I waited for Jane in the new, improvised holding area just
beyond the House Appointment Desk in Capitol Visitor Center. She was listed as my
escort although, technically, we were both Congressional guests. As the Old
Man’s Science Advisor, she could roam the halls of power freely, at least today.
Even as the Chairman of his Biophage Task Force with a Top Secret clearance, I
was only as trusted as a constituent. Keep to the public spaces, don’t deviate
from the tour.
At the security station, the Capitol Police officer had graciously
given me the now standard lecture on etiquette. I’d smiled attentively as I’d
listened for the seventh time, knowing it was unlikely I’d have time to lean
against any walls. The disruption I was likely to cause would be away from
public eyes. Any harsh language was unlikely to be mine.
Even though security hadn’t yet limited access, the Visitors
Center seemed emptier than the last time I was here. People had already begun
to avoid large congregations. It wouldn’t take long before the economic damage
alone would force action. But by then, we might have passed the point of no
return.
Jane was running late, as usual. She was cutting it close
all around. In six months, the simulations said the situation would be truly
desperate, more so than it already was. Unless the Administration and Congress
agreed to act, more and more people would begin to die. But first, they had to
acknowledge that a problem existed. My only goal today was to ensure that
happened, one way or another. We still had time to craft a calm, controlled
response.
I thought about pulling out my phone to practice my prepared
remarks again, until I remembered this presentation wasn’t on it. Not that I’d
have my phone in the room anyway. Instead, I ran through bullet points in my
head. I wished Gwen were here. She was better at presenting the details without
responding to the inevitable, pointless provocations.
“Director Fortune,” I greeted Jane when I saw her head pop
behind the temporary screen.
“Fabian,” she answered in an even tone. She waved me to
follow her. “Why so formal?”
“Just practicing for the meeting,” I said, rising from a
waiting room-style chair which was much more comfortable than in my oncologist’s
office. “How many should I expect in there?”
“Seven of us facing twelve of them,” she replied, heading into
the Emancipation Hall.
“Jesus, Jane,” I said before I could control my reaction. “I
said to keep it small. You saw what happened on the Senate floor last week. We
haven’t seen a caning since right before the Civil War.”
She threw up her hands in well-practiced powerlessness but
didn’t break stride. “This is as small as we could make it within your limits.”
“I said twenty was the redline maximum.” I shook my head as
the shock began to wear off. I thought I’d made it clear that with anything
close to that, the meeting could devolve into chaos.
“And you got nineteen,” she responded without pause, her
heels click, click, clicking on the polished marble.
“I thought you said it was just going to be you, me and the
leadership.” I was not at all prepared for a gathering of this size. There were
too many uncontrolled variables for the simulations to keep up. Too many
individual agendas. The cone of uncertainty for the outcome was too broad.
“They insisted on the committee Chairs and Ranking Members,”
she said. “Plus, the number twos in both chambers. As it is, the House Majority
Whip got sidelined, which didn’t sit well with him. The Old Man thought we’d be
too outnumbered so he called in reinforcements from the Task Force. Plus Dr.
Ferguson, of course. You have no idea how many markers we had to call in just
to get this meeting.”
Once a general, always a general, I thought. Instead, I
said, “Honestly, I thought you’d given up on us completely.”
She favored me with a well-practiced, perfect smile. “We needed
a few other pieces in place before we set this up.”
I wondered what she meant by that. Hopefully nothing that
should concern me. Her job was policy, mine was information.
“Besides,” she continued, “I have full confidence in your
ability to persuade them.”
That was the only acknowledgement I was likely to get. I
tried to shrug it off and adapt to the new reality. Nineteen should be doable if
we handled it right. It just wasn’t optimal. But no sense fighting a battle
already lost.
I paused when she didn’t turn at the Statue of Freedom toward
the staircase up into the Capitol proper. “Where are we going?”
“Change of venue,” she said as she turned down a back hall that
I’d never noticed. Or if I had, thought it led to a bathroom. It appeared to be
an unmarked entrance to the underground House annex. “We’ve taken over the
Intelligence Committee SCIF.”
I had to scramble to catch up. I still had no idea how she
moved so fast in a skirt. “Please tell me we at least kept this with the Health
committees.”
She smiled over her shoulder at me. “We did manage that.”
At a podium around a corner, a Capitol Police officer
checked our badges and waved us toward an elevator door. Jane pressed the call
button. The arrival bell dinged immediately. She led the way inside.
She continued as we descended, encased in dark wood and
polished brass. “Keller’s been trying to keep traffic out of the main building
without drawing attention. The last thing the Old Man wants is another
confrontation with reporters. Which is why I came in through the tunnel to the
Library of Congress instead of by the street. Hopefully no one noticed you.”
They rarely did unless I was with a more familiar face. “I
would have thought she could control access better in the fourth floor SCIF.”
