“That sucks,” Clark said.
“That it does, sir. But Sheriff Young appears to be up to the task. His men are on their public address system now advising citizens to practice social distancing, keeping away from each other, not going to stores, basically just staying home. Biggest problem will be foreign tourists coming and going to Zion National Park and Lake Powell, which are both nearby. Some are bound to be trapped within the perimeter, so they might have issues.”
The president leaned back in his soft leather chair. “The last thing we need is some poor kid with the Guard having to use force to keep a group of Austrian hikers under quarantine.” He shot an accusing eye at his National Security Advisor. “How was Miss’s mood this morning?”
Miss was Melissa Ryan, the fifty-two-year-old brunette bombshell who saw Palmer romantically at least three times a week — and also happened to be the Secretary of State. They were together so often, their security details often melded into one at public events, though his was Secret Service and hers was Department of State, Diplomatic Security. An incredibly savvy diplomat and media darling, Ryan was considered a favorite for president once Clark’s run was over.
“I’m sure she’s fine, Mr. President,” Palmer said, trying to look innocent. “But she’s in Mexico at the free trade summit.”
“Get her back here as soon as you can,” Clark said. “This thing has the potential to turn ugly in a heartbeat. We have any idea how it started?”
Palmer shook his head and gave the answer he most hated giving his boss. “We don’t know yet. CDC has a specialist en route from Salt Lake. So far, I’m hearing of just a few isolated cases worldwide. England has three with two university students near Bradford and a housewife in Harrogate. Italy reports one case, and there are two in Germany. The Ministry of Health in Japan says they had five cases near Kyoto several months ago. In fact, it looks like Japan had the earliest appearance of the disease. All were fatal, but they appear to have it contained with no further outbreak.”
“Have they talked border closure?”
“It’s being discussed, I’m sure,” Palmer said. “But so far, everyone is just increasing screening at immigration points.”
“Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that.” Clark’s eyes narrowed. “Shutting borders means stopping trade, and that would knock the legs out from under world markets. With the present economy we might not recover. Seems an odd coincidence that all the affected countries are friends of ours. Have we ruled out bioterrorism?”
“We have not,” Palmer said.
“I guarantee you, Win,” Clark mused, “Andrew Filson will have his ass here inside the hour, screaming at me to carpet bomb Europe, Japan, and the entire state of Utah.”
Palmer would have chuckled but for the seriousness of the situation. Secretary of Defense Andrew Filson saw a terrorist behind every tree both at home and abroad. Sadly, his hawkish fears often turned out to be warranted. The Sec Def invoked a sort of broad-target spray-and-pray strategy when it came to counterterrorism. Clark appreciated diverse thought, even encouraging healthy arguments among his Cabinet. Thankfully, he was prone to listen to more tempered ideas than Filson’s and allowed Palmer to use certain assets to handle things with a more surgical precision than carpet bombing.
“I wish I could disagree with—” Palmer’s cell phone rang. He looked at the president before answering it.
“Go ahead,” Clark said.
Palmer picked up. It was his secretary, Millie. His face blanched at her news.
“I understand,” he said, feeling the need to sit down.
“Of course. Bring it all in if you don’t mind.”
He hung up, wheels turning in his head, looking for the next move.
Clark dropped the Mont Blanc on the desk blotter and held up both hands. “So?” he asked. “Are you going to make me guess?”
“Twenty-two more plague cases have been reported to the CDC. Nine in Henderson, Nevada, and five in Mesquite, just over the border from Utah.”
“That’s fourteen.” The president frowned, obviously sensing more bad news. “What about the other eight?”
Palmer held his phone ready to dial, knowing full well who he had to call next. “The other cases are in Afghanistan, Mr. President. All of them at Bagram.”
“Shit!” Clark said, slamming the flat of his hand on the desk. “Okay, you see what’s going on with CDC and the new U.S. locations. I’ll try and keep Andrew from nuking everything in Afghanistan that’s not Bagram.”
“Very well, sir,” Palmer said. “Considering what we’re seeing over here, I suggest you give the order to quarantine the base.”
“Noted.” President Clark rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “This is really something,” he said. “Just days until I address Congress and the nation. What am I supposed to say? ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the state of the union is… infected.’ ”
“There may be one bright spot on the horizon,” Palmer said. “Japan was well ahead of us in their outbreak. Ambassador Pennington says a pharmaceutical company over there appears to be making potential inroads on a vaccine.”
CHAPTER 23
More than almost anything in the world, Isamu Watanabe wanted to be in charge. Slender and baby-faced, he went out of his way to dress in conservative suits, kept his hair short and businesslike — combed up in front, just like the boss. But it didn’t matter, none of those senior to him ever thought of him as an adult. He was tired of groveling to men like Masamoto — men who had no more good sense than a ginko nut but who had risen through the ranks simply because they had not been killed. The same age as Watanabe at thirty-two, Masamoto was still sempai—senior man. There was nothing to be done about it but be patient and hope the boss saw everyone for what they really had to offer rather than just seniority.
“You wait outside by the door while I go in,” Masamoto said, half barking the command as if he was already the boss himself. If the stubby, thickheaded yakuza was good for anything, it was as an example of what not to be.
“As you wish, but I think it would be better if we went in together,” Watanabe said, keeping his voice even, slightly subservient. “There is strength in numbers. The entire board will be present. It might not be a bad idea if there were at least two of us.”
“Maybe.” Masamoto began to rethink his plan.
Watanabe set his jaw, struggling to keep from saying what was on his mind. Yanagi Pharmaceuticals was a powerful enterprise, well established and respected. Such companies considered their honor and dignity to be sacrosanct. Anything that might prove damaging to a clean reputation could mar public confidence and hurt the bottom line. Loss of company face was to be avoided at all costs.
New national laws had made it illegal for anyone to do business with the yakuza and rendered many of their operations defunct or teetering on bankruptcy. This, however, was a tried-and-true yakuza scheme. Present the damning evidence to the board and offer them silence for a position in the company and protection money in the form of dividends. Still, it required finesse to pull such a thing off, finesse that Masamoto did not possess.