A Heartbeat Away Page 3

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Please settle down. Please. Quiet down this instant!”

  It took several additional calls for quiet before the room settled into an uneasy silence. All eyes were now directed upon him. Allaire made a furtive glance toward his wife and daughter. In seconds, the concern etched across their faces forced him to look away.

  “I must be very clear,” he said. “Until we know more about what we may have been exposed to, I cannot allow anybody to exit the House Chamber. I promise to share what information I have as it becomes available. For now, I’m requesting your cooperation.”

  “And what if we don’t!”

  The unidentified man shouted his thinly veiled threat from somewhere in the upper gallery.

  “What we’ve been exposed to could be highly contagious,” Allaire’s amplified voice boomed out. “Until we have more information, I cannot risk a public health crisis. To ensure public safety, I’ve authorized the use of extreme measures against anyone who attempts to exit the building. That is a nonnegotiable order from your president. Now, please, you must excuse me. I’ll return shortly with additional information and our proposed next steps after I speak with my staff.”

  Once more the room erupted into chaotic chatter. White House chief of staff, intense, intellectual Megan McAndrews, was the first to approach.

  “Mr. President,” she whispered, “you neglected to include the speaker of the house.”

  McAndrews tilted her head in a nearly imperceptible gesture toward Ursula Ellis, in her seat atop the tribune.

  “If I didn’t call somebody,” Allaire said, with an edge, “either I don’t need them, or I don’t trust them.”

  CHAPTER 4

  DAY 1

  9:45 P.M. (EST)

  Ursula Ellis assumed Allaire had included her among the high-ranking officials he had summoned to meet with him. It took some time for her to realize he had not. Perhaps she had misheard over all the commotion, she wondered—either that, or the president’s gunshots had temporarily impaired her hearing.

  Vice President Henry Tilden sat beside Ellis on the rostrum. He was a tall, gangly oaf of a man whom Ellis knew would never make anyone’s list of the most intellectual politicians in the land.

  “Henry, did the president include me?” she leaned over and asked.

  “I don’t think so, Ursula,” Tilden said, pushing himself up from his seat and carefully avoiding eye contact. “But I wasn’t listening that closely. Please, excuse me now. I’ve got to go.”

  Yes, of course, you go, Ellis thought. Go be the good lapdog that you are.

  Ellis remained seated in her designated chair, looking, she sensed, regal and composed. She had been a fourteen-point underdog when she won the nomination to oppose Allaire. A throwaway, many political pundits had called her, persisting with that notion even when she had shaved a good chunk of that lead away by the time of the election. One more month and she would have caught the bastard, she had thought over and over again.

  One more month.

  She concentrated on maintaining an appearance of composure. People were looking. Allaire had been an idiot firing that gun the way he did. She needed to appear above it. Many out there had to be aware of the slight the man had just delivered to her. She needed the power brokers and the doubters to see a woman impervious to the chaos engulfing them—a true leader, fearless in the face of impending disaster.

  Ellis glanced sideways at Allaire. The sight of him churned her stomach. Perhaps now the American people would see past the smoke and mirrors of their so-called leader. Perhaps they would see that for all his cries for cooperation and unity between the legislative and executive branches, when push came to shove, the speaker of the house was being left on the outside looking in.

  Well, fine, she thought. While he was slinking away to meet with his yes-men, she was where it really counted—with the people. Sooner or later that snub might prove to be Allaire’s undoing. Those waiting for him to handle whatever was going on had to have seen how his color had gone pale; how sweat dripped a rivulet of makeup down his Botox-stiffened face; how his hands shook. The man oozed weakness and uncertainty.

  The moment the election results were in, the moment she had conceded, Ursula Ellis had begun thinking about the election four years from then. She had checklists in her study of her possible competition, within her party and Allaire’s. None of them was all that formidable. Privately, her advisors questioned whether this might be the time for her to step back from politics and resign her seat in Congress to gather up and re-form the scattered pieces of her campaign team. But she had the foresight to anticipate a virtual dead heat for control of the House, and had chosen to run for reelection to her seat while campaigning against Allaire. Now, here she was, elected in her district by a landslide, and back as speaker.

  She had been guided in her decision to keep her seat by a persistent inner voice telling her the time was not right to pull back. That gentle voice, which had led her so unerringly in the past, made it clear that God had plans for her—plans to lead the country. She simply had to stay in the limelight.

  Allaire surveyed the chosen ones. He looked as if he were about to faint.

  This is it, Ellis thought. Whatever was happening, the president was not equipped to handle it. Sooner or later, he was going to slip—to make a profound error in judgment. And when he did, she would be ready to step forward. In truth, she felt certain her rival was misreading the situation altogether.

  First, though, before she could stand in opposition to the actions he intended to take, she needed information.

  Allaire was the consummate conniver. What was he up to this time? Was this some sort of demonstration—a test, like the civil defense interruptions on the radio?

  Did he really believe that seven hundred of the most powerful and influential Americans were being affected by some virus?

