Bat out of Hell

by Alan Gold

  ***

  Debra Hart and the rapidly increasing number of assistants, colleagues, scientists, and doctors, who had joined her International Task Force working with increasing intensity in their laboratories and offices, weren’t aware that there was a battle going on in the White House, a three-way standoff between the government, the media, and animal welfare organizations.

  Because her role wasn’t any longer that of a scientist but of administrator and team leader, she had been removed from both the laboratory and the spotlight beside the president of the United States. In her new and unaccustomed role as bureaucrat—the type of person she’d only recently felt little for but contempt—Debra’s ear was almost permanently attached to a mobile phone, speaking in increasingly clipped sentences because of the volume of calls she was forced to take. Mostly, she spoke in her car, driven by her security man, Brett Anderson, as it transported her from meeting to conference, laboratory to government office, university to airport.

  But her growing understanding of the politics of what she was involved in had recently become acute, and today, her radar told her that something big, very big, was happening on the political scene. She usually got a couple of phone calls from the media during the day, asking her for comments on what some politician or demagogue or religious extremist had said. Generally, she made a “no comment” or referred the caller back to the press office at the White House. But suddenly, starting in the middle of the morning, she was being called to make a guest appearance on high profile talk shows or to talk in-studio with some famous radio host.

  When her phone had temporarily given her a few minutes of silence, she called the president’s PA—a number she’d only dialed three times since he’d given her access to one of the world’s most carefully guarded numbers.

  “Hello Debra,” said the PA.

  “Hi, I was just wondering if something had happened that I’m not aware of. I’m getting all these calls from the media, and they won’t tell me why they want me in the studio.”

  “Just refer them all to the press office, dear,” said his PA. “The president made some . . . how shall I say this . . . confronting remarks in the middle of the morning about how he was going to put people before animals, and . . . well, not to put too fine a point on it, the shit’s hit the fan. We’re getting inundated with complaints from animal rights groups and Lord knows who else. Don’t you get involved in it, Debra. You’ve got far too important a task to waste time with the sort of nonsense we have to deal with here.”

  She switched off the phone. It was the first time it had been properly turned off since she’d been given it by the White House. As they drove, Agent Brett Anderson glanced across at her.

  “Problem?” he asked.

  She laughed. “When hasn’t there been a problem in the past couple of months?”

  They drove toward George Washington University, where she had a meeting with some academics.

  “I guess life is pretty tough for you right now,” he said. “Do you miss your old lifestyle in Atlanta?”

  “Some. But even though I was doing some cutting edge stuff down there, it was still pretty dull. All work and no play.”

  “You sound like me, Debra. Nobody in your life, aside from work.”

  She suddenly realized that even though they’d been side by side for days now, they’d never engaged in any personal conversations. She was too busy getting into and out of vehicles and buildings, reading papers and reports while he drove, making phone calls, and sending text messages. And now, to her embarrassment, she didn’t even know whether or not he was married, had kids, a mother and father, or what his hobbies were.

  “You’re a workaholic?” she asked.

  He smiled. “Not exactly, but there are ever-present dangers in this job, and I just never wanted to marry while I was a Secret Service agent. I don’t want any kids of mine to grow without a father.”

  She was shocked. “Do many of your colleagues . . . I mean, have any of them died . . .”

  He sighed. “More than a few over the years. We’re the guys that jump between a gunman and our client. We take bullets destined for very important people. That’s our job.”

  Until this moment, she’d viewed Brett as little more than her driver, a man employed to take her from place to place, but with a security blanket thrown in. Suddenly, she saw him as a man who would die to protect her.

  “I’m sorry, Brett. I’ve underestimated your role. With all the fuss and bother over the past few days, I didn’t stop to think . . .”

  He smiled and reached over to touch her arm in friendship. “Don’t worry about it. I should be invisible right up until that moment, which God forbid should ever happen, when suddenly you need me. And then I’ll be there for you.”

  She sat back in her seat, his hand still on her arm. She liked the warmth, the personal touch. And she liked the fact that he’d said he’d be there for her. He was a rugged man, taller than her, far more muscular than most, but his strength was hidden by a natural softness, the gentleness of an intelligent man who ensured that his body was as highly tuned as his mind.

  “What are your interests, Brett? I know nothing about you.”

  “Music. Mainly music. That’s how I relax when I come home at night.”

  “And what type of music?”

  “Opera; chamber music; mainly sixteenth to nineteenth century.”

  “Wow,” she said. “I didn’t expect that.”

  “Most people don’t. I have a doctorate in ancient music. Before I went into the Secret Service, I was teaching the History of Music at Vassar.”

  She burst out laughing. “You’re kidding! Vassar!”

  He laughed as well. “Its reputation comes from the time when it was women only, but it’s been coed for years. Unfortunately, I was forced to leave after just two terms because I ran afoul of a woman known as the Poughkeepsie Pitchfork. She was a militant feminist who wanted to return Vassar to its glory days of women only. She made up this story and spread scandalous rumors about how I’d had a relationship with a sophomore. It was completely untrue, and I was exonerated because the girl swore on a Bible that I’d never even touched her. But that didn’t stop life becoming increasingly bitchy and unbearable with faculty and students, and no matter how I protested my innocence, there were remarks and looks and innuendo. So I saw work advertised for this department. I applied and here I am.”

