A Heartbeat Away

by Michael Palmer

  CHAPTER 12

  DAY 2

  12:45 A.M. (CST)

  “Move it, Rhodes!”

  As Griff stepped onto the packed dirt of the Florence federal prison exercise yard, guard Donald Spinelli forced him forward using the butt of his nightstick and a single, well-placed jab against his lower spine. Griff stumbled, but fierce winds from the whirling blades helped to keep him from going down. Dust shooting into his eyes stung like sandpaper.

  In the months since Griff had last worn his favorite pair of blue jeans, they had gone from comfortably snug to barely staying over his hips. The rotor-driven winds plastered his plaid flannel cowboy shirt against his once wiry, now near-skeletal frame.

  The twin-engine helicopter lifted off the yard, touched down again momentarily. It was clear to Griff the pilot was in a rush and not about to stop the rotors. During his virus-hunting days, he had chartered helicopters from time to time back in Africa, but those were ragged machines, better equipped for falling than flying. This aircraft, though, reminded him of images he had seen of Marine One, with its dark green body and white top, American flags emblazoned on the engine casings.

  UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS was painted in white on the chopper’s tail. Griff’s gut had knotted as soon as he realized his removal from the so-called Alcatraz of the Rockies might be a military action. It had been just over nine months since he had last been the focus of another military operation—his final moments of freedom until now.

  So many changes.

  His beard, a tangled mess of black streaked with gray, immediately collected a fine coating of prison yard dust. He wondered if, in addition to his dark memories of nine months in solitary confinement, that dirt would be all he would ever take away from Florence. It had to be. No matter what lay ahead, he wasn’t going back. Nine months chopped out of a life that had been built around doing the right thing and accepting the consequences for his decisions, such as the Ebola infection. Nine months during which there had been no human contact other than with guards bent on causing him pain. Nine months of confusion about why he had been imprisoned, or what future, if any, he had in store. Nine months during which the only clue he had in that regard was the label Terrorist.

  Griff had barely stepped inside the helicopter bay door when he felt the aircraft begin to lift. A soldier, dressed in well-pressed military camouflage, handed him a jet-black flight helmet, then guided him into an unpadded seat. Griff strapped himself in and took one last look out the helicopter’s oval window at Florence, shuddering at the gun towers and concrete block, framed with barbwire, now fast fading from view. He wondered if anyone watching from inside except for the warden and a few guards even knew his name.

  Terrorist.

  The built-in radio inside his helmet allowed Griff to hear the soldier seated across from him over the engine’s roar.

  “Dr. Griffin Rhodes, my name is Captain Timothy Lewis, with the United States Marine Corps. By order of the president of the United States of America, it is my honor to welcome you aboard this VH-60N aircraft.”

  “Tell the president that nothing he does is going to get me to change my vote.”

  The marine smiled. “I think you’ll get the chance to do that yourself, sir.”

  “Actually, now that I think about it, I never got the chance to vote at all. In fact, I don’t even know who won the election?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. It was President Allaire. He won again, by quite a wide margin, too.”

  Allaire.

  Griff stared out at the blackness. Of all the theater of the absurd scenarios he had lived through, this military removal from solitary confinement in a supermax federal prison had to be the most bizarre. But now, learning he was up here at the behest of the president topped them all.

  “Thanks for the info,” he said. “Any idea why he’s sent for me?”

  “Sir, the president will be radioing in at oh two hundred hours eastern standard time. My orders are to transport you to Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma. From there a plane will take you to Washington, D.C.”

  “Washington? What for?”

  “Sir, that’s for the president to explain. For now, just relax and enjoy the flight. There are snacks on board if you’d like some.”

  “Fresh fruit?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hostess cupcakes?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “I’ll take both plus some bottled water.”

  “Done.”

  The solider handed Griff a bottle of Dasani from a cooler.

  “And a Butterfinger or Heath bar if you have them,” Griff added. “Make that two of each.”

  Surprisingly, the captain filled the order right down to the cupcakes.

  “Enjoy the trip, sir,” he said, setting a cardboard tray on Griff’s lap.

  Enjoy the trip.

  Those were the exact words another solider had said nine months ago, right after he had kicked Griff viciously in the ribs and then manacled him with a heavy pair of chained cuffs.

  Enjoy the trip.

  It had been a quiet Sunday night in Kalvesta, Kansas, when the front door to Griff’s house shattered open. As usual, he was at his computer, poring over data. In fact, except for the rare occasions when he was playing bridge or chess online, he was always poring over data. His research centered about experiments in modifying viral mRNA—messenger RNA. The thrust of his work was getting a particular virus to incorporate a foreign sequence of nucleotides when it replicated. The result would be germs incapable of further reproduction.

