The Decision

A short story

Photo by Massimo Virgilio on Unsplash

“I’m sorry, Madam President, but there’s no time to get dressed,” Melissa Gibson’s national security advisor said as he handed her a maroon bathrobe embossed with the presidential seal. He panted from having run across the White House. 

Light from the overhead chandelier bathed the presidential bedroom in a soft yellow hue. As President Gibson donned her robe, her husband, Henry, retrieved the book from his nightstand. He propped himself against a pillow. He knew better than to ask, “What’s happening?” amid an apparent crisis. 

An aide who had accompanied the National Security Advisor handed the president a mug of coffee. Steam fogged the president’s glasses.

Gibson took a sip. “What time is it?”

“4:04 a.m.”

“What’s happening, Charlie?” Gibson passed the mug back to her aide. She slid her feet into her slippers. 

“This way, Madam President.” National Security Advisor Charlie Ito tucked his iPad under his arm and extended the other to the bedroom door. “I’ll brief you on the way to the Oval.”

As they exited the bedroom, the First Gentleman said, “Good luck with whatever it is, Mel. Tell me what you can when it’s all over.” 

Gibson smiled at her husband. “Go back to bed. At least one of us should get as close to a full night’s sleep as this forsaken job allows. See you at breakfast, sweetheart.” She then turned back to Ito. “Why are we going to the Oval Office? Aren't middle-of-the-night crises managed from the Situation Room?” 

Two Secret Service agents flanked them as they headed toward the elevators. Lincoln

“Ordinarily, yes, but the Oval Office is closer, and we’re operating on a tight time frame. Everyone’s waiting for you there: SecDef, Joint Chiefs, NSA Director, Homeland Secretary, Secretary of State, NRC Chair, FEMA head. Vice-President Morrison is in Milwaukee, however.” Ito drew in a long breath and held it for a beat. “Two hours ago, at 1:55 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, we received details from the London CIA Station of a viral outbreak in central London.”

As the elevator doors closed, Gibson asked, “NRC director Lincoln? What does the Nuclear Regulatory Commission have to do with a viral outbreak in London?”

“I’ll get to that in a moment, Madam President. The virus is fast-spreading, faster than any pathogen we’ve seen, going from exposure to infection in under three minutes. It has a mortality rate of between ninety and ninety-five percent and kills in under fifteen minutes.” He shook his head. “The Sudan strain of Ebola has a mortality rate of only seventy-one percent, but unlike the London virus, Ebola spreads reluctantly, infecting only one point eight people for everyone who’s sick. Somebody who has measles, which only kills one in a thousand who aren’t vaccinated, will infect eighteen people. Anyone with the new London virus will infect another one hundred individuals, making it the most transmissible virus. Combine that infectiousness with its lethality, and we have a global problem of unprecedented proportion.”

“Why am I learning about this now?” 

“We needed to gather intelligence before presenting you with the decision options.” 

"Continue."

“Our first indication of something wrong came yesterday morning when BBC news reported a mass casualty event at The Royal London Hospital. Five hundred one of the hospital’s 845 beds were occupied at the time. Four-hundred-and-five patients died between approximately 7 a.m. and 9 a.m., along with over three hundred staff members.”

“Nerve gas?”

“We first suspected VX or Sarin because nothing else can kill so many people so quickly that not a bomb. Both nerve agents are lethal within minutes, which was consistent with the information we had at the time. But we quickly ruled out nerve gas or other chemical weapon.”

“Why is that?”

“Because people were dying in nearby clinics, too. Nerve agents rapidly dissipate, becoming less lethal with distance. If it were a terrorist, they would attack a hospital, possibly two, but not multiple small clinics. As of an hour ago, nineteen other hospitals and clinics reported large spikes in patients and death.”

A Secret Service agent held the Oval Office door open. Twenty-three people crammed into the president's office. Some had paired off into vigorous debates, while others conferred in groups of three or four, and a few studied their tablets. About a quarter wore military uniforms. 

“What makes you sure it’s a virus?” Gibson asked as she crossed the transom. The buzz of conversations stopped the moment she appeared.

“Embassy personnel examined the blood of eight deceased individuals at the London Hospital and four from smaller clinics, Madam President.” CIA Director Siena Ward took two steps toward her. “We sequenced the DNA from those twelve patients and identified the same virus in each of them.”

“You did all of that in a handful of hours?”

“Yes.”

“What about the Embassy staff? How are they?”

“This morning, there were 1,225 people working at the United States Embassy in London. Only sixty-two are still alive. The ambassador, deputy ambassador, CIA station chief, and deputy chief, along with most of our agents and staff—they’re dead.”

“I can’t believe this,” the president said. Ambassador Harold Chapin had been her best friend since Brown. He’s gone, almost everyone at the embassy is gone.

“The virus kills phenomenally fast,'' Ward added. 

“How does this virus kill?” 