“Probably. Not my call.” Jane ran her hands over her suit
and ponytail to make sure everything was in place. She checked her makeup and
teeth in the mirrored control panel. “Pick your battles, Fabian.”
That was the point of the memo I’d sent when I asked her to
set up this meeting months ago. If it turned into a battle, we’d already lost.
The elevator door slid open. Beyond, we were greeted by a two
more guards at another security station. They crosschecked our names against a
list, then demanded all our electronics. We both handed over our phones which
were locked in separate metal cubbies. They advised us no notes were to be
taken in the briefing room, and reminded us we were subject to search on our
way out.
“Is everyone inside?” Jane asked one guard as if it was her
meeting.
The woman checked her list. “Looks like you’re the last,
Director Fortune.”
Jane smiled as if that was the way she’d planned it. Which I
had no doubt she had. One of the first rules of power is that you always make
someone else wait for you. It reinforces dominance.
And yet, since we weren’t members of Congress, we had to
wait while the guard keyed a code to unlock the door and let us in. As the woman
swung open the vault-like door with little effort, I did some slow, deliberate combat
breathing, silently counting to five between each breath.
Jane winked at me. “You ready?”
Before I could answer, the door was fully open and her
professional mask had settled into place.
Jane strode into the room like she owned it. I followed,
taking in the room at a glance. A large, spartan conference room with pastel
blue walls above pale frame and panel wainscoting with a chair rail, the colors
somehow richer than government office institutional. Buttercream and Colonial
blue.
The floorspace was dominated by a polished wood conference
table, mahogany, capable of seating at least twenty-four. From two flat ends it
curved outward at the center on one side and inward on the other, similar to the
arc in a public hearing room only more subtle. Printed name-cards assigned
seating. In a nod to informality, or impatience, the customary water pitchers
and glasses were laid out on a sideboard. Someone didn’t want this meeting to
last long.
The Speaker of the House was encamped at one end of the
table, the Majority Leader of the Senate at the other, like a rival CEO and
chairman in a hostile boardroom. But not in the traditional position of shared
authority at the center of the convex side of the table where they could see
and control the door. That position of power they left to their committee Chairs
and Ranking Members as if Leadership were merely observers in the room. Even
then, an empty seat stood between the House and Senate Chairs. Far from a
united front. That could be either good or bad.
Leadership was using the committee heads as the point of the
spear, content to let them do all the heavy lifting. I was familiar with the
tactic. The Chairs would be making the arguments and voicing the objections.,
even though the real decision lay in Leadership’s hands. A tricky situation,
but one I could work with.
The four committee members were the ones I had to make my
arguments to, or at least assuage. The House committee Chair and Ranking Member,
O’Brien and Reyna respectively, represented the People’s Party and the Public
Party mainstream. Which made their concerns predictable. Both had been in the
House for multiple terms yet still chose to serve on the Health Subcommittee.
O’Brien represented a district on the Pacific coast, Reyna one in a Midwest
farm state.
The Senate side was more problematic. Chair Montero led the
Public Party libertarian wing, hailing from the Old South. Sen. Wolff was an
independent New England progressive. Both were firebrands from the extreme
wings of their parties for whom the Health, Education, Labor and Pension
Committee was just a podium for their ideology, or their path to a larger
stage.
Arrayed in hierarchy between the committee chairs at the center
of the table and the poles of power at either end were the remainder of the
Congressional Leadership, House to the left, Senate to the right. Midway down
the Senate side, the Majority Whip’s cane leaned prominently against the table
as a reminder that she was willing to use it, as the Minority Whip’s black eye
could attest.
Where the party lines fractured in each chamber’s delegation,
there was a subtle extra space between seats which they probably didn’t even know
existed. A subconscious indicator that the cooperation between the opposing parties
controlling the two chambers remained at a historic low, especially with a true
Independent occupying the Oval Office.
Our delegation was arrayed along the concave side of the
table. The arrangement was adversarial. The Old Man would have said we occupied
a salient into Congressional territory, with the Speaker and Senate Majority Leader
positioned to outflank us. They had placed Jane at the center of our contingent.
Not a good sign but not unexpected. She had become the face of the
Administration where the Biophage was concerned.
Surveying the faces on our side of the table, I saw my only
nominal ally was Dr. Ferguson, but his agitation was barely contained. Colonel
Jorgenson kept him under a cold, hard eye. The colonel had been the Old Man’s
adjutant in the Mideast campaign that had catapulted him to power. But,
somehow, he had only risen to head of the Army Bioresearch Division rather than
Chief of Staff. There were rumors of an incident during the shadow war in
Yemen. Ferguson had worked under Jorgenson before he left Ft. Detrick for
private research. The other three Administration department heads looked
uncertain yet prepared to follow Jane’s lead.
For the moment, I had no choice but to do the same. After
some many months of inactivity, this meeting had come as a surprise. I wasn’t
sure where Jane was going with it but I knew time and patience were better initial
allies than accidently subverting my own side. At least until I spotted an
opportunity to direct this meeting where it needed to go.
