pres—”

  “Don’t challenge me, Sean! Move now!”

  The cries of those in flight intensified as Capitol Police and Secret Service agents moved into position and began the difficult task of herding them back inside the House Chamber. Allaire estimated that no more than twenty-five or thirty had actually made it out the doors to the vestibule. His wife and daughter remained in front of their seats, two of the few who weren’t in motion. Then he saw Rebecca cough several times. Further down the row she was in, a congressman from New Hampshire was also coughing.

  Allaire searched for the plumes of smoke nearest to his family, but by now, the mists had almost totally dissipated.

  I am responsible for this, he thought, forcing his way back to the rostrum. I should never have allowed it to happen.

  “You can’t block these exits!” a senator’s familiar voice boomed. “Let us out!”

  “They can’t do this!” a woman cried. “They can’t trap us in here like this!”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “I won’t go back in there. I won’t!”

  Sweat, something Allaire had felt certain would not be an issue tonight, cascaded down his brow, stinging his eyes, then salting his lips.

  “Mr. President—”

  Allaire turned toward the voice, which came from the center aisle, along which, just a few minutes ago, he had made his grand entrance. The architect of the Capitol, Jordan Lamar, a portly African American man, was pushing toward him through the dense crowd.

  “Mr. President—” Lamar called out again.

  Allaire motioned for the man to hurry. Together on the rostrum they were joined by Hank Tomlinson, chief of the fifteen hundred men and women of the Capitol Police force.

  “What the devil is going on, Mr. President?” Lamar asked. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. No one is. Now, listen. I need every person back in his original seat immediately. Make sure every door leading to the outside is sealed. No one gets in and no one gets out. I mean no one.”

  It was hard to hear over the clamor behind them in the main chamber and a story above in the gallery
. Now there were also some shrieks as word spread that the ways out were being sealed.

  “Sir, I don’t understand,” Tomlinson said. “What’s happened?”

  Allaire struggled to maintain his composure—seldom a difficult task for him. Behind and above the Capitol Police chief, he could see that Rebecca and Samantha, along with some others, had instinctively sat back down.

  “I’ll tell you, Hank. I’ll tell everyone,” Allaire said. “First, though, we need order in this room, and we need it now.”

  “But how…?”

  Allaire had heard enough. Gripping Tomlinson firmly by the lapel, he pulled the man close to his body, distracting him long enough to extract the officer’s gun from his shoulder holster. Allaire had learned how to fire the semiautomatic SIG P226 as part of Operation Keepsake, a long-standing Secret Service program. As an emergency security precaution, Operation Keepsake was designed to impart Special Forces combat training to the president of the United States, or as he was commonly referred to by the agents, the POTUS. Before Tomlinson could react, Allaire raised the gun high above his head.

  Four shots, fired in rapid succession and amplified by the sound system, exploded from the black-steel barrel. The discharges echoed deafeningly inside the enclosed chamber. Plaster from the ceiling where the bullets struck dropped onto several startled attendees. Silence quickly followed. Allaire wasted no time taking advantage of the change. He grabbed the microphone, turning up the volume until he heard feedback.

  “This is the president of the United States. Please return to your original seats—precisely your original seats. I am commanding the military, the Secret Service, and the Capitol Police to see to it that there are no further attempts to leave this building. All exits have been secured. Right now, I need each and every one of you to sit down at your original seat immediately. You must be seated exactly where you were prior to the disturbance. This is a direct order from your president. As soon as you are back in your seats and have quieted down, I will explain what is going on.”

  At first, only a few dozen seemed to be responding. Then Allaire dispatched two more shots, and within half a minute, nearly all the seats were filled. The few who refused to comply with the demand were roughly deposited in their places by the nearest soldier or policeman.

  Allaire’s eyes swept across the rows of dignitaries, many of them among the best and the brightest his country had to offer, many of them his friends, all of them now in grave danger. Rebecca and Sam were together in the seats his staff had earlier reserved for them. For a moment, Allaire held his wife’s desperate gaze. Then he mouthed the words I love you and touched his finger to his eye, and next to his heart, before pointing it at Sam. It was a sign of affection they invented when their daughter was a child. She and her mother, in return, made the same gesture to him. Allaire could not think of a time that he loved them more.

  As the president panned the faces in the crowd, a single thought would not let go. Never had he seen so much fear.

  And yet, the seven hundred had no idea just how afraid they really should be.

  CHAPTER 3

  DAY 1

  9:30 P.M. (EST)

  Allaire stood with his hands pressed firmly on the lectern, trying to construct what he was going to say and how he was going to say it. His eyes, nearly unblinking, gazed forward. His mouth was dry. He had always loved being a physician, but after fifteen years as a practicing doc, he felt as if he wanted to do more, and turned to politics. How many times over the years before he left medicine had he sat with patients and given them the horrible news that barring a miracle, they were going to die from their illness? He used to feel that, because his sensitivity and empathy were genuine, he was reasonably effective at it.

  Not this evening.

  The crowd’s attention remained fixed on him. The anxious quiet was beyond tense, interrupted only by scattered volleys of coughing. Allaire knew it was time. These people wanted—needed—explanations, but he felt strongly that if he disclosed the whole truth about the virus, there would be no way to contain the ensuing panic.