Ward pivoted toward William Talbot, the Director of the National Institutes of Health. “Madam President,” Talbot said. “We don’t know for sure because we have been unable to perform autopsies. But we do know from video recordings that all the victims exhibit the same symptoms: their arms and legs quiver, followed by their torsos shaking violently. Their pupils dilate, and in a few moments they collapse. After a short time, ranging from three to ten minutes, they stop breathing. We assume that’s the moment of death. From the videos, we have determined that the cause of death is not a heart attack. We suspect that the virus crosses the blood-brain barrier and disrupts neurological activity to the extent that death results.”

“Oh my god.” She walked over to the Resolute Desk, sat, and folded her hands. “Where did this virus come from?”

“We don’t know,” said the NIH Director. 

“What can you tell me about this virus?” the president snapped. 

“Analysis shows a genetic code that allows it to evade the innate immune system completely, humans first line of defense against pathogens. Because it is a hyper-fast pathogen, the adaptive immune system does not have time to respond. In short, it kills us faster than we can kill it. We’ve never seen a virus as flawless and ruthless.”

“What’s the British Government doing?”

“Nothing yet other than quarantining The Royal London Hospital.” Secretary of State Gardner sat on the side of the couch closest to the president. He removed his glasses and cleared his throat. “They know there’s a contagious viral outbreak, but they don't know how bad it is. They haven’t sequenced the virus.” 

Potus raised an eyebrow. 

“Our equipment is more advanced,” Gardner said. “Plus, we have—had—a CDC Global Health Officer at the embassy.”

“Have you informed the British Government about what we know?”

National Security Advisor Ito replied, “No. And that’s part of the problem.”

“Explain.”

“The British will figure this out, maybe in a couple of hours, possibly sooner. When they understand the nature of this virus, they’ll order a city-wide lockdown. However, at this stage of the epidemic, a lockdown would be counterproductive. If the British initiate a lockdown, it’s likely that a large number of Londoners will try to leave the city, spreading the virus beyond the point of containment. Or when the British press connects the dots, and they will soon, it’s game over. People will panic. Some will run to pharmacies for masks, while others will simply run. Containment will fail.”

“Containment? Do you mean there’s a way to stop this?” Gibson felt a twinge of optimism.  

“There’s one way.” Air Force General Ami McIsaac’s powerful voice echoed off the walls. 

McIsaac, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, stood with her back straight, her eyes locked with the president’s. “We destroy London with a thermonuclear bomb.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Madam President, the only way to ensure that the virus does not spread beyond the London area is to cauterize the city,” McIsaac said. 

“You want America to fire a nuclear missile at England?” the president asked the four-star general. She balled her hands, piercing her palms with her fingernails.

“Not just one, but based on the virus’ spread rate and the estimated distance from central London that the virus has already dispersed, we need to launch six W-87 thermonuclear warheads. The W-87 fireball extends .73 miles from ground zero, requiring us to target these missiles in a circular pattern at half-mile intervals.” McIsaac looked at her watch. “That’s if we launch within the next twelve minutes. After the optimal launch window has expired, every five minutes we wait necessitates firing an additional missile to increase the fireball's radius. As your national security advisor advised, we must act before people in London panic." 

“We can’t nuke London. What about a vaccine? Can’t we develop a vaccine?”

“A rushed, experimental vaccine would take half a year to develop. By then, billions will have died, including almost everyone who was working on a vaccine. Even if somehow a vaccine could be created swiftly, there will be nobody around to distribute it,” NIH director Talbot said.

“We have to sterilize London. The alternative is ninety to ninety-five percent of humanity perishing. That’s close to seven billion people dead in months,” Ito added. 

“Can’t we alert the British about the true nature of this threat so they can take care of their own?”

“That’s too risky. Even if they could sacrifice London, they won’t decide in time. Would we if it were Los Angeles? We’d debate a dozen options for hours and try a few before realizing—too late—that the only truth was to have cauterized LA. No country is up to the task of sacrificing its own. We have to do this now."

“Madam President.” A voice from the far side of the room. Eric Lincoln, the director of the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. “Isn’t it possible that because of the virus’ high mortality rate and transmission speed, it will burn itself out?”

“The virus has shown no indication of slowing or ‘burning out,’ as you call it,” the NIH director said. “And your lane is nuclear, not biological, Eric.”

“There’s no indication, or you don’t have the data yet? It sounds like this virus is on a self-destruct mission. There may be many deaths over the next few weeks, but as with a nuclear chain reaction, it’s ultimately self-limiting. The virus kills the host too effectively to spread beyond its origin point.” 

“The data doesn’t tell us that the virus is self-limiting, but it also doesn’t say that it isn’t,” the CIA director chimed in.

“It’s going to stop,” the NRC director insisted. This virus cannot sustain itself. We know that from experience with other highly lethal pathogens.” 

“There’s never been a virus like this. In time, we’ll understand the mechanisms this virus deploys by examining its genetic code in detail, but that’s only if we’re around to do so,” National Security Advisor Ito argued. “Unless we remove London, it will spread to America and the world. There’s no question about that.” 

The President let the debate ensue. From this Oval Office wrangling, somebody might propose a solution that will save London. Nuking London can't be the best idea America can come up with. 