I was once again reminded how young this Administration was.
No one of our side was over forty. No one of theirs was under fifty-five. Age
facing youth across an old-growth forest table with our side as the focus of
its lens.
If we wanted them to listen, we would have to change the
dynamic. The Congressional delegation currently controlled the room. Maybe if
the Old Man were here, he could have forged a consensus by sheer force of will
alone. Jane would try but just didn’t have his gravitas.
I’d grown up in a large, argumentative, dysfunctional
family. Given the opportunity, I knew how to make this work. Our best approach
would be a counter-punching strategy. Let them air their grievances until they
exhausted themselves then land a knockout blow that would carry them to our
side. That likely meant rolling with some punches and absorbing a lot of
damage.
That might be difficult with so many of us facing off
against so many of them. The arrangement was too contentious; it put both sides
on the defensive. If nerves frayed, consensus would be hard to find. Everyone
needed to feel like their concerns were being heard. A viable solution to the
Biophage crisis required at least the illusion of cooperation rather than open
confrontation. One of several reasons I’d wanted to keep this meeting small.
Once again, I wished Gwen was here. Her aura of calm was
impenetrable. Mine always eventually frayed. It always had, even before the
Biophage. But mine was also the face the Congressional leaders were most
familiar with. That small edge might be important in getting them to listen.
I assumed my assigned place at Jane’s right. The guard shut
the heavy door, illuminating the red light above it indicating the room was now
secure. As soon as we were sealed inside, Colonel Jorgenson began distributing
handouts, reminding everyone they were classified Top Secret and numbered, and
would be collected at the end of the briefing.
While everyone waited for the silence to settle and either
the leadership or one of the committee chairs to convene us, I glanced at the packet
on the table before me. The coversheet was an executive summary of Dr.
Ferguson’s research. The remainder appeared to be the Task Force’s preliminary
report.
I barely controlled my expression. I hadn’t authorized its
release. We hadn’t fully agreed on conclusions, yet. Even some of the verbiage
was still in flux.
Before I finished flipping through all the pages of the
packet to see what other surprises might be included, Majority Whip Edilson
rapped the ball of her burlwood cane against the table, effectively convening
us.
“This is your meeting,” she said with a scowl at our side of
the table, “Let’s get to it.”
Jane took a moment to recover from that rather unorthodox
opening. In a tactic meant to reassert control, she held up a finger to make
them wait again and leaned over to me.
“Change of plan,” she whispered in my ear. “I want you to
take point. You’re our best chance to convince them. The Old Man agrees.”
Odd that she hadn’t set this up in advance, even in the
elevator. Though I’d seen things like this before. The Old Man liked his people
to seize initiative based on the situation on the ground. Always under the
guise of helping or the best fit solution, but always with a secondary objective.
I made a mental note to have Gwen feed that into the simulations when I got
back to the office.
I could read the room as well as Jane could. This time, I
had my own agenda. I had to get the decisionmakers to see, regardless of the
outcome the Old Man wanted. This was likely my one and only opportunity. So, I
stood and rolled the dice.
“Mr. Majority Leader, Madame Speaker, Honorable Chairs,
Senators and Representatives,” I made eye contact with each as I spoke. “Thank
you for your indulgence. I recognize your time is valuable. I intend to keep
this briefing short. But before we get started, I’d like to ask that you
indulge me a little further.”
I shot a questioning look at Majority Whip Edilson since she
had taken the lead in convening us. She cast a startled glance at Majority
Leader Lambert, who tersely nodded. I then cast my eyes to Speaker Keller who
smiled tolerantly. From there I glanced at each committee chair. Both indicated
their assent.
With the true hierarchy of leadership reestablished, I
continued, “I’d like to ask my colleagues on the Task Force to move back from
the table. Don’t worry, it’s just for the moment. We can call on them as needed
to tap their expertise.”
I opted not to explain my rationale. Another calculated move
to pique their curiosity which might diffuse some of the tension in the room.
This time, I looked to Jane. She shot up an eyebrow not
knowing where I was going. But she knew if she overruled me, she would undercut
the entire meeting. I was the expert. She was a gatekeeper. The others were just
support.
She nodded everyone toward the wall behind us. A moment
passed as our entourage rolled their chairs back. Once they had cleared out, I collected
their name-cards.
“I don’t think any of us will forget who’s who,” I said as I
set them on the floor. I reset my chair to the center of the inward curve and
hung my jacket across its back.
When I sat down, I was at the focal point of the table. The
room now belonged to me.
I launched into my prepared introduction. “As most of you
know, my name is Fabian Romero. I am the chairman of the Joint Biophage Task
Force. As you also know, I don’t work directly for the Administration. I was
appointed as Special Technical Advisor by the Secretary of Health and Human
Services, similar to a Special Counsel at DOJ. My authority to run this
independent task force was confirmed by this Congress last year.”