  If there was any truth at all to what he was claiming, then people needed medical evaluation and attention—food and water, not threats and isolation. But odds favored that the whole thing was some sort of scam. Allaire’s leadership skills were fraying. Hers were sharper than ever. If there really was a virus, she had the intelligence and charisma to bring the people together.

  It was God’s will that she was in this spot at this moment.

  Ellis observed that none of the president’s trusted advisors now gathered at the lectern showed any physical effects from whatever had been released by Genesis. None, that was, except for the head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Archie Jakes, who was trying unsuccessfully to suppress his near-constant coughing. Where had Jakes been sitting when the vapor released? It would be interesting to find out—possibly very interesting.

  Her body tingled with what she playfully described to her staff as her “Spidey Sense,” a little surge of neuroelectricity that helped her distinguish information which had value from that which did not.

  Her aide, Leland Gladstone, was a badger on any task. He needed to search out other coughers in the chamber and figure out where they had been sitting during the little explosions. Child’s play for the man who would have been her chief of staff in the White House, and who still might have a shot at the position if things went her way.

  Ellis then turned her attention to the more pressing matter at hand. Something tremendous had just occurred inside the House Chamber—her chamber, she might remind Allaire. Election opponents or not, the speaker of the house should have been a part of any closed-door briefing.

  She rose and smoothed out the creases of her form-fitting black skirt. She was a trim, attractive brunette, who had once been the homecoming queen at Mississippi State. Careful not to call excess attention to herself, she approached the president, who had his back turned to her.

  “Mr. President, excuse me?”

  Allaire continued his exchange with Gary Salitas.

  “Mr. President, can you give me some idea what’s going on?”

  Allaire either ignored the question or si
mply did not hear it over the swirling commotion. Ellis felt a rush of anger, which she quickly parried. She was not accustomed to being ignored by anyone, the president included. Allaire continued on, as if unaware of her presence, now speaking in a hushed voice to his chief Secret Service agent, Sean O’Neil. Ellis strained to pick up some words, but could not.

  “Mr. President, would you like me to join the team for the briefing?” she said, louder than before.

  This time, Allaire turned.

  “Ursula. I’m glad to see you. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Thank you. But I’d like to participate in the briefing, Mr. President.… That is if you need me.”

  “No. I need your leadership here in the chamber. I’ll keep you informed as things develop.”

  Which means you won’t tell me jack shit, Ellis thought.

  Allaire had turned and resumed his dialogue with O’Neil.

  Ellis stood behind the president, burning with hatred.

  “You okay?”

  Gladstone had materialized beside her. Thin and dark haired, with ice blue eyes that at times gave Ellis the shivers, the man embodied what every congressional leader sought in an aide—charm, good looks, and a wobbly moral compass.

  Ellis led him away from Allaire and the others.

  “I’m POed,” she said finally. “How should I be?”

  Gladstone patted his jacket pocket.

  “Well, I assumed you would want the location of the explosions. So far I’ve pinpointed seven of what looks like a total of fifteen or sixteen broken glass containers. I should have the rest of them in a little while. Then, assuming you want me to, I’ll start filling in the seats around them.”

  “Absolutely. As usual, you are well ahead of the game.”

  “From what I can tell so far, there’s no pattern.”

  “There’s always a pattern, dear Leland. Sometimes not so obvious, but there’s always a pattern to everything. Finish filling in that seating chart, but keep your two-way radio handy. Until this situation is resolved and we are all outside waltzing down Pennsylvania Avenue, we’re going to be mighty busy.”

  The speaker’s aide headed toward the gallery while Ellis maintained her position not far from where Jim Allaire was about to retreat for the meeting with his group of sycophants. The discomfort on the man’s face was a tonic. She started imagining herself sparring with him, boxing gloves on, bobbing and weaving, searching for an opening. What she needed most now, to inflict some real damage, was information. And as the president turned to go, she realized where she could find it.

  Quickly moving to the right side of the group, she slid her hand around Sean O’Neil’s arm and pulled him back toward her.

  “I don’t have time to talk, Madam Speaker,” he said. “The president needs me.”

  “If I need you, Sean, and I do, you will make time for me.”

  O’Neil hesitated, and then allowed himself to be led to a spot where they would not be overheard.

  “What do you want?” he asked in a pressured whisper.

  “Simple. I want to know what the president says in that briefing you’re going to.”

  “It’s classified. If you’re not there, you can’t know.”

  Ellis smiled again and her thin lips disappeared inside her mouth.

  “We both know that’s a bad strategy, Sean. I am the speaker of the house. The American people will expect me to know what’s going on. Allaire is playing politics at a time of national crisis.”

  “You should take that up with the president, then.”

  Sean turned to leave, but Ellis caught him by the arm.

  “Suppose I also take up what you and that darling young White House intern were doing in the Lincoln Bedroom while the first couple was away on vacation. I’m sure the Allaires would love to see the security videos—especially the part where you so skillfully and lovingly snorted some sort of white power from between the sweet thing’s breasts.”

  O’Neil went pale.

  “How…? How did you…?”

  “Eyes and ears, my love. I use my eyes and ears—and some well-placed friends. In fact, over the years we’ve been working for the American people, I’ve collected other useful tidbits about you, as well. The nasty custody battle with your ex over baby Duncan, for instance. How do you think this sort of revelation will help your chances, dear Sean, let alone your career?”

