together. They squirmed there like small animals trying to escape a trap. “How bad is it? Isn’t there anything we can do to stop it? Anything at all?” He looked bleakly around the table with wounded eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep.
Conrad Seigler shook his head, while shifting his gaze around the table. “There’s nothing to do except work on drugs that might help and try to develop a vaccine to prevent future outbreaks. According to Mary, the virus has already infected damn near every one on earth. Isn’t that right, Mary?”
“Maybe. Probably not. No virus gets everyone. Anyway, it’s too soon to predict exact numbers. I can tell you that it
“To throw us off the trail,” Edgar Tomlin interjected, wanting to make it clear why none of the homeland security agencies had discovered what was going on until far too late. He couldn’t afford for his agency to be blamed.
“Yes,” Mary Hedgrade agreed, concealing her irritation at being interrupted behind the new worry lines creasing her face. “Then, from Nigeria they went back to South Africa and made sure it got started there to repay their friends for their help. After that, they traveled to Europe, then to the major hubs of air traffic into and out of the United States and on to other big cities of the world. According to Edgar, this all happened two years ago.”
“Then why is it just now starting? Why didn’t blacks begin dying then?”
Mary wanted to roll her eyes and look to heaven for understanding. Unable to do that, and knowing that the president had either not understood the briefing paper or hadn’t even read it, she explained as best she could.
“The virus masqueraded as a very mild cold, with hardly any symptoms at all. No one paid any attention to it. It was programmed to migrate from the respiratory tract to the Kupffer cells in the liver and lie dormant until a trigger mechanism was activated. We think the triggering factor might have something to do with the number of times mitosis—cell division—occurs in the Kupffer cells, but we’re not sure yet. At any rate, once it becomes active again, the cells release the virus back into the peripheral circulation.
From there it invades the melanocytes, the pigment producing skin cells, and begins interfering with melanin production. It causes the tyrosine metabolism to malfunction, producing quinol intoxication and—”
“How many? Will everyone die?” The president interrupted Mary’s discourse, knowing he wouldn’t understand it. What he wanted was figures, something he could grasp. He scanned the room, seeking reassurance. There was none. The five men and one woman present besides him sat in silence, knowing that there was no answer, no solution. Not yet, and maybe never. Although no one mentioned it, the specter of the many difficulties encountered in controlling the HIV virus was present in their minds.
“How many?” The president asked again, raising his voice. “How many will die?”
Joshua Brenham knew. As Secretary of State, he was familiar with population distribution by race across the continents. He also knew that he was probably a dead man. To his credit, he repressed the slow, boiling rage he felt inside. It would do neither him nor anyone else any good to vent it here. “The very worst estimates say that unless the virus can be controlled, there may be as many as two to three billion deaths,” he said quietly. “In America, the black population numbers about twelve per cent, roughly 35
million. Of course some of the ones classified as black won’t have skin color dark enough to be affected, other than perhaps becoming rather sick, but those are more than made up for by other groups with dark skins. Some Hispanics, some from India and some Arabs and Orientals. Mary says that everyone who has naturally dark skin and has been exposed to the virus will become ill. The severity will depend upon how dark, but over half the population of the world will presumably display few symptoms, or mild ones at the most.
“Three billion! My God, how could they do it? How could they?” the president exclaimed, his gaze again roving the table. His facial expression expressed horror and outrage, but inside, he was beginning to feel a guilty hint of dark satisfaction that the blacks of the world would all die. Wouldn’t that solve a lot of problems? He was incapable of imagining all the repercussions that such a pandemic would cause, most of them much worse than such relatively simple problems as discrimination and poverty and failures in education.
“Mr. President, it doesn’t matter now,” Edgar Tomlin said. “The important thing is that no one must ever know that it was American citizens who let this thing loose on the world. If that gets out, our entire civilization might fall. It may anyway, but if no one knows, we stand a chance of coming through the crisis.”
“What if we just turned those nuts over to the UN when we catch them, and let them execute the crazy sons of bitches?” suggested General Borland Newman, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“Wouldn’t that do it?” Newman had a guilty secret, too. Already, he was thinking of how much more power he would hold once martial law was imposed.
Edgar laughed hollowly. “Don’t you know? The UN doesn’t believe in the death penalty.”
President Marshall wiped at his eyes. “Don’t bring up silly ideas, General. We can’t let this get out.
Edgar, I don’t care what you do with those white supremacists that started this thing if we catch them, but I don’t want anyone to ever hear about it if we do. Not a word. Understand?”
Tomlin nodded, wondering if he was hearing the president right. Probably, he thought, which suited him fine—except that he didn’t think it could be kept quiet.
When no one protested, the president continued. “We have to start preparations now. Get a spin ready that downplays how bad it could get. In the meantime, get the rest of it all worked out. How to control the riots; hospital space and medical supplies; controls on the economy; National Guard units to call up; defense preparations; all the other things we must do to ensure the survival of our country. That takes priority, understand? Our country comes first.”
“While blacks have no hope of surviving,” Brenham said, unable to help himself, nor able to conceal the bitterness in his voice.
“I’m sorry, Joshua. I’m as sorry as can be. But how were we to know?”
The president was right in one respect, Mary Hedgrade thought. In the beginning, no one had any idea of the enormity of the consequences soon to arise from those first reports coming in from Nigeria. At first she hadn’t believed it was possible herself, then that it might be, but that no one could possibly be so evil as to introduce that kind of virus into the world. And finally, when the evidence became overwhelming, she had put her face in her hands and wept. Once Mary realized what had happened, she had kept a very tight rein on all information the CDC discovered about the Harcourt virus, but she soon realized that concealment was not only pointless, but counterproductive. Only a White House directive had kept her from disseminating the CDC findings to the world. Not that it would do any good now, she thought. As Brenham had noted, the initial phase was past. For most of the susceptible population, nothing could be done for them unless a miracle occurred. It would simply have to run its course. She shivered and her mind returned to the conference room.
“How about nukes? Is there a possibility some country will try bombing us even if they can’t prove we started it?” General Newman spoke again. Rows of ribbons adorning his uniform attested to his experience, though if one knew how to read the decorations it would be apparent that there were none denoting combat. He was a political general, one of the breed who made rank by cozying up to and catering to politicians.
Brenham gave him a sour glance. “Who can predict what’s going to happen when people start dying? All you can do is keep our forces alert.”
“Luckily, the virus won’t be so lethal in the countries that have nukes,” Conrad Seigler observed.
“Yeah, luckily,” Brenham responded, unable to keep his voice from trembling. He wanted this to end so he could leave. The only thing keeping him now was his loyalty, not to the president, but to the institution of the Presidency.
“China might be a problem,” Mary said. Her head was down, glancing at the notes on her PDA. “Their population is borderline. I think more than eighty per cent of them will survive, but there are going to be a hell of a lot of sick puppies there for a while. And sick men aren’t always rational.”
“You don’t have to be sick to be irrational!” Brenham shouted, then hung his head, ashamed at the outburst. But damn, it was hard to keep it inside. Here these people were talking about a quarter of the world dying, yet they were safe and he was dead and his family was dead. It was so goddamned unfair!