Representative O’Brien interrupted as House committee Chair.
“And you’re a microbiologist, Mr. Romero?”
I smiled pleasantly at her. “I am not. Few researchers could
match the experience on the Task Force already. EPA, NIH, FDA, and the Army
Bioresearch division all have very competent doctors and scientists. Only a
handful of outside researchers could add to their expertise. Those who could,
and could obtain the appropriate clearance, have been discretely consulted.”
“My job is risk management,” I continued. “I run socioeconomic
simulations to determine the impacts of decisions like the one we face today.
You may remember my work from...”
This time Senator Montero cut me off. “We are familiar with
your credentials from the confirmation hearing. What decision are you talking
about?”
Their impatience was neither unusual nor unanticipated in a closed-door
session. I skipped the remainder of my intro and launched into a situational recap.
“Seven years ago, in our quest to combat antibiotic
resistance, we discovered a bacteriophage that attacks every known variety of
cancer. Where previous oncological bacteriophages worked either through
immunotherapy or by modifying the tumor’s microenvironment, this one injected
its genome directly into the affected tumor cells based on unique chemical
markers, essentially short-circuiting the cancer’s ability to reproduce. NIH,
with help from the Army Bioresearch Division, developed it into a probiotic
form known as the Biophage. Clinical trials demonstrated that after a year of
daily exposure, the Biophage was completely effective in ninety-nine percent of
the human population. After expedited FDA and EPA approval, the current
Administration began adding it as a supplement to water throughout the county.
For ease of transport and storage, they culture it inside a dormant,
environmentally resistant endospore that actives in water. Because the initial
research was conducted under the Administration’s new, finely tailored NIH
grants, the data and formulas remain under Federal control.”
“We heard all this in the Public hearing last year.” Now it
was Senator Wolff’s turn to cut me off as Ranking Member. “What exactly has the
Task Force found?”
“In the past four years,” I shifted gears to answer her
question, “there has been a rapid rise in public aggression. Sectarian clashes
have escalated across the country. In the last two years alone, violent crime
statistics have surged. Whereas in the past we have been able to trace such
changes to underlying socioeconomic and demographic conditions, this time none
of the established markers held.”
“We know all this,” Representative Reyna snapped. “Get to
the point.”
This was quickly becoming less of a briefing and more like a
Supreme Court argument. I took another deep breath.
“Last year,” I forged ahead, “Dr. Ferguson, who was a member
of the original Biophage development team, uncovered a link between a buildup of
certain chemical compounds associated with aggression in the livers of the
population and long periods of exposure to the Biophage. Based on his research,
which has been replicated at Ft. Detrick, our models now indicate that violent
crime will rise exponentially each year at current dosage levels. Even if we
discontinue exposure to the Biophage immediately, it will take 5 years to clear
the accumulated toxins from the majority of the population.”
That revelation was met with stunned speechlessness.
After a moment, Sen. Wolff broke the silence. “How do we
know this isn’t just some lobbying ploy to put oncologists back in business?”
“Senator,” I answered as calmly as I could, “by and large
oncologists no longer exist. They’ve all converted to other medical specialties.”
I didn’t bother telling her about the melanoma treatment I’d
received two years ago. Finding an oncologist had been difficult. Finding
chemotherapy drugs, nearly impossible. Convincing my insurance company to pay
for either had been even worse.
“We never should have bailed out Big Pharma,” she added. “It
would have been better to let them fail.”
I left that comment unaddressed, though it stung to hear. Without
federal assistance, innumerable pharmaceutical companies would have gone
bankrupt, endangering the rest of public health. The government had lost nothing
on that financial assistance. In fact, the Treasury had made money and kept that
segment of the economy afloat, not to mention preserving the country’s position
at the worldwide forefront of medical R&D. Everyone in the room knew all
that whether they were willing to admit it or not.
“I’m sure the Task Force is in bed with them somehow,” Rep.
Reyna chimed in from down the table.
This time I chose to answer before her sentiment derailed
the meeting.
“Representative, I’m one of the 1% of the population that’s
immune to the Biophage. So, I have no dog in this fight other than as a
guardian of public welfare. As for the others on the Task Force, I can vouch
for all of them personally. They are civic-minded scientists who happen to be
civil servants. They have no other underlying agenda. We each swore an oath to
protect and defend this country when we signed on, the same as when you were
sworn into office. An oath I’m sure we all take very seriously.”
A murmur swept through the room at my pointed implication.
When the grumbling died down, Sen. Montero asked equally as
pointedly, “Why does the government need to get involved in this at all? Why
can’t we just let people continue to take the Biophage once they know the
risks?”
“Laissez-faire economics aren’t a substitute for public
health policy, Senator,” I replied, recognizing her standard rationale to every
problem, from immunizations to gun control. “You will see from our report that
the increase in aggression is quite sustained already. Maintaining the Biophage
as an individual choice does not create the herd immunity we need to diffuse
the situation. It leaves the majority of the population at the mercy of the few
who refuse to acknowledge the reality of the problem.”
