TWENTY-THREE

Washington, D.C.

THE PRESIDENT STOOD in front of a massive rectangular screen comprised of eight smaller screens that merged to form one. A single large image could be shown on all eight or an individual image could be viewed on each independently. This was the back wall of the White House Situation Room, which featured multiple flat-screen TVs mounted on every wall of the room. In this room the powers that be could keep watch on the entire world, receiving data from eyes on the ground, satellites, and the media. It was the media that held Tom Duncan’s attention now.

All eight screens were dedicated to the image, blowing it up to life-size proportions. It was the White House. Just outside. A line of reporters speaking into microphones dominated the view. They were polluting the airwaves with theories about what was going on inside the White House. Why weren’t they being given a press conference? Did the president have a heart attack? Was he dead?

What was most frustrating was that they couldn’t tell the truth. Not yet. Not until there was a cure. But if they lied, and Brugada got out . . . well, then they would be lynched. Silence, for now, was Duncan’s only option.

“Shut it off,” Duncan said.

The Situation Room hiding beneath the West Wing of the White House was full of infected advisors, a few generals, and a number of officers from various intelligence agencies—all confined within the walls of the White House. Those who were not infected, but integral to the conversation, joined them via Webcam.

Duncan looked away from the TV screen and focused on the American flag standing next to it. He wasn’t sure whether he should lower it to half staff or turn it upside down. While most people thought the upside-down flag to be an act of disrespect, those in the military knew it signified extreme distress—to be wary of a lurking enemy. Extreme distress didn’t begin to describe the state of the White House.

He turned and faced the group sitting around the long conference table. His seat at the head of the table, opposite the massive screen, was empty, but he didn’t feel like sitting. Hell, he didn’t feel like talking. He wanted action and he wanted it now. “Give it to me straight. What are we dealing with?”

Stephen Harrison, head of the FBI, filled the screen of a laptop on the desk. He was communicating with them from the safety of FBI headquarters. “We were able to trace everyone who came in contact with you and with Brentwood, from family members to security guards at the airport. They’ve all been quietly quarantined, but friends and family are getting vocal. If this was just one or two people we could keep it quiet, but the total number is . . .” He looked at his laptop screen. “Five hundred thirty-three.”

Silence.

Duncan took a deep breath and felt repulsed by the mixture of colognes and perfumes assaulting his nose. He let the air out of his lungs slowly and stared at the cherry oak conference table. “What are our options?”

“Lie,” Harrison said. “Well, a half truth. Food poisoning. You passed out. But you’re fine. We have everything we need in house for you to address the nation, show them you’re in good health. It will quiet the media.”

“For a day or two,” Boucher said, “but they’re going to want a press conference. We could be holed up in here for weeks, months! Until a cure is found.”

“And if a cure isn’t found?” Harrison said.

“It will be,” Duncan said, his voice confident. He couldn’t lie to the American people, but he could lie to the men and women in this room, even if they saw through it.

“Look, sooner or later, the press is going to catch wind of the quarantines on the East Coast. They’re going to figure out that the White House is in the same situation. We need a contingency plan.”

“Oh my God,” someone on the opposite side of the room whispered.

Duncan saw an aide cover her mouth with her hand. She was looking at a small screen in front of her, an earbud in one ear. She was paying attention to the conversation and something else.

“What is it?” Boucher asked.

The woman’s head snapped toward him. “The news.”

Someone had the forethought to switch the big screen on before being asked. News reports from CNN, MSNBC, and Fox News appeared side by side. Each featured a news reporter speaking into a microphone, but they were clearly agitated, and ignoring the crew from other stations dashing back and forth through the shot.

“Let’s hear Fox,” Boucher said.

The volume was turned up.

“Again, this has just come in. More than five hundred U.S. citizens have been placed under quarantine with no reason given to their families. A source within the White House, who spoke on the condition of anonymity, told the Associated Press that the White House is also under quarantine, that several staff members are being held against their will, and that a disease, something called Brugada syndrome, is responsible. While we have yet to discover what Brugada is, we will keep you up to date as our researchers—”

“Enough,” Duncan said. He stood and placed his hands on the tabletop, leaning toward the group around him. “Stephen, how is that contingency plan coming?”

Harrison blanched on camera. “On it.” The screen went blank.

“The rest of you, go do your jobs. Do not contact the press. I want radio silence, people, understood? The only outside contact you can have is to government and military agencies. No family. No friends. No press.” He turned to Judy, who was standing behind him to the right. “Let the press know that I will address the nation soon.”

Mumbled conversations broke out around the room.

“Just do it,” Duncan said, his voice bordering on anger. “Now get to work.”

The group set about doing their part. Several rushed out, others got on cell phones. General Keasling, who’d waited in silence through the meeting, spoke to Boucher via Webcam. The president sat down next to Boucher and spoke into the Webcam. “Have we heard anything yet?”

“Not a peep,” Keasling said. “We’re watching the area with five satellites and endless spy plane passes.”

Duncan scrunched his lips and shook his head. “Not good enough. The solution to all this is in that jungle.”

“What are you thinking?” Boucher asked.

Duncan set his eyes on Keasling. “How many troops can we have on Vietnamese soil in three days?”

Keasling thought for a moment and then asked, “Just troops? No tanks, jeeps, or other equipment?”

Duncan nodded. “Just troops.”

“A full brigade, five thousand men. I think that would do the job.”

Boucher’s forehead scrunched up. They were talking presidential suicide. An aggressive, invading president rarely got reelected, not without someone crashing planes into buildings. “Tom, you don’t really want to invade Vietnam?”

“As a last resort, yes. A sudden overwhelming force will give us the time and security to solve this problem. Then we’ll evacuate.”

“The region’s unstable as it is,” Boucher said. “Other Asian countries—scratch that—every other nation on Earth that isn’t a pal is going to feel very threatened. It could provoke a world war.”

“That’s why it’s Plan B. I want to be ready the moment we catch wind of Brugada spreading. Worldwide genocide is not something I am willing to risk, even if it makes me unpopular. I want our forces in the region on high alert and ready to go at a moment’s notice, just in case.”

“I’ll see to it,” Keasling said before closing the connection.

Duncan turned to Boucher. “Dom, you’re a spook. Find out who our White House snitch is and fire them, Trump style.”

Boucher nodded. “Gladly. But . . .” He raised his eyebrows, further wrinkling his age-etched forehead. “Tom, just curious, what is Plan A?”

Duncan grinned. “If you need something done right . . .”