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.”