“My science advisors warned me that the Biophage was just like
another unsafe vaccination with hidden side effects that no one admits exist,” Sen.
Montero stated flatly. “So much for settled science.”
“The Biophage went through rigorous FDA and EPA approval,” I
reminded her. “No other medical treatment has had to go through both.” I didn’t
say her “science” advisors had degrees in theology and law, not STEM, and all seemed
to minor in conspiracy theories.
“So, you’re saying the Administration rushed the approvals?”
Sen. Wolff surprisingly came to her colleague’s defense. The only independent progressive
in the room agreeing with a libertarian reminded me that the Administration had
no friends on either side of the aisle.
“None of this showed up at any stage of the clinical trials,”
I said. “Much like early birth control, the FDA and EPA based their approval on
the best evidence available at the time. NIH believes there may have been an
interaction with unknown environmental factors. Bacteriophages are some of the oldest
and most diverse components of our biosphere.”
“That sounds like a bunch of ‘GMOs are completely safe’ nonsense,”
she shot back. Several of her colleagues around the table nodded in agreement. The
People’s Party didn’t always have a great track record on confronting science
that made them uncomfortable either. Neither side was clean.
“With all due respect, Senator, now that the Biophage has
extended life expectancies by ten years, GMO crops are the only thing keeping
our people fed. While the underlying science of GMO crops did experience the
normal twists and turns of scientific understanding, by and large it was a lack
of government regulation and oversight that led to the majority of issues.”
I continued quickly, trying to get back on topic by touching
on another of my bullet points while I had the chance. “Feeding a larger
population is only one of the side effects of that increased lifespan. With a
healthier elderly population working longer, we are seeing a spike in youth
unemployment from an unavailability of jobs. This is causing a great deal of
sociological pressure. We are at risk of resuming the open generational warfare
we saw in the last attempts to reform Social Security and Medicare.”
“Is that what this is about?” Sen. Montero asked. “Overpopulation?
Unwanted elderly? With the Task Force as the final arbiter of who lives and
dies? It sounds like you’re setting yourselves up as the new Death Panels.”
My patience began to fray. It was time to make a point. “Senator,
the only death panels you’re likely to see are the juries or military tribunals
hearing murder cases as aggression grows and the courts get overwhelmed.
Several states are considering reimplementing capital punishment, which is
unlikely to be a deterrent. New Mexico already has. Three others have legislation
pending.”
“Don’t be hyperbolic, Mr. Romero.” She thumped the unopened
report before her with a thumb. “I believe you are gravely overstating the
problem. You sound like Al Gore on global warming.”
“With all due respect, Senator” I said, “the initial reports
by the IPCC ended up being rather conservative estimates in hindsight. And even
those were fought against tooth and nail until it was too late to blunt all but
the most catastrophic damage, as the levees along the Potomac attest. This Task
Force is trying to prevent anything like that from happening again.”
Deny, delay, deflect was the standard Public Party playbook
on any issue that required a change which might jeopardize their self-interest.
“And then what?” Rep. O’Brien chimed in again. “We go back
to the days where cancer caused one in three deaths across the country? The
public won’t stand for it. We’ll have riots.”
“You’ll have riots if you don’t,” I assured her. “This
increased aggression will only get worse the longer we wait. If we act within
six months, we believe we will be able to resume treatment at a reduced dosage
in five years. The current one-percent immunity might rise as high as three.”
“It sounds to me like the Administration wants to use this
supposed increase in aggression to waive people’s rights,” Sen. Montero jumped
in again, referencing back to her earlier point.
“Senator, we are trying to protect people’s civil rights
from those who might use any ensuing violence for their own ends. Political,
personal, or economic.”
“I don’t like what you’re implying, Mr. Romero.”
I could almost hear Montero’s mind closing.
“Forgive me.” I replied in a neutral tone, then took another
breath. “I only mean to say that people listen to their leaders, Senator. They
look to you not just for guidance on the issues but for what is and isn’t socially
acceptable. People emulate what they see and hear.”
“I think you overestimate our influence,” Speaker Keller
interjected from my left, in a tone meant to play the peacemaker. “We are as
much bound by public opinion as we influence it.”
In other words, they were all afraid of not getting
reelected.
“I strongly disagree, Madame Speaker.” I responded, turning
to face her. “Most people don’t have the time, expertise or inclination to sort
through the science of issues like the Biophage. They look to you for what to
believe and what not to, just as you look to experts like the Task Force. People
listen. They follow where you lead. If you indicate that a certain response is socially
acceptable, people will follow that, too. Just like other nations follow the
example this country sets. Or used to.”
From the right side of the table, Senator Majority Leader
Lambert unexpectedly altered our direction. “How exactly did we get here, Mr.
Romero?”
I wanted to say that it doesn’t matter how we got here. We
are. Assign blame later to prevent it again. We don’t have that luxury right
now. It’s time to work the problem.
