J. D. Rothery took the call on his cell phone as his driver turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue and approached the entrance to the White House. The caller was Tony Warner, and the NSA man had an update for him on the efforts of the big pharmaceutical companies in their quest to find an answer to the virus.
“Be quick, Tony,” J. D. said. “I’ve got about two minutes, then I’m on the hot seat in the Oval Office. For some reason, the president wants to hear the latest directly from me.”
“Okay, I’ll be fast. The news is not entirely bad. Three of the companies we got packages out to have had some success identifying the nucleic acid genome inside the capsid. One of the three has already isolated the envelope.”
“What’s an envelope?” J. D. said, scratching notes as the car pulled up to the main security gate. “I’m not a viral specialist, but I’ve got to know what this terminology means when I pass this information along to the president.”
“Some viruses are encapsulated with an envelope, which is a membrane of virus-encoded proteins, with either DNA or RNA genomes. Identifying these genomes is crucial to finding a drug that can penetrate the membrane.” “So how close is this company to finding a drug that might work against the virus?”
“No idea at this point, but the CEO is positive they’re on the right track. He thinks this virus is beatable, not like Ebola.”
“That’s excellent news, Tony. Which company is it?”
“GlasoKlan. I’ve been speaking directly with Eric Stallworth, the head of North American operations, and he thinks this is doable.”
The car passed through the security checkpoint and drove slowly along the winding drive toward the White House. “Call Stallworth and ask him to be near the phone in case the president wants to speak with him.”
“Okay. Here’s Stallworth’s number at the office.” Warner recited the number to the CEO’s direct line, which bypassed the automated voice mail that answered incoming calls.
“You said there were three companies having success with the virus. Which are the other two?”
“Marcon and Beringer Ingels. Both are major players in the pharmaceutical business.”
“I know who they are,” Rothery snapped, immediately wishing he could have the comment back.
“Anything else?” Warner asked, his voice cool.
“No, just keep me in the loop with their progress.”
“Good luck with the president.”
“Thanks. Stay next to your phone in case I need to patch the president through. He may want to speak with you directly for an update from NSA.”
“Okay,” Tony said, his voice back to normal. The line went dead.
J. D. Rothery exited the car clutching his leather attache case. He was ushered through security, joined by two serious-looking secret service agents, and whisked down the wide hallway toward the Oval Office. There was an urgency to their stride, and Rothery was pressed to keep up with them. He reached the outer door of the nation’s most hallowed sanctuary and stood quietly as they got clearance to enter. One of the
agents touched his earpiece, then turned to him and asked, “Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Rothery said. How could you ever be ready to face the president with the news that a lethal, contagious virus was being unleashed on the nation by an unknown enemy? The door opened, and he followed the agents into the room.