A Heartbeat Away (3 page)

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 again 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.

“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 simply 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.