Pandemic Page 94

Blackmon turned to Nancy Whittaker, secretary of the Department of Homeland Security.

“Nancy, what’s the status of our domestic inoculation production?”

The military took care of its own logistics. For everything else, inoculation management fell to Whittaker. So far, she had been unflappable — it didn’t seem to faze her that the health and safety of an entire nation had somehow fallen into her lap.

“Trucks are already shipping finished product on the East Coast and in the Midwest,” Whittaker said. The former Georgia governor had never bothered to train away her drawl. “Seattle started brewing almost immediately — fifty thousand doses have already been delivered to final FEMA distribution points. In the next twenty-four hours, Madam President, we believe all partic.i.p.ating breweries will at least be at fifty percent production capacity, and full distribution will be under way in all major cities.” Blackmon’s deadly gaze swept the room.

“Twenty-four hours,” she said. “How many Americans will already be infected by then?”

No one had an answer. Murray couldn’t even guess, so he stayed quiet.

Blackmon stared down at the table, stared so hard Murray had to wonder if the table could feel as intimidated as he did.

“We have to slow the disease’s spread,” she said. “Shut down air travel.”

All heads turned to a short, fat, bald man who stood in the corner of the packed Situation Room. As secretary of transportation, Dennis Shaneworth needed to be present but wasn’t important enough to merit a seat at the table.

“Right away, Madam President,” he said. “Chicago, Minneapolis and New York?”

Blackmon looked at him. “Shut it down everywhere. Cancel all civilian pa.s.senger flights immediately. Allow cargo flights only if they are needed to distribute the inoculant. Do it now.”

The room’s silence vanished as hands flew to phones and people scrambled to carry out her orders.

Murray felt a spark of hope. So far the only data they had was a run on drugstores for cough drops and pain reliever. Some politicians would have waited a half-day, maybe more, just to be sure a shutdown was necessary. He hadn’t expected Blackmon to move so decisively.

She again looked at Murray. She curled a finger at him, calling him over. Murray stood and walked to his commander in chief.

“Chicago,” she said quietly. “That’s the start of this?”

Murray nodded. “The word is epicenter, Madam President.”

She let out a slow breath. Up this close, he saw the fear in her eyes.

“Chicago is the epicenter,” she said. “Should I have Whittaker prioritize inoculant shipments there?”

“Yes,” Murray said. “As much as she can spare. Doctor Feely figures we’re in day two of the exposure. But” — he leaned closer, so only she could hear him — “Madam President, may I be frank?”

“You mean there’s a time you show restraint?” She closed her eyes, as if that might protect her from more bad news. “Yes, tell me.”

“According to Feely’s statistical models, the majority of Chicago’s population is either already infected, or will be before we can help. My honest opinion is that the city is f.u.c.ked.”

Her eyes opened. The predator’s stare faded away, at least as much as it could for her.

“Find ways to increase production, Murray,” she said. “I want a list of any factory in the United States, Canada or Mexico that cultivates yeast, for any purpose. We’ll find a way. I won’t give up on Chicago.”

Blackmon sat straight, faced the room. That brief moment of genuine empathy vanished.

“I’m declaring a federal emergency under the Stafford Act,” she said. “I want SecHHS and FEMA to put together a task force to run this inoculation. Let’s get Congress and SCOTUS notified. Director Longworth” — she again turned to face him — “is Montoya safe to travel?”

He shook his head. “Cheng quarantined the Coronado for two weeks, to make absolutely sure no one onboard is infected. Margaret needs to stay there.”

The president silently mouthed the word dammit. “Then get me Cheng. I want him here.”

She turned to Porter. “Admiral, I want the Joint Chiefs and the National Security staff to notify Congress of my intent and desire for a total mobilization of reserve forces.”

Blackmon took in a breath as if to make a grand statement, then seemed to remember something. She again turned to her chief of staff and spoke quietly, but Murray was close enough to hear.

“Get the speechwriters. In two hours I want to address Congress, and I want every network carrying it live. Prepare that footage Montoya sent of the sailors from the Brashear — people need to see what this plague does to the human body. Go.”

The chief of staff scurried off.

Blackmon put her shoulders back and her chest out — more true leader than pure politician.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if we don’t act now, we are quite possibly facing a worst-case scenario. The nation is counting on us.”

Murray started dialing: he had much do and little time in which to do it.

ALL CHANNELS

Jeff lifted his head from the pillow. “Dude, is that the president? Get that Republic.u.n.t off the TV, will you?”

Cooper nodded. His head felt heavy, full of the same goop that he blew out of his nose every five minutes.

He used the remote to change the hotel TV’s channel, from Channel 3 to Channel 4 — and there, again, was President Blackmon. Channel 5: Blackmon. Channel 6: Blackmon.