I could tell by my thoughts and reactions that the aggression
in the room had begun to wear me down. So, I calmed my breathing. Perhaps it
was time to run through the simulations now that they’d gotten most of their reflexive
protests out of their system. They might be ready to listen.
“We effectively created a youth bubble without changing our
birthrate,” I explained. “The Biophage rolled back the clock on large parts of aging
but not on the mental entrenchment that comes with it.” I avoided saying “conservatism”
knowing that was a loaded word, especially to him. “Remember during the Social
Security debates when the analysts said that old people don’t riot, they vote?
That’s no longer true. Violent crime has escalated most in the AARP demographic,
we think because they are least equipped to handle increased aggression. And
that doesn’t account for the copycat behavior we see in the younger age
brackets, which up to now has been lagging. Mass aggression is a self-feeding
cycle that leads first to intolerance and then to violence. It’s fundamental
human psychology.”
“Can’t we just put everyone on anti-aggression treatments?”
Speaker Keller stepped back in again, tag-teaming from the other end of the
table. “I can drug test the entire House to ensure compliance.”
“That may be necessary throughout the government regardless,
Madame Speaker,” I said, turning back to her. “The nation will need calm
leadership to see it through this crisis. Even if we cease exposure to the
Biophage right now, aggression will increase for another year before it levels
off. The current anti-aggression treatments we have are already at the bleeding
edge of effectiveness. Like antibiotics before them, we are developing a resistance.
More precisely, the toxins building up in our livers are punching through.”
“What exactly are we talking about if we do nothing,” she
asked, “unrest like the Civil Rights Movement? Protests of the Vietnam War?”
She had actually read my work.
I replied as dispassionately as I could. “The simulations
point to something closer to the Arab Spring, Madame Speaker. Syria or Yemen,
not Tunisia. Casualties approach ten million in the nominal case.”
There was a collective intake of breath around the table as
that number settled in.
“That’s two and half percent of the population,” Sen. Edilson
said incredulously. “How is that even possible?”
“Think of the frequency of mass shootings twenty years ago,”
I answered. “There was one at least every week. Now replace each of those with
a Waco, an Oklahoma City, or a domestic 9/11. Add in a tenfold increase in the murder
rate. Perhaps double that again when instances of rape and sexual assault also go
up by an order of magnitude. Aggravated assault alone accounts for almost
ninety percent of that ten million casualty rate. That’s the median case within
two years maximum, not the extreme in time or magnitude. The numbers go up from
there.”
Now everyone at the table began skimming the report,
glancing at the charts even if they weren’t ready to delve into the nuances of
the scenarios we’d laid out. I finally had their attention.
“So, there’s a possibility it won’t be that bad.” This time
Rep. Reyna broke the silence. “Would the increased violence even overcome the
increased number of cancer deaths? Best case?”
“In the absolute best case based on the models,” I replied,
“additional deaths are no better than break even over the first year. But that
scenario is a distinct outlier.”
“This is strictly risk management” I continued. “If you examine
the scenario at the other end of the curve, it is much worse. Twenty to thirty
million casualties without action, more dead than inured. Another fifty million
homeless or internally displaced from insurrection and domestic unrest. No
country I’ve studied has ever survived levels like those intact. The best
descended into protracted civil war. The worst transformed into autocracies
that turned their aggression either inward or outward on a scale this country
can only imagine. Think Cambodia under the Khmer Rouge or Rwanda during the
Tutsi genocide. So, while the models could drift down to one million casualties
over two years, they also point to something on a scale we haven’t seen since
World War Two.”
All their faces paled. They began studying the report in
earnest. They believed what I was telling them even if they didn’t want to.
“And you all agree with this assessment.” Sen. Lambert addressed
his question to the people behind me. I turned to look at them as well. Each
simply nodded. They had nothing else to add. Even Ferguson appeared less
agitated. I turned back to the table.
After a prolonged silence, Speaker Keller asked. “What exactly
does the Administration recommend we do?”
That was it. I had them. I turned behind me with a gesture
of deferral and handed them off to Jane. As I straightened my copy of the Task
Force’s preliminary report and slid my chair aside, I felt the tension drain
from my shoulders. My job was done.
Jane smiled pleasantly as she approached the table once
again. Until that moment, it hadn’t really settled into me how young she was. She
couldn’t be over thirty.
She nodded to Colonel Jorgenson who passed out an additional
sheet to all the attendees.
“If you examine the addendum,” she said, “you’ll see what
the President intends to do.”
I stared at her in confusion, unable to fully mask my
reaction. The preliminary report had contained no recommendations only
conclusions. We agreed it was best to come up with a consensus that all parties
would accept even if that took a little time. Buy-in was critical to our
success.
I skimmed the addendum with everyone else, eager to see what
the Old Man was up to.
