“I would say their chances are good, sir.”
It was as neutral as he could be without raising false hopes of success or leaving the impression that failure was preordained. O’Neil just nodded. Washinsky and Mason remained expressionless because, Barnard assumed, as nonscientists they placed little stock in what must have sounded something like science fiction to them. Nathan Rathor’s eyebrows went up, wrinkling his forehead, and he frowned. The expression was visible only for a millisecond, but long enough to reveal itself as surprise, and that, in turn, surprised Barnard.
“I thought that those people in the cave were a pretty long shot,” Rathor said.
“They will face—
Rathor looked as though he were about to ask another question, but then put his flat, cabinet officer face on again and said only, “I understand. That’s all from me, Mr. President.”
The president, though, was not quite finished. “I have two last questions, and then we will let you go. If your laboratory does come up with a drug that is effective against ACE, won’t it take many months to produce enough vaccine? You have to grow it in eggs, don’t you?”
“Vaccine you do, yes sir. An antibiotic is different. Once we understand its genetic code, we can produce essentially unlimited amounts relatively quickly. Something like a million doses in two weeks if we involve private- sector assets. Then the real problem would be further down the pipeline. In other words, how do we get the drug quickly to the millions who might need it by then?”
The president looked hugely relieved. “Doctor, I have to tell you, that’s the first piece of good news I’ve heard in a week. Distribution is a problem we can handle. Now my second question: how many casualties are we talking about?”
“Worst case, Mr. President?”
“Of course. There’s no other way to plan.”
Barnard got up from behind his desk and walked to a whiteboard on the wall. The system’s motion-sensitive telecom camera tracked him all the way. David Lathrop moved to stay out of the frame.
“Mr. President, our best information at this point is that ACE’s contagion factor is faster than that of smallpox. Here’s what that looks like.”
With a red marking pen, Barnard drew a numeral:
1
“This scenario assumes that ACE has broken containment. The pathogen appears to reach contagion stage after three to five days. It’s about seven to ten with smallpox, by the way—a significant difference between the two. Once contagious, that first person—the index case—will transmit the infection to about twelve people every day in your typical urban setting.”
Beneath the 1, Barnard wrote
DAY THREE:
12
“Those twelve will become contagious within the same time period, and each of them will infect another twelve.”
DAY SIX:
144
After that he stopped talking and just drew:
DAY NINE:
1,728
DAY TWELVE:
20,736
DAY FIFTEEN:
248,832
DAY EIGHTEEN:
3,257,437
Barnard stepped to one side of the board and waited. Absurdly, he worried for a moment about the dimple in his tie knot. Then that he might have forgotten to raise his zipper after his last trip to the bathroom.
No one spoke. No one in the Situation Room would until the president did. O’Neil stared at the whiteboard for a long time.
“You’re telling me,” said the president, “that if this thing breaks out, absent some countermeasure, we will have three million infected people in three weeks? And that nine out of ten of them could die?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what
“That it’s not
The president’s normally rich skin tone had turned to ashen gray. His mouth opened, closed. He put a hand on his forehead, let it drop. “What in God’s name will we do with three million infected corpses?”
For that, Barnard had no answer. Apparently, neither did any of the others.
The screen went blank.
“The man of the hour,” David Lathrop said, pushing off from the wall where he had been leaning, out of camera range, while the teleconference went on. Possibly excepting Lew Casey, Barnard was closer to David Lathrop than he was to any other person in government. Lathrop was younger, but they had much in common, including war. Barnard’s had been Vietnam, Lathrop’s the First Gulf War, special operations. After the war, Lathrop migrated to the CIA. He completed several tours as a field operative, moved up to running his own stable of agents, and finally came in to serve as CIA’s senior liaison with BARDA.
Barnard heaved up from behind his desk and motioned for Lathrop to follow him. They went to the big, comfortable leather chairs where Barnard had sat with Hallie. Barnard stopped at his credenza to pour black coffee for both of them. He handed a mug to Lathrop, who spoke:
“Did you brief Rathor on the moonmilk mission?”
“No. I assumed you had,” Barnard said. “But I wondered about it.”
Lathrop studied his mug. “I didn’t. He seemed familiar with it, though.”
“The president must have involved him before the telecon,” Barnard said.
“Probably so. Given his contribution to O’Neil’s campaign, it wouldn’t be politic for the president to keep him in the dark, would it?”
“Fifteen million, wasn’t it?” Barnard mused.
“I heard more. And you know what? The same to Steeves. So I heard.” Lathrop grinned at Barnard over his coffee mug. Harold Steeves had been O’Neil’s Republican opponent in the last presidential election.
“Covering all bases.”
“Wish I could cover bases like that. You ever meet him?” Lathrop kept his expression neutral.
“Rathor? Couple of times, official functions, nods and handshakes. He’s not known for making nice.” Barnard remembered mostly the small man’s big head and scrawny neck.
