The Shift: The Wildfire Saga, #2

SHIFT DEFINED

Antigenic shift: an abrupt, major change in the influenza A virus, resulting in a virus that is so different from the same subtype in humans that most people do not have immunity to the new virus.

While influenza viruses are changing by antigenic drift all the time, antigenic shift happens only occasionally. When a shift happens, most people have little or no protection against the new virus.

1

A NEW OLD ENEMY

Boston, Massachusetts

Prior to Apache Dawn

Doctor Maurice Boatner removed his glasses and sighed in relief as he rubbed his temples. The springs in his ancient office chair creaked as he leaned back. He opened his bleary eyes and blinked at his three computer monitors. Boatner glanced disapprovingly at the microscope assembly to his right. No matter how hard he tried to identify the antigens he needed, this particular strain of swine flu was proving difficult to nail down. Part of him hoped he would make a big discovery, like any scientist would. Another part wanted his colleagues to be included, if possible, in any simple fix that might assist with next Spring's vaccine.

The only sound in his laboratory was the steady tick-tick-tick of an analog clock mounted above the only exit. The white-walled room, empty now this late at night, housed more than a dozen microscopes hooked up to computer monitors for teaching purposes.

Located on the second floor of the Harvard University Advanced Immunology Center, it was a professor’s dream workspace. Unfortunately, Maurice Boatner thought of himself as a virologist first, professor second. He longed for his real lab, deep under the Child Services Building—where he could get real work done.

He looked around the empty lab and sighed. The upperclassmen virology students he normally taught three days a week were hopefully in bed. He chuckled to himself as he stood and stretched his aching back.

Who was he kidding? It was Friday night. The kids would be out partying.

His eyes found the long window on the east side of the lab and strolled over to have a look. The campus was quiet and deserted. Where normally he’d see dozens of students heading off to bars or to meet up with friends, he saw no one.

He shook his head. He’d never understand students. Back to work. The virus wasn't going to identify itself. He glanced up at the clock again. 10:23 p.m.

Where did my life go? All alone on a Friday night—in a college town. I still feel as young as a 30-year-old, yet here I am, hunched over a microscope trying to identify a little bug for a friend at the CDC.

The thought, one he'd been entertaining more frequently as he approached 50, was answered for him by looking at the image of the virus on the screen. He'd lost his entire family during the Great Pandemic ten years earlier. Maurice Boatner had been a rising star in the field of virology—graduated top of his class from Columbia and instead of going into practice, had gone right into research. He'd been fought over by more than a dozen labs and facilities across the United States.

When the Great Pandemic had erupted across the globe, he threw himself into his work with a such singleminded determination to find a cure. He almost didn't notice how many of his friends and family had gotten sick, until it was too late.

He forced down the dark memories of ten years ago and tried to clear his head. Fresh air. I need fresh air.

He headed toward the door and snatched his coat on the way. He couldn't help but marvel at the subtle differences in the antigen structure on the curious new strain of the swine flu Taylor had asked him to identify.

His mind wandered back to the dark days of The Pandemic as his footsteps echoed down the empty corridors of the Advanced Immunology Center Research Building. The long hours, the isolation in government quarantine, soldiers in the streets—soldiers in his lab.

He paused at the elevator and waited for the doors to open. Why am I thinking about this? Boatner leaned against the back of the elevator and closed his eyes.

The ding of the doors opening jolted him awake. He blinked and stepped out into the deserted hallway.

Boatner stopped at the roof access door, relieved the lock still hadn’t been repaired. He braced himself and stepped out onto the widow's walk that graced the top of the building, then took a deep breath of the cleansing, cold air rolling in from Boston Harbor.

Distant ships plied the choppy water out in the bay, coming in from the open Atlantic or heading out—he couldn't tell which. The sounds and lights of the city enveloped him like a blanket. The glowing lights of the never-ending stream of traffic coursing its way through Boston soothed his troubled thoughts. A jet roared through the sky overhead, turbines whining on its way to Logan International.