I felt the previously simmering tension in the room return to
a full boil, reflected both in a spike in my blood pressure and the rising red
in the necks of well over half the members of Congress.
True to his nature, the Old Man intended to act swiftly and
decisively. A State of Emergency, the military seizing all the stockpiles of
the Biophage across the country, an export embargo, the suspension of the writ
of habeas corpus in anticipation of civil unrest. All it was missing was
martial law, which I assumed would come later. This plan sounded like a blueprint
for a domestic coup. At least that’s how it would be read.
These were the exact wrong moves to promote cooperation.
Almost as if each bullet point had been specifically designed to exploit the increased
aggression in the room. In that one page, the past half hour’s work came completely
unraveled. Really the work of the entire Task Force since its inception.
After the initial shock wore off, the room erupted in accusations,
excoriations and outright threats. For the first time, I was glad the table
didn’t stand between me and the door.
Jane had set me up. Right down to the number of people at
the table. The only thing I didn’t know was whether she had received her
marching orders from the Old Man or was acting on her own, with the Colonel as
an advisor. He looked to be the only other person who had known what was going
to happen. It all had the earmarks of a well-orchestrated, military operation.
Rumors of Yemen came flashing back.
I stole a glance to Dr. Ferguson. He rose and opened his
mouth as if no longer able to contain himself.
Jorgenson shot a warning glare his way. “Not. One. Word.
Doctor.”
Ferguson’s mouth slowly shut. I wasn’t sure what leverage
Jorgenson had to enforced his silence. I suspected something to do with his
previous work at Ft. Detrick. Now Jorgensen’s fixed his best intimidating stare
on me.
I surveyed the others. The department heads all looked
nauseous but refused to meet my eye. I was on my own. I turned back to the
table, prepared to forge ahead alone.
Before I could, Jane leaned over and whispered into my ear,
“Say anything that complicates this, I’ll make sure you take the fall.”
I knew she could make that happen. I had walked these people
right into her trap, following blithely behind. Now they associated her ambush
with me. By design.
But there are moments you fight battles you know you’ll lose
if only because they set up battles you might win in the future. Blocking
positions, delaying tactics, rear-guard actions. There had to be something I
could do to buy a little time.
Before I could formulate my best response, I caught movement
from the corner of my eye. Dr. Ferguson strode for the door. It was obvious he could
no longer stand by and watch his research twisted to justify actions he
vehemently disagreed with. Actions I knew were counterproductive at best.
Unless they had been the plan all along.
When Ferguson reached the door, he swung it open with some
effort. The red light above it winked out.
Surveying the of table again, I saw the situation was no
longer tenable or salvageable. Keller was trying to calm the House contingent,
and her People’s Party colleagues in the Senate, with limited success. Lambert
was less enthusiastically trying to do the same on his side. Everyone had
engaged in a verbal melee that could erupt into something physical in an
instant.
Jane stood calmly in the eye of the storm, as if waiting for
this series of protests, too, to exhaust themselves. Jorgenson had positioned
himself to guard her flank and cover her retreat if necessary.
The Majority Whip brandished her cane in my direction though
I couldn’t make out her particular words above the din. If she was physically
capable of scrambling across the table, she would have, I was certain.
Fergusson was right. In this toxic environment, a silent
protest was my best and only option. So, with angry vows of impending subpoenas
trailing in my wake, I followed him out.
---
When I retrieved my phone, I didn’t bother to turn it back
on. The world could wait until I got back to my office. If I connected now, I
was likely to resign my position on the Biophage Task Force publicly and
immediately. I needed more information about whether this had been the Old
Man’s plan, and, if so, whether he was still open to reason. If not, I needed time
to think through all the consequences before I reacted.
I found a back staircase up so I wouldn’t have the share the
elevator. The exercise might clear my head.
Locked in the windowless room, I hadn’t realized how far the
day had darkened. I emerged from underground to heavy flurries. After a quick
walk to the metro station, watching my footing on the dusting, I descended once
again. I didn’t reemerge until I’d reached our offices in Crystal City. By
then, it looked like all DC would shut down at any moment. Three inches had
accumulated already.
When I entered our office suite, I found Gwen waiting at
reception. Her expression bordered on grave. She handed me a steaming cup of
coffee.
“I would ask how it went, but I think I already know.”
I accepted the mug graciously after shrugging off my coat.
Black with a touch of cinnamon and dark cocoa. Normally, my preference, but today
its semi-sweet tasted only of bitterness.
“I think they were ready to cooperate before Jane sabotaged
it,” I said between sips. “Now both sides will resist on principle. This
setback could last years.”
“It’s worse than that.” Gwen directed me toward the nearest
conference room. “The story broke before you got here. I tried to text you. I
assume your phone was off.”
I followed her. “What’d I miss?”
The monitor on the wall was tuned to a cable news station,
one of the less sensational ones. A red “Breaking News” banner adorned the top.
