The Viral Epiphany (31 page)

           
“Sir, communications.
 
Antenna has broken the surface. Link established with NAVCOMSAT ONE. Communications quality is five stars.”

           
“Roger, Comm.,” the Captain said and then he turned to President Cranston. “Sir we are connected.
 
You may now use the secure telephone equipment in your stateroom to make calls to anywhere in the world.”

           
“Thank you, Captain,” the President replied quietly.
 
He appeared weary, and perhaps worried, to the Captain.
 
They had only been at sea a few days.
 
How long can he handle this?
the Captain thought,
life aboard a sub isn’t for everyone
. The President’s wife was another matter.
 
He knew she wasn’t going to last long.
 
She had been taking medication frequently since they had departed New London and it seemed that she spent most of her time sleeping.
 
The question was: what would the President do with her when she ran out of medicine?
 
He knew they didn’t have anything like it on the boat.

President Cranston closed the door of the stateroom, sat at the small metal desk, and picked up the secure voice telephone.
 
He glanced over at Grace and saw that she was lying on the bed with her eyes closed.
 
He began dialing.

           
“Who are you calling, dear?” he heard her say.

           
He put the phone down and turned back to her.
 
“Grace! I thought you were asleep!
 
How are you feeling?
 
I just have to call a couple of people to see how things are going back home.”

           
“Oh, I thought you had delegated everything to other people, Alan.”

           
“Yes,” he said with a slight laugh, “but you know I always check up on people.
 
You can’t just trust people to do a job right, you know. ”

           
“I know,” she said. Then after a moment’s hesitation she continued, “Alan, where are we?”

           
“We’re far out at sea, Grace.
 
We’re safe here.”

           
“Alan, I’m scared.
 
Very scared.
 
I don’t want to stay here much longer. It’s just, just…Alan, you have to get me out!”

           
President Cranston stopped and thought about what she had said. It was clear that the closed-in environment of the submarine was taking a heavy toll on her in spite of the tranquilizers she was taking.
 
He would have to change plans.
 
This wasn’t going to work.
 
Maybe they could get off in some very isolated place where the disease wouldn’t thrive.
Maybe we should go to Greenland!
he thought
, I wonder…

           
“OK, Grace,” he said, “I’ll see what I can do.
 
OK?
 
Just let me make these calls first.”
 
She nodded her head and closed her eyes but he could see a tear slowly running down her cheek.

           
A minute later he had dialed the number for Harry Fields at the CDC.
 
“Harry,” he said, “this is President Cranston.
 
Look, I need to make this quick.
 
Give me progress report.
 
Is there anything new?”

           
“The only thing I know for sure,” Harry said, “is that your man Charlie Goodfellow is a complete, goddamned idiot!”

           
“What do you mean?” President Cranston said.
 
He couldn’t hide the surprise in his voice.

           
“He tried to put some damn fool ID card system in place all over the country and that won’t ever work and now he has half the country mad at him!”

           
“What?”

           
“Damn right.
 
Mr. President, I’m telling you that the people are ready to riot in the streets!
 
He has half the army out now trying to keep order, but they can’t do it.
 
It’s getting really unstable really fast, Mr. President.”

           
President Cranston didn’t say anything for several seconds then he said, “OK, I’ll look into it. How about your own work? Any progress at CDC?”
           
“We have a couple of things we’re looking at,” Harry said, “We’re testing vaccines.
 
I think I already told you that I don’t see us making any kind of cure.
 
We’re pretty far from that.”

           
“So you don’t think there’s much hope of stopping the disease?”
           
“Realistically, no. Not by us anyway.
 
We got started too late and the disease just spreads too fast. Frankly, I don’t know what the hell to do. The other day I thought there might be a glimmer of hope, and I told Goodfellow about a friend of mine who says he has a vaccine, but Charlie just blew him off.”

           
“What?
 
He did? Why would he ever do that? Who is he?”

           
“His name is Dan Quinn, he’s a researcher at University College Cork.
 
In Ireland. He told me he has a working vaccine”

           
“Ireland?”

           
“Yeh.”

           
“Come on, Harry.”

           
“Yeh, I know.
 
That’s pretty much what Charlie said too, but Dan tells me he has a vaccine that should work. I understand that he only has a small amount of vaccine on hand, but I imagine he could make more pretty easily.
 
Maybe we should see what he has.”

           
“I don’t know, Harry.
 
I’ve found that Charlie’s instincts are usually pretty good. He’s been around a long time, and let’s face it, Ireland’s not exactly on the cutting edge of technology.”

           
“I’m sorry, sir.
 
But that’s not really true. Ireland has a huge pharmaceutical industry.
 