Boatner leaned on the weathered, wooden railing and gripped the crackled paint. He closed his eyes and took an invigorating, deep breath of the salt-tinged air. The breeze off the bay was stiff tonight.

He was lost in thought, staring at the twinkling lights of the city when he felt his phone vibrate in his breast pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the number. Albert Daniels! I haven't heard from you, since—

Sorry to interrupt your Friday night, Professor, but we have a situation.

When Albert Daniels, perhaps the closest thing to a rival Maurice Boatner ever had in his career as a virologist, says, We have a situation, most people pause. Boatner knew Daniels better than that. He was a general now. Daniels had been rapidly promoted through the ranks for his role in helping to end the Great Pandemic. He was one of the best virologists the military had and he held the ear not only of the Pentagon, but was a close friend with the Director of the Centers for Disease Control.

What's going on? asked Boatner. He couldn't help himself. Whenever he heard of an outbreak of some unknown disease, the old excitement returned. It was both a blessing and the curse of his vocation. When some strange new bug begins to decimate tribal villages or overpopulated cities, it was up to the field virologists to identify, research, and destroy it. Boatner found the process both daunting and invigorating.

This line isn't secure. I'm sending you a packet of information via courier. He’ll be arriving by midnight your time.

Boatner arched an eyebrow as he glanced over the peaceful campus. The square below, usually packed with students rushing to and fro between classes, lay deserted except for two people casually strolling hand-in-hand in between streetlights.

Military courier? This must be serious…

I'm afraid it is, Maurice.

He called me Maurice. Albert Daniels was nothing but a perfectionist. Even to his closest friends—he probably called his wife Mrs. Daniels—everyone was called by their title and last name. Daniels had been a perfect fit for the military.

The last time you called me Maurice was when you told me about my family…

—sent you an email with some news reports. Did you read it?

News reports? Since when do you guys use the media to transmit information?

A shallow laugh echoed from the other end of the line. Like I said, I can't tell you over the phone. Just check your email. You'll be able to put it together from what I'm sending you if you haven't already. There was a pause and the sound of papers rustling in the background. My courier will arrive at your lab by 2345. Are you able to get there to meet him?

Absolutely. I'm already there.

The tone of the voice changed. It's Friday night. What's an old man like you still doing at work?

Not so old that I can't help out a friend. You remember Taylor Reeves at CDC?

Reeves…Hey, wasn't that the microbiologist, the redhead that was into you?

Boatner cleared his throat. That was a long time ago, Albert. Anyway…she has a sample of a possible new strain of swine flu. The interesting thing is we found it in a kindergarten in southeast Missouri—

I'm afraid you'll have to put that on the back burner for now, the humorless voice said.

Boatner stopped short. This must be serious. "You have to give me something more than ominous tones—these are kids we’re talking about."

The silence on the other end of the line was telling. "You have access to a TV?"

Boatner turned and went back inside. I will in a few minutes. You caught me up on the roof taking a break. I'm on my way back down.

Good. Turn on the news, any of the 24-hour stations. They're all running the story right now.

What story?

Jesus, Maurice, you really do need to get out of the lab more often.

The reception fizzled inside the building and the call dropped. Boatner put the phone away and rode the elevator down to his second floor lab. As the elevator clanked its way between floors, he was occupied by the thought of some disastrous new disease making its presence felt somewhere out there in the world.

It must be somewhere close to home, he mused, for Daniels to get worked up enough to push aside a class of very sick children.

Another thought struck him. He may not watch the TV news as much as everyone else, but he had noticed an alarming trend in his own lectures over the past week. Dr. Maurice Boatner's class on advanced immunology—taught by the man who helped defeat the Great Pandemic—was not a class skipped often. He'd had a Senator call his office to explain the absence of his son in the past.

As he opened the lab door, something made him check up and down the halls. He was still alone. Daniels' phone call made him more uneasy than he’d realized.