  The data, based on a model he had begun developing years before in Africa, had recently started showing some serious promise. Best of all, every bit of his work was done using CGI—computer-generated imagery and advanced data processing. No live subjects. That had been Griff’s long-standing pledge to himself. No animals. Slowly, steadily, he was closing in on a potentially revolutionary antiviral treatment. He could feel it.

  Simultaneous with the disintegration of his front door, the power was cut to the house. In total darkness, Griff could hear, but not see, his windows shattering. Suddenly flashlight beams cut swaths in all directions as soldiers, military police, and members of SWAT, all wearing gas masks, swarmed inside like ants on a sugar mound. Guns were drawn. There was so much shouting that Griff could make out little of what was being said. That is until the soldiers came at him.

  “Get down! Get the fuck down! Facedown, now!”

  They pointed their weapons at him. Three soldiers forced him onto his belly. A boot, pressed firmly against the back of his neck, driving his face against the oak floor. That was when he received the first of many kicks—this one to his side. His organs seemed to loosen as the air rushed out of his lungs.

  “Where is it?” one of the attackers demanded.

  “Where is what?” Griff managed.

  Another kick. This one harder. The toe of a boot plunged between his ribs. Pain exploded throughout his body and he gagged for air.

  “Tear the place apart!”

  The lights came back on. Two men forced Griff to stay facedown. All around him he heard the sounds of destruction—glass breaking, fabric ripping, objects crashing. Every so often a solider would roughly pull his head up by his hair and demand to know where “it” was.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  That was when they would kick him again. Always in the same spot, maximizing the pain.

  Interminable time went by before a woman called out from his small, partially finished basement.

  “I’ve found it! Captain, I’ve found it!”

  Griff heard footsteps racing up his basement stairs. Hands grabbed at him and yanked him up by his shirt. He saw a petite brunette solider holding a green cylindrical metal canister bearing several biohazard decals on it.

  Impossible!

  Griff knew the canister well. WRX3883. It had come from the Level 4 containment zone of the lab where he was working—the most secure containment area
in their system. He studied it for a moment, unwilling to believe that it had just been retrieved from the basement of his house. If the canister held the virus from Level 4, still growing inside its tissue culture, then it also held death—horrible, slow, inexorable death.

  “How many did you find, solider?” the ranking officer barked.

  “Five canisters total, sir,” she replied. “They were in a cubby, hidden behind the basement wall paneling.”

  “Secure him,” the captain ordered.

  Two soldiers standing behind Griff pulled him upright and pinned his arms to his back. The officer in charge then stepped forward and punched Griff hard in the stomach, not once, but twice. The room began to spin. The soldiers holding his arms in place now had to prop Griff up as well. In addition, they kept shouting at him, demanding to know if they had all the canisters.

  “Were there more than five?” he heard them say.

  “Sylvia Chen … my boss … speak to her.… I didn’t take those canisters.… Find Sylvia … she’ll vouch for me. I’m just a researcher, I—”

  Another fierce punch to the gut cut off his words. He dropped to his knees and retched. Soldiers surrounded him and dragged him outside into a crisp, star-drenched Kansas night. Again, they rudely pulled his arms behind his back. He cried out in pain. Handcuffs closed tightly around his wrists, cutting into his skin.

  “Too tight,” Griff said.

  “Too bad,” a solider responded.

  They pushed him into a camouflage-painted Hummer. Soldiers were seated on either side of him.

  “Where are you taking me?” Griff asked.

  “To prison,” the solider answered. “Enjoy the trip.”

  Nine months with no answers, no explanations. Nine months of isolation and filth and abuse. Nine months of self-regulated push-ups on a concrete floor and yoga positions in the grimy corner. Now, suddenly, an open cell door, a final series of blows from one of the guards, and a helicopter flight at the invitation of the president of the United States. He might have felt exultant. He probably should have.

  But he didn’t.

  Instead, Griffin Rhodes had a sinking feeling that he might have just replaced one layer of hell for another.

  “Sir, I have President Allaire on the sat phone,” Captain Lewis said. “He’s ready to speak with you.”

  The marine passed over a bulky, stainless steel case with a satellite phone inside. Griff had to take off his helmet to speak. The constant churn from the rotors made it hard to hear, but not impossible.

  “Dr. Griffin Rhodes? This is President Jim Allaire,” the voice, distinguishable despite the background noise, said.

  “Mr. President.”

  Griff knew all about Allaire’s involvement with Project Veritas. But only Sylvia Chen and a few higher-ups had any direct contact with the man. Griff suspected he might now come to regret having joined the ranks of those accorded the honor.

  “Dr. Rhodes, there has been a massive exposure to WRX3883,” Allaire said.