  O’Neil looked away.

  “I’ll get you what I can,” he muttered.

  “You’ll get me what I want, Sean. Is that understood?”

  O’Neil turned without a reply and rushed ahead to catch up with the president. Ellis watched until the group had disappeared through a guarded exit.

  Third.

  The word echoed in her mind. She was third in line to govern the most powerful nation on earth. And all of a sudden, the two above her seemed to be on very shaky ground.

  CHAPTER 5

  DAY 1

  10:00 P.M. (EST)

  Allaire led his team past the Secret Service agents guarding the mahogany double doors located directly to the right of the rostrum. The corridor, accessible only to members of Congress and their staff, had reinforced walls that dampened the din from within the House Chamber.

  Near the end of the passageway, the president used a keycard to unlock another wooden door. Sensors detected movement inside the pitch-black room, and turned on several banks of overhead fluorescent lights.

  Allaire proceeded to a keypad on the right-hand wall. Punching in his code, he waited for the hydraulics to engage. In seconds, the wall opposite him slid noiselessly downward and disappeared, revealing the Hard Room. The array of communication equipment—satellite phones, wall-mounted monitors, radios, printers, radar imaging systems, and laptop computers—gave him a brief flare of confidence that his government possessed the power to prevail against any adversary. Then he reminded himself that this was no ordinary adversary—this was WRX3883 in the hands of depraved killers, and at this moment, nothing existed inside this room, or any other, that could defeat that combination.

  The large conference table in the center of the room would serve as their briefing area. Two Cabinet secretaries—Salitas and Broussard—took their seats, along with Allaire’s physician Bethany Townsend, the vice president; uniformed Admiral Archie Jakes (the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff); the head of the Capitol Police force, Hank Tomlinson; Architect of the Capitol Jordan Lamar and White House Chief of Staff Megan McAndrews. O’Neil, square-jawed and swarthy, remained standing against the back wall.

  “Where is Paul Rappaport?” Allaire asked.

  “Paul is at home in Minnesota, Mr. President,” McAndrews said, “tending to his daughter.”

  Minnesota. Allaire groaned. He had personally approved the trip.

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “Sorry.”

  For this year’s State of the Union Address, Paul Rappaport was the so-called designated survivor.

  No State of the Union Address, inauguration, or other momentous occasion occurred without there being a DS—referred to by some as the Doomsday Successor. The DS was the only one of the fifteen Cabinet members officially in line to succeed the president who was deliberately not in the vicinity of Washington, D.C. He or she was chosen for the job by the military through the President Emergency Operations Center, or PEOC—the same unit with operational control of the Hard Room.

  Given that every member of the Cabinet wanted to be near the POTUS during major events, the chosen DS, usually at or near the bottom of the chain, had no desire to be the one selected. Paul Rappaport’s appointment, however, was a logical one—one that the former governor had actually requested.

  Not only was the Homeland Security secretary a logical choice, being the most recently established Cabinet position, but just a week earlier, Rappaport’s daughter’s condo had been broken into and ransacked while she was in the shower. Stolen were her purse, wallet, laptop computer, iPad, cell phone, silverware, and jewelry. Eve
n worse, the president had been informed, her underwear had been removed from her bureau drawer, cut up, and spread out on her bed. The daughter, Renee, had a history of profound anxiety and depression, and suffered a breakdown as a result of the invasion. She had just been discharged after several days in a psychiatric hospital, and was at her parents’ place.

  Allaire imagined that the flamboyant, furiously patriotic Rappaport, protected by a small detachment of Secret Service agents, was with his wife and only child at the moment, watching what had been the president’s address, and still unaware of how close he suddenly was to history.

  “Sir, I respectfully suggest we get on with this briefing,” said Gary Salitas, Allaire’s closest friend in Washington.

  Allaire perked up. He had been quiet too long, lost in thought as the weight of evolving events descended upon him.

  “Yes, of course, Gary. Thank you. Sean, can you give me an update on the mobile device roundup?”

  The Secret Service agent stepped away from his position against the Hard Room wall.

  “Agents are collecting them as you ordered, Mr. President. It’s a difficult assignment, though, as you can well imagine. Many of those out there aren’t used to being told what to do. I doubt the press people are being forthcoming in handing over all the phones they have. We may have to resort to searching them.”

  Allaire sighed. The most probable scenario, and an alarming one at that, had word already spreading to the outside world via text messages, phone calls, broadcasts from network and cable television operators’ mobile units from outside the Capitol, and transmissions via the Internet—all reporting something epic happening at the State of the Union, but nobody knowing exactly what. Speculation would spread quickly to every country in the world, from major cities to any remote village with even the slightest bit of communication technology.

  Crisis at the Capitol.

  It was likely that CNN’s producers had already ordered the graphics.

  The best Allaire could hope for would be to slow the spread of information and misinformation until he could work out a strategy as to how it should be presented and disseminated, and how to prevent the reaction that would ensue from any perceived lack of leadership.