  “What’s happening?” a man suddenly shouted, preempting Allaire from the gallery.

  “Does this have anything to do with Genesis?” a second man called out.

  “Yes,” he heard his voice say with forced calm. “Yes, unfortunately, it does.”

  The first act of terror for which Genesis had taken credit was the Great New York Blackout, eight or nine months before. THE FIRST DAY, the terrorists had labeled it in a call to the FBI. God said, “Let there be light,” and Genesis said, “Let there be darkness.” Something like that. Three men were brutally murdered during the sabotage of several substations, and another hundred people were estimated to have died as the result of the three-day power outage. No demands were made by Genesis.

  THE SECOND DAY, creation of the sky, was marked by an off-hours explosion that destroyed a wing of the San Diego Air and Space Museum. Three killed—hundreds if the blast were six hours earlier. Again, no demands.

  Also no real suspects, despite the most intense FBI/CIA/ATF investigation since 9/11.

  THE THIRD DAY, just two months ago, represented the creation of dry land and the bringing forth of plants and fruit-bearing trees. On it, the spectacular all-glass National Horticultural Building was leveled by a powerful blast, killing twelve and injuring fifty more.

  Now, more than seven hundred, including Allaire himself and his wife and daughter, had their necks in a noose.

  It was THE FOURTH DAY.

  Without warning, the president coughed.

  His chest tightened as panic washed over him. He risked a peek at his palms, praying that no red blotches or discs would be there. Is it happening already? No, his palms were unmarked and unremarkable. He let out a relieved sigh, which the microphone broadcast to all. Just a tickle in his throat. For now, just a tickle.

  A woman, seated in the gallery, dead center to the president, stood up, clutching the hand of a boy no more than thirteen years old, whom Allaire presumed to be her son.

  “Are we in danger?”

  The president inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.

  “I don’t have enough information to answer your question at this moment. It is possible,” he went on, choosing his words carefully, “that we might have been exposed to a pathogen—a virus. As a protective measure, until I have more information, I am asking that everyone stay calm, and more importantly, that everyone remain seated. I will speak more precisely about the situation when I have discussed what we know with my advisors. Until then, as your commander in chief, I have ordered the security forces here to use any measures necessary to keep you in the room and in those seats. Now, please be patient. I must review these developments with my advisors.”

  At that, a dozen or so people leapt up and began shouting questions at once. It was Georgia senator Saul Kennistone who caught the president’s eye. Kennistone opened his mouth to yell something at him, but a sudden, body-shaking fit of coughing choked back the senator’s words.

  So, it has begun, Allaire thought.

  His concern must have shown.

  “Why is he coughing?” someone shouted. “Is that the virus?”

  As if answering the question, several people around the chamber joined in the chorus of dry, hacking coughs.

  “We are investigating,” Allaire said over the noise. “That is all I can say at the moment. Now, please, in addition to my Capitol Police Chief Tomlinson, Agent O’Neil, and Vice President Tilden, the following are to come to the podium immediately for a briefing.”

  The president summoned White House Chief of Staff Megan McAndrews; Department of Defense Secretary Gary Salitas; Health and Human Services Secretary Kate Broussard; Homeland Security Secretary Paul Rappaport; Capitol Architect Jordan Lamar; and Admiral Archibald Jakes, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Dr. Bethany Townsend, Allaire’s personal physician and longtime family friend, was the last one called forward.

  The room erupted ag
ain in an anxious commotion, punctuated by continued sporadic coughing. Those occupying the floor area, reserved for officials from the Senate, House, Supreme Court, the president’s Cabinet, and diplomatic corps, obeyed the president’s edict and remained seated. Those individuals the president had called forward stood and made their way to the rostrum.

  People in the upper gallery sections, however—those now-unlucky souls who had scored a coveted ticket to the State of the Union Address, as well as members of the press and broadcast network teams—were less compliant. Not a mass exodus, Allaire observed, but enough people to draw his attention decided to head toward the exits. The president watched with irritation and immense sadness as people were forcibly turned back by the guards stationed at all the doors. One particularly aggressive man, clawing at a uniformed security officer, was whipped into submission by the butt of a pistol.

  Allaire gripped Sean O’Neil by the shoulder.

  “Sean, please clear the area around us.”

  O’Neil engaged three agents to back people away from the group. Then he quickly returned to the POTUS’s side.

  “We’ve got to make sure nobody leaves the House chamber,” Allaire said urgently.

  “We’re doing that, sir.”

  “No, I mean make absolutely sure.”

  “Sir?”

  “Dammit, Sean—” The president quickly composed himself and leaned forward to whisper, “This virus is viciously contagious. If it gets out of here, there’s no telling what might happen. Have your people and the other guards immobilize anybody who tries to force their way to the outside. Use whatever restraints and force are necessary.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  O’Neil, tall and lean, and emotionless in every way except for the alertness in his dark eyes, delivered the president’s directive via secure radio. Allaire returned to the lectern. He leaned forward until his lips brushed against the metal mesh of the microphone.