A recap crawled across the bottom. The volume was muted but it wasn’t difficult
to interpret the coverage. Jane had made the news. So had I. Each of our file
photos appeared flanking a bullet point recap of Jane’s addendum to our
preliminary report, though true to form the coverage conflated the two as one.
An anonymous source had leaked it. From the count-up clock in
the corner, it appeared not long after I’d left the room. For an instant, I
wished I had run with my instincts. That twenty-one-minute difference in the
timestamp on my resignation might be critical for whatever came next. An
opportunity lost, if only for imperfect information.
“Is it accurate?” Gwen asked.
I studied the verbiage on the screen. “Someone cited it from
memory. It’s out of order but the worst is there. Now this gets ugly. Have you
updated the simulation?”
She nodded. “I set it for a thousand runs based on what I knew.
Do you think they know that everyone on the Task Force except Ferguson is a
one-percenter?”
I shook my head, wondering how that piece of information
might play out once it hit. It wouldn’t take much digging to find my brush with
cancer. Others on the Task Force likely had similar electronic fingerprints.
“No,” I added out loud, scrutinizing the facial expression
of the talking head for whether she was one as well or just on anti-aggression
medication. “But I think the Speaker suspects. She might be one of us.”
“If so, she probably didn’t leak it.” Gwen stared absently
at the monitor. With the simulation still running, there wasn’t much else we
could do other than watch events unfold. I keyed my phone back on.
It blew up in a tone poem of notifications as it came back
online. I scanned through the list quickly, performing mental triage. At the
fourth one down, I reached for the remote and switched the channel to a
competitor. They, too, had a “Breaking News” banner in a slightly brighter
shade of red.
Their feed showed a confrontation between a large group of
protesters and local police in riot gear outside a non-descript warehouse near a
trainyard. The dateline said “Kansas City”.
“Is that one of the Biophage storage facilities?” Gwen
asked.
I nodded absently, not taking my eyes from the unfolding scene,
waiting for the pictures to catch up with what social media said was coming
next. Soon, the angry protestors were reinforced by an armed, balaclava-clad
militia in camouflaged fatigues. The police shouted into their shoulder radios
and crouched behind their shields. Teargas was lobbed. Gunfire was exchanged. A
SWAT APC swerved into the frame and was promptly set alight by Molotovs. The
police fell back from a fusillade of automatic weapons fire to their left. The cameraman
did not.
The mob took no notice. Directed by the militia, they began
to move the burning APC. With coordinated effort, they maneuvered it beneath
the overhang at the loading dock. The building was soon in flames. The camera
panned left. Another group of militiamen held back a fire engine at gunpoint. Its
crew had no interest in confronting armed individuals to do their job.
“I guess that will resolve the Biophage problem for a
while,” Gwen said. “Though incinerating the existing stockpiles wouldn’t have
been my first-choice solution.”
I shook my head. “Ft. Detrick engineered the endospore its
cultured in to be resistant to extreme temperatures, UV and radiation by
design. As the containers rupture from the heat, it’s more likely that the
updraft from the fire will transport most of it high into the atmosphere like
smoke until it drifts down or precipitates out. When it does, it will activate if
it hits any above-ground water source or remain inert in the soil until it runs
off with rain. Anything left in the warehouse will eventually wash into the
Missouri River when they let those firefighters go in.”
The rising cloud from the warehouse now looked like a bomb
had gone off.
“What are the prevailing winds from Kansas City?” she asked.
I did a quick search on my phone and came up with a fallout
plume from a theoretical counterforce strike on the silos near Topeka. I held
it out for Gwen to see.
“So, St. Louis, maybe Indianapolis, and into Ohio,” she said
as we stared at the tiny screen. “What’s that, a hundred times the current Biophage
dosage for several million people in the next two weeks?”
“Depends on rain,” I answered, “but yeah, something like
that.”
Now there was a picture in picture of a similar scene
playing out first in Chicago, then Atlanta, then LA. All the major Biophage
storage and distribution centers.
The response was too spontaneous, too coordinated. Someone
had set the militias in motion, or at least tipped them off. It was reminiscent
of Putin’s Little Green Men in Crimea. Someone had stolen a page from the
playbook of history.
“Who do you think leaked it,” Gwen asked as we stared, both
of us unable to look away.
I shrugged. “Does it matter? Someone angry enough, or dumb
enough to think they could control the outcome. That could be almost anyone in
the room.”
On the big screen, more fires burned in the background. Soon
whole cities would be alight.
Gwen turned, her expression of uncertainty reflecting the
unfolding disaster. “What do we do now?”
Until that moment, I hadn’t really thought about how young
she was either. She had probably been born within a year or two of Jane. Their
expertise and masks of professional certainty made them both seem older. But this
was well outside anything in her memory or experience. Mine, too. None of the
simulations covered this.
“I don’t know,” I finally answered.
I thought a minute, and then said the only thing other thing
that came to mind.
“First, we survive.”
©
2019 Edward P. Morgan III