“Are you willing to bet the planet on the virus self-extinguishing?” NIH Director Talbot asked. “Because that’s what you’re suggesting. We must not roll the dice when the world is at stake. And make no mistake, if we lose seven billion people, we lose civilization. The survivors will be living in a world of chaos, violence, and worse. There will be no governments, and there probably won’t even be countries in a year. Doctors, scientists, engineers—gone. The people who work in facilities that manufacture pharmaceuticals—gone. Transportation—gone. The internet, GPS, and virtually all technology—gone. It will take a thousand years for humanity to recover from this plague. We have the power to stop this before it starts, and we must.” Talbot paused for a moment to allow his heart to slow. “Even assuming you’re right,” he continued, “and the virus doesn’t spread beyond London, most Londoners are going to die anyway. It’s only a question of whether they die from the virus or a nuclear blast.”

“How certain are you that doing nothing, letting the virus run its course, is a safe path?” the president asked NRC Director Lincoln. 

"As certain as I can be."

"Not good enough," Gibson snapped.

"William?"

“There’s never certainty when it comes to forecasting biological events,” the NIH director replied. “If we had more data, then I’d have greater certainty. But that takes time, which we don’t have.”

“What does the CIA have to say about the likelihood that the virus will confine itself to London?”

“We have no projection for that,” Ward said. 

“I can say with absolute certainty that nuking London will make the city—what’s left of it—and for a hundred miles around, uninhabitable for a century,” Lincoln said. 

“How many will die if we launch six missiles at London?” the president asked the room at large.

“Two four million instantly, with another two to ten million deaths over the coming year,” General McIsaac said. “In addition, we can expect up to ten million immediate, severe injuries—burns, lung damage, blindness, broken bones, and internal organ damage, not including tens of thousands of cancer cases over the ensuing decade.” 

“That’s a wide range. Why the uncertainty?”

“I would be remiss if I didn’t point out other uncertainties, Madam President,” the national security advisor said. “We can’t be one hundred percent sure of containment if we bomb London. There’s always the—”

“Are you telling me that the mission may fail if I give the order to strike London?” 

“Yes. But if it fails, we can send another bomb to patch any spots we missed.”

President Gibson slammed her fist on the desk. “Stop. So, we launch missiles at London and wait for what? Signs of failure or success? Then possibly launch more missiles, and repeat and repeat? Until when? Until there’s nobody left alive in the United Kingdom?”

“Madam President,” General McIsaac said, tapping her watch. You need to make a decision within the next four minutes.”

“What’s the population of the United Kingdom?”

“Sixty-seven million,” national security advisor Ito said in the flattest tone Gibson had ever heard. He dried the corner of his eyes with the back of his hand. 

Gibson picked up a pen from the desk and wished it were a magic wand with which she could wave this all away. She thought back to when she was a senator, just one of many whose votes, while important, were diluted by ninety-nine other votes. Life was simpler before humanity's future depended on her alone making the right decision.

“I want to call the Prime Minister,” Gibson said. She had a moral obligation to tell Prime Minister Oliver Chapman before she vaporized England’s largest city. 

“I would advise against that, at least until you’ve decided. We must avoid doing anything that might spread this virus, which is what an early warning would do,” Ito said. 

“This is a nightmare." Gibson's eyes lost their luster, her face drained of blood, and her lips took on a blue tint. Her arms lost their strength, and she dropped her pen. “This is a terrible, terrible nightmare.”

“Madam President, the general is right. We’re almost out of time. You need to issue the command to launch six nuclear warheads at London. Or not,” Ito said. 

“How do I decide?” Gibson stood and scanned every face in the room. “Can any of you tell me how to choose between the certain death of millions and the possible death of billions?” When nobody spoke, Gibson slumped into her chair. “Time?”

“Two minutes,” McIsaac said. 

“How long will the missiles take to reach London?”

“They’re land-based warheads. Eleven minutes. The time-to-target is factored into your decision-making window.”

A ball of acid lodged in Gibson’s throat. Her arms trembled, and her face transmuted to a ghostly pallor. She walked to the table between the two couches in the middle of the room. “Bring me the football.” Her voice cracked, breaking those four words into a thousand pieces. 

Everyone in the room stood silently, barely breathing.

General McIsaac and Secretary of State Gardner authenticated the president’s identity and nuclear code. 

After releasing the six thermonuclear warheads, the president walked to the window behind her desk and stood there. Though the missiles launched from Idaho, Gibson thought she could see the exhaust flames illuminating the pre-dawn sky as fire pushed the rockets upward. Millions vaporized in the blink of an eye, millions more in the coming days and weeks. 

She wept. 

The Chinese president paced the circumference of his office while his staff did their best to avoid his gaze. He studied the painting of the Great Wall of China, wondering if the two-thousand-year-old structure would be there in two hours, and then asked, “There’s no other option? There’s no possibility that you’re wrong?”

“No, Mr. President.” The defense minister locked eyes with his president. “I am certain. The viral outbreak in New York City will spread beyond the city’s borders within the next thirty minutes.”

President Huang placed his hand over his heart. “Launch.”

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