He turned on the dusty television in his office and waited for the picture to appear. It was on the Weather Channel. They were talking about some kind of flu forecast—not exactly out of character for mid-November in the northeast—and he quickly changed the channel to CNN. It only took a few moments for him to realize what Daniels had referred to on the phone.

The President was sick with a mysterious flu-like illness. The country was beginning to feel the effects of a seasonal flu that appeared simultaneously on both coasts and had already struck the nation’s major cities. The President's life was in danger, hundreds of people had already died, and fears of the Great Pandemic resurfacing was the hot topic of the day.

Boatner turned away from the TV and closed his eyes as the reporter prattled on about the similarities between the current mystery flu and the early stages of the Blue Flu. He took two steps over to his desk and sat down. The TV glowed on the wall while the smartly dressed woman behind the anchor desk rattled off facts and figures.

Words scrolled across the bottom of the screen indicating that President Denton, in California for a political fundraiser event, had suddenly taken ill and was in grave condition—after only 36 hours.

Boatner looked down and realized his hands trembled. Was The Pandemic back? He turned to his computer and found the email Daniels had sent him.

After decryption, the information on his screen caused him to open a drawer he rarely used on his desk. Inside was a bottle of whiskey. He pulled it out, blew the dust off the cap, and pulled out a glass. He poured himself two fingers. This he took in one gulp, eyes watering as it burned his throat. He wasn’t a heavy drinker, but the information on his screen gave him cause.

He stared at the magnified image of The Pandemic virus as seen under an electron microscope. It glared back at him from the screen—the organism that he had fought for so long, this thing that had taken his wife and children, most of his friends, and so many millions of people around the world. He was almost hypnotized by the beautifully symmetric structure. The malevolent organism stared back at him, unblinking, uncaring. H5N1—a curse of nature.

He clicked through the screens, examining the data sent from his old friend. It looked exactly like the virus they’d encountered during the Great Pandemic. His scientific curiosity began to beat down the fear that was rising inside him. If it was the same virus, why didn't they just use the same antivirals developed during The Pandemic? They still had a supply from the Source—he was almost certain. So what made this strain different? What had Daniels so spooked? More importantly, why was the military involved?

Then he scrolled through to the page outlining the viral RNA analysis. Something immediately jumped off the screen at him. There were two diagrams: on the left, the RNA sequencing of the Great Pandemic strain and on the right was the sequencing of the new mystery strain. The two images were almost identical…almost…except for one particular string of nucleobases.

Holy shit.

He scrolled further to read the author’s conclusions. Whoever had done the case work on this had completely missed it. He wasn't surprised, honestly. The average government scientist would probably take a glance at the data—no doubt being rushed by military deadlines—and assume the differences to be insignificant.

They’d already tried the vaccines from the Great Pandemic. He continued reading. Vaccines and antivirals, initially successful, seemed to lose their strength a little too fast. Something was definitely different about the virus. Now he was truly concerned.

Genetic markers that had been changed in the new virus were ordered in such a standardized pattern it could mean only one thing. Well, there could be other explanations, he told himself as he put on his glasses, but not likely.

He could see the pattern of changes in the RNA source code were regular, ordered. Nature abhorred static regularity. Nature loved chaos, anarchy, and complete mismatches. This then, could only be the work of a machine—directed by a human mind. Humans loved order.

Someone had genetically modified the Blue Flu.

He picked up the receiver to the military-installed secure phone on his desk and dialed a number. The line buzzed once with a completely alien dial tone he had last heard ten years ago.

Hello? asked a voice.

This is Dr. Maurice Boatner. I need to talk to General Daniels.

Wait one. There was no sound that he had been placed on hold. There was nothing. The line seemed to go dead but for a series of clicks and chirps which announced that someone transferred the line to another secured phone.

Daniels.

Albert, I just got your data. Is this accurate?

Daniels sighed. "I wish it wasn't. Unfortunately, everything we've got points to one conclusion. I just needed to hear it from you."

I don't want to say it, but what I'm looking at is a weaponized form of The Pandemic strain.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs called it an act of war.

