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SEA OF SHADOWS 49
“No, sir. He’s in Seattle for the latest round of World Trade
Organization negotiations. At least, he was in Seattle. He’s probably in
the air by now, on his way back here.”
“I’m sure he is,” the president said. “Okay, we’re following our SOP,
for the moment at least. Is it any good?”
Chapman sighed. “We don’t really know, sir. It looks great on paper,
and it’s played pretty well in training exercises. I guess we’re about to
find out how well it works in real life.”
“Looks like it,” the president said. “What have we done so far?”
“Sir, step one is to notify the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of
Infectious Diseases and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.
That’s already been done. USAMRIID is working on airlifting in a
biohazard response team from Fort Detrick, and CDC is sending us a
couple of advisors. No ETA on either team yet, but they’re shaking a leg.”
“Okay,” the president said. “What’s step two?”
“Emergency Services evacuates a three-block radius around the attack
site. That’s already in progress. As soon as the initial evacuation is
complete, they will extend the evacuation zone to five blocks in the area
downwind from the attack site, to create a buffer zone for wind-borne
contamination.
“Step three is to get a medical team into the embassy—in biohazard
suits, of course—to rescue and treat survivors. The British deputy chief of
mission has already given us permission to enter the building.”
“We have a medical facility standing by to receive the victims?”
“Yes, sir. The infectious disease isolation units at Walter Reed are
equipped and trained for this sort of scenario. They’ll have to ramp up
their staff, but they’re already recalling off-duty personnel. I’ve
authorized them to draw from other military medical facilities in the area
to augment as needed.”
The president looked out the window. The flight to the Marine
barracks at Eighth and I was little more than a hop. They were already
descending toward the helicopter pad. “I’ll be on the ground in a couple of
minutes,” he said. “I’m going to have to call the prime minister before too
much longer to extend my condolences and to make a formal offer of
support. I don’t envy whoever did this.”
“I don’t either, Mr. President,” Chapman said. “Prime Minster Irons
isn’t going to rest until she tracks down every last one of them and nails
them to a tree.”
The president nodded. That wasn’t much of an exaggeration. Emily
Irons, better known to political satirists as “Iron-Balls Emily,” was widely
regarded as the least tolerant and most volatile prime minister Britain had