It goes way back to the days of the Celtic Tiger.”

“Celtic Tiger?
 
What are you talking about, Harry?
 
Look, let’s hold off on that for a little while, OK?
 
I want to talk to some other people first.
 
Meanwhile, keep up your search for a vaccine.
 
I have a lot of faith in you people down there.”

President Cranston hung up and then dialed the number for General Baker at Omega headquarters.
 
“General Baker,” he said, skipping any pleasantries, “I’m calling to get an independent assessment of our progress on fighting the disease.
 
How do your analysts see things?”

           
“It’s not good, Mr. President. Of course, up here in Alaska and deep underground, we’re not in any danger, but there doesn’t seem to be any progress in slowing the disease.
 
We are projecting that the next hot spot will be San Francisco now.
 
We’re developing mathematical models of how the spread of the disease accelerates once a certain number of people have contracted it. It’s sort of like how a fire gets going slowly and then really takes off, you know?”

           
“Yes, I think I do.”

           
“Yes, sir.
 
Well, San Francisco has a lot in common with Honolulu – lots of Asian connections.
 
We think that’s why the spread of the disease is really starting to pick up there.
 
Let me see…” he picked up a set of papers and found the one he was looking for, “There were five thousand deaths in San Francisco last week.
 
Given that number, factoring in the population density, and using the disease propagation coefficient we have determined, it looks like there will be over ten thousand deaths this week there.
 
The numbers go up very fast after that. There’ll be thirty thousand the week after,” he said without a trace of emotion.

           
President Cranston rubbed his forehead while he thought about what he had heard.
 
Then he simply said, “What then?”

           
“Somewhere along the line there will be mass panic.
 
People will bail out of the city any way they can.
 
The army won’t be able to stop them.”

           
“And that will happen in the other cities too?”

           
“Yes, sir.
 
It’s only a matter of time.
 
That’s what we predict.
 
Right now the rural areas are pretty much OK because the disease is mostly in the cities.
 
However, that will change unless something is done.
 
It could happen very soon.”

           
“How soon?” the President asked.

           
“We can’t be sure. Perhaps within a week, certainly within two.”
   

“I see. Look, General, I need to think about this.
 
I’ll get back to you.
 
OK?”

           
“Yes, sir,” General Baker said.
 
The President hung up the phone and looked over at Grace.
 
She was sleeping soundly again. The bottle of tranquilizer tablets at the bedside was nearly empty.
 
He stood up and walked out of the room, quietly closed the door and walked back to the control room.

President Cranston sat down heavily in the chair reserved for him.
 
We’re going to lose,
he said to himself,
there’s only one thing left to do.

 
Then, without warning, a terrified voice suddenly shouted over the public address system, “Corpsman, corpsman! Report at once to the torpedo room. Man down with heavy bleeding!
 
Repeat – heavy bleeding! Hurry!…Oh my God!
 
Please hurry!”

Thirty-One

           
Charles Goodfellow slept peacefully in the underground command post’s Presidential Suite, secure in the knowledge that this relic of the Cold War was probably the safest place in America.
 
It was entirely self-sufficient with its own water and food supply, plus a sophisticated air filtration system. Furthermore, having been built to withstand a nuclear explosion, he knew it would be a safe haven in any eventuality.

He had elected to spend the night inside the West Virginia bunker on a trial basis, but by the time he had climbed into bed he had decided that all of the support personnel, the contractors who operated the equipment that kept the command post functioning, should move in too.
 
Otherwise, if they went home at night, there was simply too much chance that one of them might bring the disease into the complex.
 
He would tell them in the morning.

 
At precisely 7 a.m. he was awakened by a soft Mozart Sonata that began playing from the ceiling speakers. A false window, built into the east wall in the Presidential bedroom, began to glow with warm, artificial sunlight that seemed to filter in through the frosted glass windowpanes.
 
Two minutes later the music changed to a cheery rendition of Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah, performed by the Marine Corps Band. Charles rolled out of bed looking forward to the new day.
 
He took a leisurely shower and shaved and then he chose his clothes carefully for the day.
 
He planned to make another important televised announcement to the nation at eleven a.m.

Shortly after 7:30 a.m. he walked into the dining area, expecting that his breakfast would be ready.
 
The cooks had been told to arrive no later than 6 a.m.
 
However, there was no one in the dining area and the kitchen was eerily quiet.
 

“Hello!” he called out, but there was no answer.
 
He waited a few moments and then walked into the center of the kitchen, muttering a curse under his breath.
 
There was no one there, and he reluctantly made himself a bowl of cold cereal.
 
He would have a stern talk with the head cook when he arrived at nine o’clock. Changes would have to be made.