That gave Boatner pause. What do you mean? He glared at the screen. Albert, where were the samples collected?

The silence on the other end told him everything he needed to know. That information is classified, Dr. Boatner. Thank you for your assistance. Should we need further assistance, we will contact you. In the meantime, I suggest you take measures to make yourself scarce. Make sure you have enough supplies—

The lights flickered in the laboratory. Boatner gasped.

Maurice? Are you there? You okay?

Yes, yes—I’m fine, Albert—sorry, the lights in the lab just flickered. Seems we’re having a power outage here.

Maurice, it's only going to get worse. Remember—

Yes, I remember perfectly well what happened during The Pandemic. No history lesson is necessary.

The Great Pandemic—the Blue Flu. The virus so starved the body of oxygen cyanosis often set in and turned people a ghastly shade of blue. It started with their fingertips and ears, then the skin around the nose and eyes, and in severe cases, the legs and arms. Some victims turned such a deep indigo blue, doctors often mistook a victim as a person of color when in fact they were quite pale.

Boatner rubbed his eyes, trying to force the memories from his mind. But they just kept coming, kept dancing across his consciousness and forcing him to remember the horrible details of the world in the grip of influenza gone wild.

It had raged completely out of control and killed millions around the world. Great cities had been decimated not only The Pandemic, but by rioting and looting, and the opportunistic diseases that followed on its heels: cholera, dysentery, and hemorrhagic fever.

But this time? Would it be any different? Especially now that he knew someone had weaponized the Blue Flu?

General, I could be of a lot more assistance to you if you would tell me where the samples were collected. Did they come from an American? Is this the mystery flu they're talking about on TV?

Take care, Maurice. We’ll be in touch.

2

PRESIDENTIAL COMEBACK

Washington, D.C.

The White House

Presidential Emergency Operations Center

Post Apache Dawn

President Harold Barron stirred when he felt the warmth of Jayne’s body vanish. He groaned and rolled on his side. For a second, he was back in the infirmary, strapped to his bed, listening to Orren Harris’ speech. He looked at his wrist and relaxed. No thick leather held him in place now. Everything came back in a flood—the election, the promises he’d made to Jayne, the corruption, the guilt.

Then came the flu and President Denton had died. Then came Atlanta and hundreds of thousands of Americans had died.

Barron rubbed his eyes and tried to block out the memories. He remembered Jayne looking down at him as he lay on the floor, caught in a drug overdose she’d engineered. He remembered being wheeled to the underground infirmary and hearing news that Harris had decided to challenge his legitimacy as President.

How many days ago had it been since he’d been removed from the infirmary to ‘recover’ in his own bed? He recalled snippets of memories as he slept, woke, and slept some more. Jayne appeared, sometimes by the bed, sometimes in the bed. He tried to lick his lips—they were parched.

What time is it? he croaked.

The sheets stirred and cool air tickled his skin. The sound of Jayne's body sliding off the bed caused him to open his eyes.

She stood and stretched like a cat, the graceful arch of her back highlighted in the dim light. Her silhouette was perfection given form. She slowly opened her eyes and purred as she stretched her arms.

It's time for you to go back to bed, Mr. President.

I can't spend the rest of my life in bed, said the President. He reached out to her. Although… His hands tickled the inside of her thigh as he gently tugged her closer to the bed. Her smooth skin felt luxurious under his fingertips. You do make a very persuasive argument that one needs to spend more time in bed. The pressures of the Head of State are—

Enormous, said Jayne in a husky voice as she slipped her hand under the sheets.

The President rolled onto his back and closed his eyes with a sigh. If only every day could start this way…

No.

The harshness of his conscience startled him. No, it's the drugs she gives me. She doesn't care about me. She's after my power. The drugs keep me in this bed, keep me from saving the country. No…It's time I took back control.

The President slowly took Jayne's hand in his and pulled it out from under the sheet. His grip was firm, his mind resolute. You’re right, my dear. I'm the President. It's time I got back to business. There's a country that needs my help.