  Softly, mischievously, Debra asked, “And honestly, between us, was there any truth to the rumors?”

  “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  She looked at him in shock, but saw that he was grinning.

  ***

  The first big gun to fire at the president was the CEO of People for Ethical Coexistence with Animals, Candice Shar, a former lecturer in the history of philosophy of science at Brandeis University who’d become increasingly horrified by the use of monkeys in medical experiments and had left her tenured post to head up what was now one of America’s biggest lobby groups. She was appearing on Meet the Media in a head-to-head debate with the show’s host, Mike O’Brien.

  “Surely,” O’Brien said, two minutes into the interview, “nobody could fault the president for putting human beings before animals.”

  She gave him her most devastating smile and remained totally composed, a trick she’d learned during her media training, “Of course not, Mike. If there’s a vector that is killing people, then we have to rid ourselves of the vector. Indeed, science through the ages has always elevated humankind into the ranks of a separate species that must be defended at all costs—except when there was an exceptional departure from the imperative to care for humanity, of course, like the Nazis.

  “But that’s not what President Thomas is proposing. He’s promising species extinction on the off chance that it’s the species that is causing the problem. Sure, when it’s viruses or bacteria like the Black Death, then we have to take measures to prevent a pandemic, and if that means killing sewer
rats, so be it. Or when black cats were thought to be consorts of witches, the poor little things were slaughtered in the thousands by frightened townsfolk. But that’s not what we’re talking about here. President Thomas is talking about exterminating any species that might pose a threat to humanity. Might, not is . . . and that could include birds, mice, dogs, cats . . . you name it, and you’ll find that huge numbers of virulent illnesses have been caused by some bacterium or virus or parasite crossing the species barrier into human beings. The proximity of people living cheek by jowl with animals sometimes causes these adventurous viruses or bacteria to cross the species barrier and infect horses or pigs or even human beings.

  “If we handle the horses or eat the pork, very occasionally we could die. That’s how there are occasional outbreaks of Ebola. And sometimes dogs or cats give their owners terrible medical problems when an animal parasite or fluke gets into the human body. But the president is talking about the extermination of heaven knows what numbers of animals, even entire species, just because of a miniscule number of problems.

  “Look, Mike, the last thing I want to do is to cause a panic for pet lovers, but the last time somebody talked about exterminating a species because they were a germ dangerous to humanity, was Adolf Hitler. You know what happened to the Jews in the death camps of Europe, don’t you? And I’d have to say that President Thomas is as much an agent of evil to cats and dogs and pet rabbits, as Adolf Hitler was to the Jews.”

  Astounded, Mike O’Brien said, “You’re not serious, are you?”

  “I’ve never been more serious. Who do you think caused these diseases in animals? Mankind, that’s who! How? Simple! By the way we’re extinguishing the habitat and because of global warming caused by our use of fossil fuels, we’re making the viral load in their bodies explode because of the stresses we’re putting them under. And so as the perpetrator of these problems, we’re now proposing to exterminate the entire species to cure what we’re responsible for. Is that ethical? I don’t think so. And neither will the American people think so when they realize what the president of their country is planning to do to their pets.”

  ***

  Debra Hart hated early morning meetings, but when the president of the United States calls you personally and asks you to breakfast, it’s incumbent to sound chipper and eager. She pulled on a dress, brushed her hair, still dampish from the shower, and ran downstairs from her fifth-level apartment. Normally, Brett would have just arrived to take over from the overnight shift, and the two of them would go for a five-mile morning jog as a prelude to her crushingly busy schedule, and then back to the apartment to shower and dress. He was the model of propriety and never intruded on her personal space in the apartment. And he even used to get her breakfast ready while she was in the bathroom. She really liked to hear a man busying in the kitchen while she was putting on her makeup and clothes. It was a sound she’d only heard once since she’d left her family home to attend the university—when she was living with a man, but it hadn’t worked out and so most of her days indoors were spent in her own company.

  Today though was different, for she knew that breakfast with the president meant there would be no exercise the whole day. Brett had been called by Ted Marmoullian and was told to meet Debra at the White House. As she left her building, she saw that the limo and two security vehicles were parked outside.

  Ten minutes later, she was escorted into the Jefferson Room in the West Wing and sat at the table being scrutinized by a portrait showing the unyielding stare of one of the most brilliant men ever to live in this building. Lining the walls were buffet tables laid out with silver salvers covered by large silver domes. Her stomach ached smelling the divine food that lay beneath. Suddenly the door opened, and Nathaniel Thomas walked in unaccompanied. He was wearing slacks and a knit shirt and for the first time, Debra saw that he was lean and had a muscular body. He’d probably been for his early morning forty-lap swim and was now freshly showered. She stood as he entered.

  Thomas walked over and gave her a peck on the cheek. It was warm and touching and friendly, a kiss between friends with no sexuality attached, but the moment surged through her body like an electric shock.

