The HHS secretary picked up her coffee from the side table. The bone-white mug bore the seal of the president.
“I have a team made up of people from CDC, FDA, and the Immunization Safety Office on the way to Fukuoka, Mr. President. If they find the Japanese do have a viable vaccine, they’ll start the necessary testing.”
“Let’s say their science works,” Clark said. “How long are we talking for FDA approval?”
Secretary Kapoor took a deep breath. “Approvals, with all the attendant trials and such, can take as long as ten years, sir — but I’m hopeful we can get this done in six months—”
“Six months?” Clark snapped. “That’s just not going to work. Didn’t we help China get a swine flu vaccine up and running in a couple of months?”
“True,” Kapoor said. “But that was a special case.”
The president raised a hand to show that he wasn’t interested in excuses. “Everyone who has contracted this disease has eventually died. Is that correct?”
“It’s still too early yet for us to tell with the cases that have presented in the U.S., sir,” Kapoor said. “They’re too new. But mortality in Japan was one hundred percent of those affected, yes.”
Clark stood with the groan of a much older man. He turned to look out the windows at the Rose Garden as he spoke. “I have to address the American people in four days. By that time, it seems to be an absolute certainty that some of the infected souls in our country will have perished. I am not about to tell their families we have a possible vaccine but need time to run more tests.”
“With respect, sir,” Kapoor said, “I would urge restraint. My information says the vaccine that Japan has developed is an attenuated virus.”
“Speak English, dammit!” Filson grumped.
Kappor sighed. “That means the bugs are weakened but still very much alive. Live-virus vaccines are tricky things. Even if this Japanese company has developed one that works, it will take time to grow it for mass implementation.”
“We don’t have to immunize everyone right off the bat,” Sec Def Filson mused, looking at the president. “Just the military and first responders. That would send a signal—”
“I’m aware of the country’s vaccination plan, Andrew,” Kapoor said.
“Pompous or not,” Clark said, “Secretary Filson is right about one thing. The American people need some sort of hope of a vaccine — even if it’s on the horizon. They must be told we are implementing a plan as fast as humanly possible. Neither they nor I have any stomach for bureaucracy—”
Palmer’s cell buzzed. Clark nodded for him to take it, then went back to his discussion with the Cabinet secretaries. He believed wholeheartedly that world-saving ideas sprang from a healthy debate.
Millie, Palmer’s dutiful secretary, was frantic on the other end of the line. Her excitement was infectious, and Palmer found himself gritting his teeth as she spoke.
Quinn’s driver’s license and license plate had been flagged as soon as he started working for Palmer, so his office was alerted if anyone ever ran a check. When Fairfax County had stopped Quinn’s bike and run the plate, the first flag had pinged the system. Millie had called Fairfax County and gotten the gist of the story as it unfolded, giving it to Palmer moments later.
Palmer cleared his throat.
“What is it, Win?” Clark said. You look like you could use some Maalox.” Clark had known him long enough to realize that if he interrupted the president, Winfield Palmer had important information.
“I apologize, sir,” Palmer said. “I must ask to be excused.”
CHAPTER 26
Brakes squealed and tires crunched on gravel as a half dozen patrol cars and two unmarked sedans converged on Quinn from both directions. Doors swung open like a phalanx of Greek shields, and an army of police officers bailed out, bristling with weapons, all of which were pointed at him.
“Hands! Hands! Hands!” a gruff voice shouted.
Crazed barking came from behind Quinn as he let the Sig clatter to the street. A half breath later, he heard the thump of loping paws on pavement and wheeled in time to see a snarling Belgian Malinois leap toward him in a brindle flash of teeth and angry yellow eyes. The dog and officers alike were all hungry for a piece of anyone who would dare to harm one of their own.
Quinn raised his left arm in time to give the dog a viable target, hoping the responding officers’ desire to see him mauled outweighed their urge to shoot him. Even through the thick Transit leather, it felt as if a refrigerator had been dropped on his forearm. The dog grabbed a mouthful of leather and pliable crash armor, pinching his arm just below the elbow. It was a solid hold. Quinn kept his tone soft and unthreatening. Saying “good boy” and “good job.” The animal shook its head back and forth, but Quinn stayed with it, mimicking the actions of training with a bite sleeve. The last thing he wanted was for the dog to try to establish a different hold that might not be as protected.
After what seemed like an eternity, the handler shouted a command in Dutch. Front paws on his chest, the Malinois eyed Quinn a moment longer, shook him once more for good measure, then disengaged to drop onto the pavement. The handler moved in to take the trailing leash.
An instant later, someone the size of a college linebacker plowed into Quinn from the side, shoving him into the pavement and grinding his face into the gravel. It was all Quinn could do not to fight back, but these first responders were looking at a bloody scene involving someone they knew. Until he was in handcuffs, there was too big a risk one of them would shoot him.
Quinn caught the acid stench of vomit on the air where one of them had already thrown up at the sight of Officer Chin. Head wounds from a large-caliber weapon were not nearly so clean and neat as they were portrayed on the big screen. Amped by the sight of a violent encounter and the death of a friend, there was still the distinct possibility they’d shoot Quinn even after he was in custody.
A muscular young officer with spit-shined boots and a tight uniform shirt cut to accentuate the V of his back put a knee between Quinn’s shoulder blades and patted him down for weapons. He shouted “gun!” when he saw the tiny Beretta and “knife!” when he found the CRKT Hissatsu in the scabbard along Quinn’s spine.
The Malinois whined on the sidelines, hungry for a second bite.
Another beefy officer, this one older, with short, salt-and-pepper hair walked up and toed Quinn’s jaw with a black leather boot. The officer studied him for some time as if trying to decide whether or not to kick out his teeth.
“Mason, get this guy out of my sight,” the older officer said. The plate on his uniform said his name was Kincaid. “We’ll let CSU get here to secure the scene before we take him in. It’ll do him good to sit on his hands a bit.” Kincaid let his eyes fall to Officer Chin’s body. He shook his head sadly and then planted the toe of his boot squarely in Quinn’s ribs.
Quinn tried to roll with the kick, but handcuffed and on his belly there was nowhere to go. He groaned, bracing himself for another.
“I’m not going to waste my time,” the officer said, and walked away.
The streets had rained law enforcement shortly after the first police officers on scene threw Quinn in the back of their patrol car. Everyone that walked by gave him a glare that said they’d be all too happy to carve out his liver. He couldn’t blame them. Their friend, a fellow officer, had been murdered in an extremely violent way. Her dead body remained in the middle of the street, just as she had fallen, uncovered and vulnerable until crime scene investigators could get there to gather evidence.