Jayne sat on the edge of the bed and regarded him through half-closed eyes. At length she sighed and began to run her fingers through her sleep-tangled hair. "Well, if you must. I scheduled a meeting with the Joint Chiefs in an hour. But I must say, it doesn't help me start the day off on the right foot when you turn down my attention…" She stood up and padded across the floor toward the bathroom.

The President sat up, the smile fading from his face as he watched the seductive sway of her hips when she entered the bathroom and closed the door.

That view has held me captive for far too long, he told himself. You tried to give me an overdose, my dear. You had me locked up in this bed for over a week. I let you take over the running of the government. I let you!

In a flash of anger, he threw off the sheets and moved to the exquisitely carved valet to get dressed, then paused. He glanced back at the bathroom door and heard Jayne turn on the shower. He imagined the warm water as it caressed her skin and dribbled down in little rivulets…

Well, I suppose I can’t tip my hand just yet. Wouldn't want to give you the impression that you have no power over me anymore…He walked over to the bathroom door with a smile on his face.

The President sank into his plush executive chair at the head of the polished conference table in the Ops Center, deep under the White House. He smiled. It was good to be back.

He glanced at Jayne, who sat demurely in a smaller version of his own chair to his right. She put on a show of being happy about his return to power, but the smile that graced her angelic face did not reach her eyes. There was something cold and calculating in there, he thought, something to be watched—something to be destroyed when the time was right.

In the meantime, he would continue to avail himself of her…expertise. He let his eyes linger on her chest and the smooth skin of her thighs, exposed by her minuscule leather skirt. Not exactly appropriate dress for the President's new Chief of Staff, but what did he care any more?

It's good to have you back, sir, said his newer, younger Secretary of Defense with a smile.

The President nodded. What the hell is your name? He stared at the clean-cut man across the conference table. He looked to be in his 40s, a clear departure from the standard, elder-statesman type that had previously occupied the position for decades. Haden Brooks. Yes. That’s it—Brooks.

The other faces depicted on large wall screens around the perimeter of the room echoed similar pleasantries. The President stared blankly at most of them. So many new faces—how did I let it get this bad?

He remembered firing the Joint Chiefs, but the last thing he could recall about that particular episode had been Jayne straddling him in the very chair in which he now sat. He gripped the armrests on his chair and looked down. Right here…

Indeed, said the image of the Chief of Staff of the Navy. Glad to have your hand back on the helm, Mr. President.

We'll see about that. So! the President said. He rubbed his hands together, I’ve been out for too long. Someone get me up to speed. I'm willing to bet you're not going to tell me that the crisis has been averted and everything is back to normal, are you, Haden?

Secretary Brooks shook his head. Unfortunately, no, Mr. President.

The President sighed and leaned back in his chair. For a split second, he was back in the shower with Jayne and could feel her dexterous fingers moving up and down his spine…

If anything, the crisis has worsened in your brief absence, said Brooks. If you'll take a look at the map on the wall… He gestured toward the far wall. The Presidential Seal disappeared and was replaced by a map of the western half of the United States. Angry red dots highlighted the major cities along the coast. San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego, Portland, and a host of smaller cities and towns.

These are the largest cities that the North Koreans have managed to occupy, at least in part.

Good God… mumbled the President. I've only been gone a week…

Yes, sir. Unfortunately, it appears that the extent of their advance has not been completely reported. We've only just been able to count on reliable—if weakened—communications via satellite. It's going to be quite some time before we’re fully up and combat effective. However, I'm not sure that would help, in any case.

How so? asked the President. Instinctively, his hands sought out Jayne's. The comforting squeeze of her supple fingers created an undeniable reaction elsewhere. Angrily, he forced himself to focus on what Brooks was saying. Old habits died hard.