  Griff’s jaw tightened. Captain Lewis apparently felt the tension and turned away to look out the window. Bad news could wait, Griff imagined him thinking.

  “Where? How bad?”

  “We have reason to believe Genesis is behind the attack.”

  “Who?”

  The president paused.

  “You don’t know about Genesis?”

  “Well, I haven’t exactly been given a wealth of reading material for the last nine months.”

  “Understood. I can explain that later.”

  “Where was the exposure?”

  “It occurred during my State of the Union Address.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Yes. You heard correctly. In the chamber of the House of Representatives. Fifteen separate exposures around the hall.”

  “How was the virus released?”

  “Exploding glass cylinders. Widespread. Somehow, the containers were inserted into purses and briefcases, and then detonated, probably by radio signal.”

  “Have you locked down the building?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tightly?”

  “No one in, no one out. The chamber has been sealed and the building as well. Plus there’s an absolute perimeter set up fifty yards outside the Capitol. One man—a senator from Kentucky—tried to sneak out of a little-used exit. He was taken out by a sharpshooter, and his body incinerated.”

  Griff breathed a deep sigh. At least they had done that.

  “Sir, were you directly exposed?”

  “It’s been five hours. We’ve all been exposed—or will be.”

  “You authorized Veritas. You know about the progressive mental deterioration?”

  “I know. That’s one of the reasons why I ultimately suspended the research and closed down the lab.”

  “When?”

  “About eight or nine months ago.”

  Griff felt himself sink. He had warned Sylvia Chen that the project was too dangerous, the virus too unstable in terms of mutation. He had warned all of them.

  “You know we don’t have any treatment,” he said.

  “That’s why I’m bringing you to Washington, Dr. Rhodes. I need you to come up with one.”

  Griff respected Allaire’s acumen for biology and physiology. According to Sylvia Chen, the president had not only read Griff’s lengthy scientific reports, he understood them as well. The president must have been aware of his slow progress toward an antimicrobial treatment for WRX3883, which meant he also knew he was asking the impossible.

  “Mr. President, before we go any farther, there is something I need to know.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Were you the one who authorized my arrest?”

  There was a prolonged pause.

  “We had evidence,” the president said, “irrefutable security film of you stealing canisters of the virus on which you were working. Under the provisions of the Patriot Act, you were a terrorist. What would you have done?”

  “I am no terrorist and I stole nothing. Now tell me, did you authorize my arrest?”

  “Will my answer affect your decision about helping us?”

  I can’t help you because there is nothing I can do before you and the others are dead.

  “Regardless of what you say, I will do what I can. But I want the truth.”

  “The truth is, yes. Yes, I did authorize your arrest, and I would do it again.”

  “And the solitary confinement?”

  “I was convinced you had turned. I believed you were a terrorist and a severe threat to the United States of America. I did what I thought was in the best interests of our country. Our plan was to isolate you, and then eventually—”

  “To torture me.”

  “There were those close to me who wanted to do it immediately,” the president said.

  CHAPTER 13

  DAY 2

  3:00 A.M. (EST)

  Allaire had done all he could. Despite his obvious contempt for Rhodes, the man was now en route to Washington. The first of two planned portable airlocks with connecting tunnels was in place. Boxes of supplies were now being sent into the Capitol along a bed of metal rollers. At last report, the second tunnel was nearing completion.

  The military continued to request expanded access to the Capitol, but Allaire was keeping them at bay. Until Griffin Rhodes had a chance to evaluate the situation and provide a preliminary assessment, the Capitol would remain off-limits to anyone who wasn’t absolutely essential.

  Using House Chamber surveillance video, Allaire and Salitas sorted out the group assignments faster than either thought possible. They used the location of the fifteen aerosol blasts to define the breakdown. Group B, those with moderate exposure, numbered just above three hundred. Group A, lowest exposure, were allowed to remain in the House Chamber. There were sixty people whom Allaire marked as having the heaviest exposure. Those individuals were assigned to Admiral Jakes’s C Group.

  They would be the first to die.

&nb
sp; Gratefully, Rebecca and Samantha were As.

  Sylvia Chen’s reports detailing how WRX3883 spread from host to prospective host gave Allaire the idea to establish the quarantine groups. Chen had presented compelling evidence that extended exposure to carriers with later-stage infection increased the amount of virus passed to a new host. Allaire had good reason to believe those with heavy exposure to WRX3883 would speed up the progression of symptoms in people with less virus in their system.

  The president understood that he was largely responsible for this disaster. He should have pulled the plug on Veritas sooner. Perhaps he should have taken more people into his confidence before authorizing the program in the first place. He always felt his job was about being true to himself and standing up for what he believed in.

  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.