“It could be just some kind of statistical aberration,” Jenna offered.
“Maybe,” I said skeptically, my voice trailing off as ideas bounced around. “Okay, there are three crazy things about lurking viruses that we can’t explain.”
“And they are?”
“First, the virus infects humans for no particular reason. Humans don’t spread it, so there is no obvious advantage to the virus from infecting humans.”
“Okay.”
“Second, the virus is benign most of the time, then suddenly virulent, for no obvious reason.”
“Right. And third?”
“The virus is somehow more likely to be benign when the vector—the dust mite—is still present.”
“None of it makes any sense,” Jenna said.
“Maybe they make sense together,” I suggested. “That’s the Huke final exam question: How do these things make sense together?”
Jenna laughed. “Except we never got the required reading.”
“Then we’ll just have to figure it out,” I said.
We began tossing around ideas and theories. Eventually the time drew near for the President’s statement.
“Shall I stream it?” I asked.
60.
THE COMMUNICATIONS DIRECTOR HAD ISSUED SPECIFIC instructions to the traveling press corps: a handful of print reporters were to stay on board Air Force One; the cameras were to be on the tarmac, presumably because the President would be making his statement from the stairs of the plane, or on the tarmac. The print reporters balked at being told to stay on the plane. The Home Depot Media correspondent demanded to get off. “You can do whatever you want,” the Communications Director told him. “But if you get off the plane, you’re not getting back on. Anything the President says will be piped back here in the cabin, so you’ll hear it in real time. Trust me on this one.” By and large the press corps did trust him, something he had earned over time. The Communications Director could parry and obfuscate with the best of them, but he was never overtly dishonest. He had been a political reporter and an international correspondent for nearly twenty years, mostly television, before the President had tapped him to cross to the “dark side.” Reporters were always skeptical of paid flacks, but at least the Communications Director was a former member of their guild.
The television cameras were lined up on the tarmac, awaiting the President’s appearance. The front door to Air Force One remained closed. There was no staircase in place. “Why isn’t the front door open?” a CNN cameraman asked a low-level staffer who’d been left behind on the tarmac with the cranky reporters.
“There will be a statement in ten minutes,” the staffer answered. Shortly after that, the staircase at the rear of the plane was wheeled away and the door was closed.
“You better not screw us on this,” the CNN cameraman growled. The other members of the press were growing similarly concerned.
“Just make sure you’re recording,” the staffer said loud enough for all the camera crews arrayed on the tarmac to hear. “I promise you will get what you want.” There was a whir as the engines on Air Force One came to life and the plane began to move forward. On board, the Captain instructed the passengers to fasten their seat belts. The press corps began texting and calling one another frantically, trying to assess what was happening. What about the President’s statement? A Reuters reporter on the tarmac threw his headphones to the ground in fury, screaming about the perfidy of the Communications Director, the President, the pilot, and everyone else associated with this dirty trick.
“I promise you that if you stand here and pay attention, you’re going to get the story,” the staffer said calmly. He was convincing enough that most of the reporters turned their attention back to Air Force One, which was taxiing steadily away from them.
“I’ve got plenty of stock footage of Air Force One taking off,” the CNN cameraman said angrily. “Now how the hell am I supposed to get back to Washington?” The staffer ignored the chorus of complaints. When Air Force One reached the end of the runway, the plane turned slowly, preparing to take off past the reporters into a gentle breeze. The camera crews focused on the plane, trying to make the best of what little they were being offered. The 747 accelerated steadily, the front wheels leaving the ground right as the plane passed the press corps arrayed on the tarmac. Seconds later, Air Force One was aloft.
“Whooptie-fucking-doo,” a Home Depot Media camerawoman yelled.
“Don’t stop filming,” the staffer said. Once again, something about his tone was convincing. The camera operators focused on the plane as it ascended away from the airport. Roughly ten seconds later, Air Force One banked sharply and began a slow 180-degree turn back toward the airport. The plane, still flying relatively low, passed over the assembled press corps, who stared at the hulking jet in confusion. As the plane flew overhead, ostentatiously low, an AP reporter suddenly grasped what was happening. “Which way is west?” she yelled to no one in particular. “Which way is west!”
The camera operators looked to the staffer, who pointed toward Air Force One as it flew away from them. “That way is west.”
“Holy fuck!” the CNN cameraman yelled. “He’s flying west! He’s flying west!” As the cameras focused on Air Force One, the plane climbed steeply, the roar of the engines drowning out the yells of the reporters capturing the moment.
On board Air Force One, the Captain made his now-famous announcement, “Ladies and gentlemen, please make yourselves comfortable. We will be touching down in Canberra, Australia, in approximately ten hours.” The effect was electric as reporters scrambled to report what was happening. In Washington, where I was watching all of this on my phone from a bench on the Capitol Mall, it was opening day for the Washington Nationals, who were playing the Atlanta Braves. There were two outs in the bottom of the third inning (the Nationals at bat), when the game was halted temporarily. The home plate umpire signaled a pause; the Braves pitcher stepped off the mound, perplexed.
The stadium’s PA system boomed to life with the familiar voice of the Nationals’ home announcer: “Ladies and gentlemen, please excuse this interruption.” There was a scattering of boos as fans protested the break in the action. “We have just been informed that three minutes ago the President of the United States took off from Honolulu…” The announcer paused slightly for dramatic effect, after which he articulated each word slowly and forcefully. “Air Force One is currently westbound, headed for Canberra, Australia.” There was a short silence as the crowd processed what they had been told, and then a sustained, visceral cheer. In a gesture that has now become synonymous with the moment, the Braves pitcher turned slowly toward center field and pointed at the American flag.
In Seattle, where hundreds of people had gathered outside the hospital where Cecelia Dodds now lay in intensive care, a murmur went through the crowd. Most had not gathered in protest, but rather to honor her life and acknowledge her sacrifice. Still, when the news of Air Force One’s westward departure spread quickly through the crowd, there were cries of shock. “He just pulled the plug on her!” someone yelled. That was not an accurate description of what had happened—but it was not wholly inaccurate, either. Time was running out: for Cecelia Dodds and for thousands of others.
We have no information on the reaction in Beijing, but one can easily infer that President Xing had seen enough westerns to know what had just happened to him.