…Koreans advancing so fast our people couldn’t get reports out via landlines. He shook his head. The speed of their advance is alarming—they drop their men in, roll through with fast-moving scouts, and scatter our civilians in front of them. Waves of refugees are heading east, creating chaos in unaffected cities and spreading the virus at the same time.

So they have control of the cities, said the President as he pointed at the map with his free hand. What's the extent of their advance? How much land do they actually control?

Secretary Brooks frowned. He pushed a button on his remote and the screen displayed a different map. A large swath of California and almost all of Oregon and Washington had been covered in red. The major cities and their suburbs have been swallowed up and we’ve been able to determine that checkpoints have been established along this border. As you can see, they've made significant gains—but the larger cities further inland are still secure. We just don’t know for how long. However, with the implementation of the ceasefire Ms. Renolds brokered—

Oh Haden, you're far too kind. That was entirely Vice President Hillsen, Jayne purred. She nodded gracefully in the direction of Sandra Hillsen. For her part, the former Senator from California only gave the barest hint of a nod in return.

Mr. President, if I may? asked the Air Force Chief of Staff and newly minted Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General John Vidua.

By all means, said the President. What’ve you got?

Leaving aside the fact that we have somehow agreed to a peace treaty—

Temporary ceasefire— interjected the Vice President. I am under no delusions that I have the power on my own to create a treaty binding on the United States.

Truce, ceasefire, treaty, call it whatever the hell you want, growled the general. We've agreed to let these sons of bitches actually control part of the United States. I fail to understand the logic in not wiping North Korea off the face of the Earth. Immediately.

The President cleared his throat and leaned forward a little. Wouldn’t China consider that an act of war?

They can consider it all they want, growled General Vidua.

The President sighed. You would not only have us fight what North Koreans we have in our own country, but start a war with the third most powerful military on the planet—right when we’ve been crippled by this flu?

China will not go to war against us, Mr. President, Vidua replied.

What kind of guarantees can you provide for that statement, General? asked the Vice President. Everyone in this room knows the Chinese have a close alliance with North Korea. It would be no different than if someone decided to invade Canada. China will be obligated to attack whoever attacks North Korea. The fact that they haven't done so already—even after we launched those B-2s against Pyongyang—shows the strength of our diplomatic ties with Beijing.

Bullshit! said the Chairman. The Chinese are nothing more than well-funded, cultured, terrorists. The only thing they recognize is brute force. Right now, we are showing neither.

Mr. President, said the Chief of Staff of the Navy, a gaunt, bird-like Vice Admiral James Price. We only have sporadic contact with most of the Navy. The loss of our satellite communications has been all but crippling. I can't guarantee how effective our surface warfare units will be if we enter into a long-term engagement with China. North Korea we can handle, but…

Oh hell, sighed Vidua. Not you, too?

Look, shot back Price, we don’t have secure comms with the fleet—if we sent them in half-cocked now, we could risk losing more than just our naval strength. Without the Fleet, we’ve got no close-in protection for the west coast…

Barron glanced at Jayne as the Chiefs of Staff devolved into a shouting match over whether or not to strike back at North Korea. She replied with an infinitesimal shrug of her shoulders. Even she wasn’t perfect when it came to selecting cabinet officials, it seemed. Some part of the President was actually glad for that.

John, you think I like this situation? asked Price. He spoke in a quiet voice but it carried unmistakable authority.

Gentlemen, please! intervened the Director of Health and Human Services, Sharon Mills, the high-pitched voice of the head of the Department of Health and Human Services. Mr. President, she said, no one will disagree that the North Korean presence represents a threat. Their position with China makes this whole situation all the more dangerous. However, we can't lose track of this flu—

Oh, come off it, Sharon! said the Chairman. This flu drama has been blown out of proportion. From what I can tell, it doesn't seem to be any more deadly than the seasonal flu we see every year.

That's not accurate, General and you know it!

All right people, settle down. Before I was…Before I took ill, the President said, I was under the impression that while serious, the mystery flu wasn’t exactly apocalyptic. It seemed like an awful lot of people caught it and got sick, but when you looked at the numbers, it was only the people who’d had no exposure to the Great Pandemic who’ve died.