  “Thanks for coming in Debra. Sorry to drag you from your bed.”

  He invited her to pick up a plate, and before she even reached the buffet, like a well-oiled Swiss cuckoo clock, two adjacent doors suddenly opened, and stewards appeared as if by magic from doorways and lifted the salver domes to reveal a smorgasbord of breakfast foods underneath. She chose poached eggs, four rashers of bacon, beans, French toast, and a slice of ham. The president chose just the eggs and whole grain toast.

  “Debra, I’ve rather thrown the pigeons to the cat and there are a lot of feathers flying.”

  “Yes, Mr. President, the White House media center emailed me a video of your speech and also the reaction from the talk shows. I guess there’s no point trying to hide our intent now, is there?”

  “Was I wrong in saying what I did? I’ve had a lot of adverse reaction but a lot of support as well.”

  “I don’t think it’s for me to comment on whether what you said was right or wrong, sir.”

  He looked disappointed. “Debra, if there’s one thing I’ve expected from you, and from my entire staff, it’s to be honest in your opinions and to tell me what they truly think, especially if they disagree with me. I can’t make a judgement unless I know all sides of an argument.”

  She smiled. It was so different from the George W. Bush or Richard Nixon White Houses when all they wanted to hear were opinions that agreed with theirs.

  “What you said was right, sir, but the way you said it was wrong. You can’t alienate conservationists and animal lovers if you want to bring a majority of the population behind you.”

  “Sometimes, you need something to cut through all the humbug and bullshit. We could have gone on for weeks not telling the American people what we know to be the truth until it had been established scientifically. And we could have evaded issues because we were scared that we’d frightening the citizens, or we could have sidestepped out of concern we might get one of the lobby groups off side. But I judged that this was one of those times when we just had to level with the public. People were scared, and they needed to know the whole truth, all at once, not dribbled out piecemeal in ten-second media grabs as I was entering my helicopter. Once the American people are informed of the full extent of the problem, they can cope with it. But if rumors start to fly around, they just don’t know where they stand and that leads to panic.”

  She nodded. “You’re right. But you’ve played straight into the hands of the animal rights lobby. They’ve now started a fear campaign that you’re going to send storm troopers into people’s homes at night and forcibly steal their puppies and kittens and baby bunny rabbits and kill them in the most heartless way. If you’d just said ‘bats,’ then you’d have a problem on your hands but not a disaster. This thing is turning into a category one PR nightmare. The animal liberationists are coming out in force now, and they’re . . .”

  He smiled. She looked at him quizzically.

  “What?”

  He continued to look at her and smile.

  And then it dawned on her. “You did it on purpose, didn’t you?”

  The president remained silent.

  “You deliberately forced the hand of the animal rights lobby, didn’t you?”

  As his tactic dawned on her, Debra smiled a beaming smile. “You provoked them to show their hand and to become extremist. Didn’t you?”

  He nodded. “What’s happened now is that they’re using Holocaust symbolism as I knew they would. They’re calling me Hitler and going over the top. Before, they were using arguments of humanity and decency, so to shut them up, to spike their guns, I had to force them into a position where they’d take an extremist, hysterical position and put up the barricades to any scientific rationality.

  “What’s going to happen now is that the media will side with y
ou and me because we’re going to present ourselves as mild, reasoned, scientific, rational, responsible, and reasonable. You and me, we were the ones who were in danger of being painted as the extremists, as the murdering fascists who’d destroy all animal life in a Hitlerian orgy to protect the master race. But by spiking their guns, by forcing them out into the open, as soon as we explain to people what we’re doing, we’ll present the antithesis of their hysteria. We’ll be saying that we’re not going after people’s pets. We’re going after whatever is the vector for this mutating trans-species virus. We’re going to say in all likelihood it’s bats, that bats live in horribly unsanitary conditions, that we’re going to euthanize only those colonies where the disease is found so that there’s the least suffering or danger to the species.”

  “We?”

  “We. You and me. We’re going on television, on the talk shows. Directly into people’s homes. I’m the president; you’re the scientist I’ve entrusted with finding out what to do about this virus. We’re the team. Is that okay with you? Because if it’s not, I’m going to have to charge you for that breakfast you’re eating.”

  12

  For the first time since his adolescence, a time of self-doubt, introspection, and an explosive curiosity about sex, Stuart Chalmers was unsure of himself. As he walked, he felt as if the pavement was no longer solid but contained hidden traps and fissures through which he could fall at any moment.

  Everything in his life for the past twenty-two years had been cogitated, planned, and programmed down to the minute. At the beginning of each year, he knew precisely what he’d be doing and where he’d be at the end of the year. From his graduate school studies to the nature of the thesis that had sparked the interest of a particular academic under whom he wanted to study at Oxford’s Magdalen College where he’d been awarded a D. Phil in pre-Socratic philosophy, to his decision to accept a lectureship at a middle-ranking mid-Western university instead of Harvard, Princeton, or Yale so that he could build his WEL empire out of the sight and scrutiny of the FBI, all had been carefully thought through.