A rhythmic thumping in the sky announced the approach of Marine One, the presidential helicopter. The president stared up into the clouds, trying to spot it. He could hear sirens in the distance now. But that must have been his imagination. Massachusetts Avenue was too far away.
“Where’s my family?” he asked.
“Susan and Nicole are still in school, sir. Their agents have been alerted, and CP is preparing to evacuate them by motorcade. The first lady is at Bradford Hall, speaking to the Daughters of the American Revolution.
Her agents have also been alerted, and CP has a scramble squad and evacuation team in route to her position. They’ll meet us at the Marine Barracks at Eighth and I.”
The president nodded. “Good.” Marine One appeared as a dark speck against the blue sky and grew rapidly as it dropped toward the White House lawn. He couldn’t help wondering how many people were dead. How many might be dying right now?
“What about the vice president?”
“His security detail is evacuating him from OEOB now, sir.”
The vice president’s regular office was in the Old Executive Office Building.
“They’re moving him to the emergency response bunker?”
“Yes, sir.”
The president nodded. “Good. Any word on casualties at the British Embassy?”
“CP didn’t brief me on the details of the attack, sir,” LaBauve said.
“Of course,” the president said. His words were lost in the thundering winds churned up by the helicopter’s rotors as the big machine settled gently on the lawn.
LaBauve began shepherding the president toward Marine One the second the helicopter’s wheels touched the grass. A door swung down from the side of the helicopter and then unfolded itself into a set of stairs.
A young Marine lieutenant trotted down the stairs, stopped to ensure that they were properly extended and locked, and then snapped to attention and saluted.
As the president and his security detail walked into the downwash of the helicopter’s rotors, LaBauve sidestepped to the left and slowed his own pace for a second or so, putting the president in the lead position for the last few steps to the stairs.
The president returned the Marine’s salute and climbed the short metal stairs into the interior of the helicopter.
He was belting himself into his seat when LaBauve climbed into the cabin, followed by his two flanking agents and then the Marine lieutenant.
Thirty seconds later, the pitch of the rotors climbed an octave, and they lifted off the ground.
LaBauve spoke into his sleeve again. “Eagle is airborne.”
The Marine lieutenant’s chair was mounted backward from all the other chairs in the cabin, which left him facing the president. His eyes traveled quickly around the interior of the cabin, making sure that everyone was properly seated and belted in. He turned his eyes to the president. “Sir, Lieutenant Charles Donahue, Marine One in-flight Tactical Officer, standing by to report.”
The president stared out the window as the ground dropped away.
“Make your report.”
“Sir, the disposition of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is as follows: The chairman of the Joint Chiefs, J1, J4, and J6 are at the Pentagon. J2 is at Langley. J3 is in the White House Situation Room. J5 is on an inspection tour in San Diego. J7 is aboard USS
“Got it,” the president said, without looking at him. “What else have you got for me?”
Lieutenant Donahue held out a red satellite phone. “I have the secretary of homeland security patched in on this line, sir. He’s in his car. He has a secure-capable phone, but he can’t get his crypto to sync up, so this call is not secure.”
The president accepted the phone and held it up to his ear. “Where are you, Clark?”
“On the beltway, Mr. President,” said Secretary of Homeland Security Clark Chapman. “In route to the Pentagon. ETA about fifteen minutes. Maybe ten if this traffic lets up.”
“All right,” the president said. “How much can you tell me over a non-secure line?”
“I can sketch in the basics, sir, and then fill you in on the details when I get to a secure phone that actually works.”
“Fair enough,” the president said. “Give me what you’ve got.”
“Sir, the British Embassy has been hit with some kind of biological warfare agent.”
The ice water was back with a vengeance. “Oh God. Is it anthrax?”
“We don’t know yet, sir. But whatever it is, it’s nasty as hell. We’ll have to get a team in there to look around. But the initial report seemed to indicate that nearly everyone in the embassy is either dead or dying.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
The president sighed. “Nothing, Clark. Please, continue with your report.”
“Well, sir, the initial stages of this thing are all pretty much standard operating procedure.”
The president interrupted him. “We have an SOP for this?”
“Yes, sir,” Chapman said. “At least we have one for a biological or chemical attack on a U.S. government building. We’re following that plan until the British are ready to take over. The British deputy chief of mission has assumed temporary duties as ambassador. He’s given us the green light to drive the containment and response until they can fly their own people in.”
“I take it the British deputy chief of mission wasn’t at the embassy during the attack.”
“No, sir. He’s in Seattle for the latest round of World Trade Organization negotiations. At least, he
“I’m sure he is,” the president said. “Okay, we’re following our SOP, for the moment at least. Is it any good?”
Chapman sighed. “We don’t really know, sir. It looks great on paper, and it’s played pretty well in training exercises. I guess we’re about to find out how well it works in real life.”
“Looks like it,” the president said. “What have we done so far?”
“Sir, step one is to notify the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. That’s already been done. USAMRIID is working on airlifting in a biohazard response team from Fort Detrick, and CDC is sending us a couple of advisors. No ETA on either team yet, but they’re shaking a leg.”
“Okay,” the president said. “What’s step two?”
“Emergency Services evacuates a three-block radius around the attack site. That’s already in progress. As soon as the initial evacuation is complete, they will extend the evacuation zone to five blocks in the area downwind from the attack site, to create a buffer zone for wind-borne contamination.”
“Step three is to get a medical team into the embassy — in biohazard suits, of course — to rescue and treat survivors. The British deputy chief of mission has already given us permission to enter the building.”
“We have a medical facility standing by to receive the victims?”
“Yes, sir. The infectious disease isolation units at Walter Reed are equipped and trained for this sort of scenario. They’ll have to ramp up their staff, but they’re already recalling off-duty personnel. I’ve authorized them to draw from other military medical facilities in the area to augment as needed.”
The president looked out the window. The flight to the Marine barracks at Eighth and I was little more than a hop. They were already descending toward the helicopter pad. “I’ll be on the ground in a couple of minutes,” he said. “I’m going to have to call the prime minister before too much longer to extend my condolences and to make a formal offer of support. I don’t envy whoever did this.”
“I don’t either, Mr. President,” Chapman said. “Prime Minster Irons isn’t going to rest until she tracks down every last one of them and nails them to a tree.”
The president nodded. That wasn’t much of an exaggeration. Emily Irons, better known to political satirists as “Iron-Balls Emily,” was widely regarded as the least tolerant and most volatile prime minister Britain had seen since Margaret Thatcher. Very quick to anger, she was utterly unforgiving of anyone she considered to be an enemy