Mr. President, said the image of the National Security Advisor, Assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, Maricella Sosa. Her face looked pinched and pale, a dramatic departure from normal. Americans are dying! They’re dying in greater numbers than they have since the Great Pandemic. Yes, it appears that the people who are most affected are those with no immunity to that particular strain—

And how many people is that, Maricella? Hell, damn near the entire world got sick ten years ago! snapped the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

Since this crisis began, we have lost over a thousand Americans! Assistant Sosa snapped back. We lose around 30,000 people a year to the seasonal flu. Over a thousand deaths in one week is way above normal. I don't know about you, General, but I don't consider losing that many Americans to a bio-weapon attack to be so inconsequential!

The President was aghast. A thousand! All right, everyone calm down. Where are we getting these numbers, Maricella?

The National Security Advisor shuffled her papers. We're relying mostly on self-reporting from the governors that we've been able to contact. That doesn't account for Texas, Florida, and a few of the New England states. We haven't heard anything from them since the beginning of the satellite issues.

And if this thing should happen to have an antigen shift—

Stop right there, Sharon, said the President. Do we have any evidence of that happening?

No, Mr. President, at this time we do not, interjected Vidua.

Based on the death toll, it seems likely it has. We need to be prepared to— began Assistant Sosa.

The President raised his hand for silence. Are we doing everything in our power—right now—to help those who are infected and contain the spread of the virus?

Yes, sir, I believe we are. Homeland Security has sent out as much information as they can to the governors for distribution to the general population. We've asked for bans on public gatherings, strongly suggested people stay in their homes, encouraged people to avoid traveling…

So basically we’re just re-instituting everything we tried during the Great Pandemic? asked the President.

Yes, sir. At this point, what we did in the later stages of The Pandemic is probably the best course of action. We think shutting down public gatherings and keeping people in their homes stopped the spread of the flu ten years ago—

I know it was too-little, too-late back then, but this time we're ready for it and we have everything in place, added Director Mills.

Except the vaccine, grumbled Vidua. Funny how the CDC is suddenly out of commission right when we need them the most.

What are you suggesting, General? asked Assistant Sosa.

The President clenched his jaw. Atlanta. The greatest catastrophe—manmade or natural—in American history and his bloody fingerprints were all over it.

I think it’s clear, the President said in an effort to redirect the conversation, that we’re doing everything possible to combat the flu. That said, I believe the North Korean problem should be our highest priority right now.

Thank you, sir, said Vidua. Now, if you'd like, I have some recommendations—

Jayne cleared her throat and the room fell silent. All eyes shifted to her. A rising wave of irritation struggled to burst forth from the President, but he clamped down on it—he hoped—without revealing his inner turmoil.

He was the President of the United States. Someone making a simple sound such as clearing her throat should not bring a heated debate between high-level cabinet members to a screeching halt. He glanced at Jayne and saw the delicate painted nails pressed to her lips as if she were genuinely surprised that everyone had fallen silent.

At her command.

I don't mean to interrupt, she said sweetly, but it just seems to me that while the flu is a pressing matter and the Koreans are a problem, we can't lose sight of what's going on throughout the rest of the country.

Madam Chief of Staff, began Price, if you're referring to your martial law request—

Indeed I am. I tasked you gentlemen with creating action plans. I’d like to know if you followed through on my request?

The President arched an eyebrow at Jayne. She merely smiled.

I've had my people do some looking into your requests, said Secretary Brooks. He pulled a paper from his briefcase and slid it across to the President. As you can see, sir, the legality of using American troops to enforce martial law is at best questionable. At worst, it's a gross violation of the Constitution—

Oh, gasped Jayne, you mean that antiquated document that was invalidated and suspended by order of President Barron? She put a hand on the President's arm. I thought we were beyond all this?

Secretary Brooks cleared his throat. Yes, well, we've done some research…and discovered that should you in fact give that order, sir, we might be facing a significant revolt from inside the military. Quite frankly, I'm worried that we would be able to enforce any law after that. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. We're seeing some heavy defection rates from the Army…

And don't forget that almost the entire Marine Corps has switched sides, said Price. It's disgraceful and I never would have guessed that Rykker would have turned traitor, but there you have it…

Gentlemen, this is all the more reason we need to enforce the martial law decree, and do it now, Jayne said. She leaned over the table, exposing her assets for the cameras. The President saw the immediate effect. Vidua flushed with color and Price averted his eyes. Secretary Brooks, easily the youngest man in the room, stared unabashedly at Jayne's chest.

There will be no need to use the military in this capacity.

That was more like it. He’d hardly spoken louder than a whisper, yet the room fell completely silent. He had everyone’s attention. That's right, I'm the President of the United States. When I speak, you shut the fuck up and listen. I'm the one who makes the rules here, not her. Not anymore.

I seem to recall issuing an Executive Order a while back that placed all of the security forces of the various agencies of the federal government under my direct control.

Yes, my love, but— Jayne said in a tremulous voice as she squeezed his hand.

The President continued without pause. I suggest it's time we use them. I want to avoid any entanglements with the Constitution—I know, I know, he said with a raised hand, "I'm the one who signed the Executive Order suspending the Constitution and granting near-sovereign rights to the United Nations—but that doesn't mean that solution is permanent.

I have every intention of restoring the Constitution in my term of office. I see no reason to anger any further our more conservative citizens by declaring martial law. Even though it's good for the country and quite possibly necessary for our survival. There's no point in making the reconciliation all the more difficult when we get past this mess. Is there?

No one said a word. Jayne squeezed his hand. Suddenly her touch felt repulsive. Her squeeze, most assuredly meant to convey comfort or to warn him to back off, felt nothing more than a desperate attempt to regain control. He removed his hand from hers and placed it on the table. I asked a question people. I expect an answer.

Oh, said Assistant Sosa, of course not, sir. I think your idea has merit—especially in terms of maintaining what law and order we can during this crisis.

General Vidua sighed. "Well, I for one can't say that I'm upset about avoiding conflicts over the whole posse comitatus problem. We have few enough people who are loyal to us at the moment to worry about trying to police the entire country. I think it's a good idea, sir."

Absolutely, said Admiral Price.

The Chief of Staff of the Army, Major General Eugene Kuhlman looked relieved. Of course. The agency security forces have seen a lot more day-to-day contact with the public lately. More so than the military. Let them handle it.

But… stammered Jayne. Even in peacetime, federal agencies hate each other. Look at the FBI and the CIA. They can't get along under the best of circumstances—how are we going to force them all to cooperate now?

The President turned and regarded Jayne with a cool gaze. Well my dear, for starters, because I said so. He had to force himself not to smile at Jayne’s consternation. It only lasted for a split second, but it was there and he’d seen it—the first chink in her armor.

Well, yes, of course… she said, her eyes suddenly downcast. What I meant was—

On top of that, the President said, turning his attention back to the Joint Chiefs and his cabinet officials, it's already the law, thanks to my Executive Order. What we need now is someone to enforce the law. Like…a security czar.

A czar, sir? We have hundreds of those—they've never done anything worthwhile in the past. It's just a title, grumbled Jayne.

Well, this one needs to be different, then. This one needs to have real authority, real power. The President leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin in thought. He ignored the banter as the cabinet argued how best to proceed.

He could feel Jayne watching him. He’d never defied her before, let alone in public. Ever. Her very presence was intoxicating and commanded him to obey.

President Barron refused to look at her. He refused to remember the pleasure that she provided. Her naked body flashed unbidden through his mind.

With a newfound resolve and strength of will, he slammed the door shut on his memories. He was the President of the United States and by God, he was going to start acting like it. Jayne and Reginald had played their game—they’d played him for a fool and nearly broken him. Now it was his turn.

"I'm going to appoint someone