The Savior Vaccine

PROLOGUE

The hottest place in Hell is reserved for those who remain neutral in times of great moral conflict. — Martin Luther King

The President of the United States, Jane Williams, felt as though she were paralyzed. Her confidential national security binder slipped out of her hands. The highly classified report fell to the floor with a thud. Yet, Williams barely batted an eyelash. She stared vacantly, through the Oval Office window out at the Rose Garden. Silently, she prayed that her younger sister wasn’t home during the nuclear catastrophe in Minneapolis. Please let Maryann be all right!

Williams flinched when a dark bluish gray homing pigeon perched itself on the outside window sill. Bolting upright in her chair, all of her senses flooded back on full alert. When the pigeon took off in flight, she tracked the bird, which quickly disappeared from sight, leaving her peculiarly disappointed.

From behind her back, a couple of sharp knocks caught her attention. She swiveled her chair toward the hand chiseled oak door of the Oval Office. It swung open. Chief of Staff, Mackensie Pitnar, her trusted advisor, stood in the doorway. His puffy reddened eyes were eerily glued on her face. His feet slowly shuffled forward in her direction as if he wanted to delay as long possible informing the President of information that would be painful for her to accept.

Williams hung her head, blinking wildly. A coarse tremor, on both of her arthritic hands, out of nowhere, erupted like a volcano, and as time passed, significantly increased in intensity. A quickening of rhythmic heaves of her chest was subsequently triggered by an anticipated painful message from Mac. With her downcast eyes, she sensed that he was drawing nearer with each tick of the clock; terrified that he would deliver news that she didn’t want to hear. Seconds later, she met his unsettled gaze.

Her Chief of Staff came to an abrupt stop in front of the presidential desk that had been constructed from oak timbers of a nineteenth century warship. In almost a whisper, he uttered her worst horror. Madame President, it is with my deepest regret to inform you that your sister died in the latest terrorist attack.

In a flash, the air was sucked out of the room. Mac suddenly became a blurry image. She gasped, Oh--- The muscles of her throat tightened. Williams stammered, Do--w-. Do we kno---? She brushed away a budding tear from her right cheek. Do we know?

Mac looked away. As she struggled to gain control of herself, she jutted her quivering jaw in his direction. Williams gripped both sides of her desk. She blurted out, Did my sister suffer?

He stiffened, clearly understanding that he had just detonated a live hand grenade upon raw nerves. No, Madame President.

How do you know? she snapped.

Silence!

She thundered as quickly as a lightning bolt. Tell me the evidence that proves Maryann didn’t suffer!

Mac painfully returned his line of sight to latch on to her darting eyes. Madame President, I’m profoundly sorry. He scanned her contorted face. Your sister and thousands of others were instantly vaporized by the nuclear blast.

Williams slammed her eyes shut. With her heart racing, she rubbed away the heavy chest discomfort that her recurrent palpitations were causing. Her eyes gradually peeled open. Tell me details, she asked, though the tone of her question came out as if it were an order given by a five star general on an open battlefield.

In response, Mac assumed a military attention stance. He began to speak in a matter of fact manner, with barely a trace of emotion. Tens of thousands, who were not at ground zero, are severely burned and critically injured. All survivors are currently being transported to eighteen hospitals within a fifty mile radius of Minneapolis.

Williams raised her shaky right hand above her head. She felt every muscle fiber tensing throughout her body. Unable to hold back her building rage, she ferociously smashed her fist down on her desk. Intense shooting pains radiated from her fingers up her right arm when her fist touched down. Venom exploded from her mouth. These terrorists are heartless killers who will burn in hell! I’ll make them pay dearly for what they’ve done to our nation.

His eyes rolled--in the direction of the open Oval Office door. Mac took a half step toward leaving her presence but abruptly froze in his tracks. Madame President, may I speak freely?

Mac, I have always respected what you contribute. You know that!

The Chief of Staff knitted his bushy black eyebrows. As you well know, the American people are extremely angry.

I am furious! If I get my hands on any one of these terrorists, I’ll break their neck, she barked.

Pardon my bluntness, Madame President. Mac winced as his words gushed out, in a torrent of uncovered emotion. That’s not what I meant.

Look, we have a lot of work ahead of us. Just say what’s on your mind.

He bit his lower lip for a few seconds and then fired away. The American people are angry at you---Madame President. And, although it pains me greatly to say this, national polls show that the majority of Americans no longer believe that you have acted appropriately to protect the homeland."

The President sprang to her feet as if she were a tightly wound spring that had just uncoiled. She folded her arms across her chest. Mac, you have always been loyal to me. This is no time to cast blame.

He cleared his throat. Pulling back his shoulders, his posture straightened to a rigid form. Mac’s steadfast eyes locked on hers. In Gulf War One, I’ve served my country in battle. His voice began soaring-- higher and higher with each spoken word. I placed my life on the line for my country. It was right for me to follow the Commander in Chief’s orders. I deeply respect the office---through our democratic process—of the Presidency of our great nation.

She shot him a quizzical look. "Why the hell are you going on about what you have done in Iraq?" Williams plopped down in her chair. She slapped the side of her desk. Her much needed focus on her beloved America-- inexplicably high jacked by what she took as a totally out of character pointless diatribe from her own Chief of Staff.

I’m sorry Madame President. You are right. This is not about me. This is about you!!

The President grabbed her left hand, trying to smother the tremors. Mac, I am in no mood for whatever you think that you are doing. Williams paused a second or two. And, you need to get back to work. Pull together my national security team for an emergency meeting. Call me when it’s assembled.

Pitnar swiped a series of beads off his forehead. Forgive me at this most tragic moment. I must make one final point. There are rumors of mounting pressure on Congress to hold-----impeachment hearings.

Williams shuddered upon hearing his words. She pointed toward the door. I have heard enough of this political rhetoric.

Pitnar took a step backwards and momentarily held his tongue. It was obvious that he had much more to contribute to their overwrought conversation. He squared up to her, waiting for the right moment.

The American people will again come to trust me. She coiled her aching fingers into a tight fist. She thrust it forward—directly at him. I will do whatever it takes to save America!

He frowned, vigorously rubbing his mouth. Madame President, with all due respect, it was your decision that there would be no consequences for the Taliban’s attack last year on our consulate in Peshawar. Who knows-----? He stopped himself in mid sentence as she leaned forward across her desk.

The veins in her neck pulsated. Enough, she barked. Unless you stop your counterproductive Monday morning quarterbacking, I will demand your immediate resignation.

Mac stood motionless for several seconds. He meekly uttered, I understand. He squinted as a ray of brilliant sunlight streamed through the window, landing squarely on his face. He nodded, almost imperceptivity, before pivoting and taking several quick paces through the open door.

Williams held her forehead in both hands. She began saying almost all of the Our Father prayer in complete silence. She concluded by actually speaking the closing words, …deliver us from evil.

***

Jane Williams, an extremely slender woman with a sallow complexion and sagging wrinkled facial skin, had celebrated her sixtieth birthday just weeks before the initial terrorist attacks began nearly one year ago. She rocked back and forth in her soft leather chair, her chest still heaving like pistons revving up a turbo-charged sports car.

Needing to release her pent up ire, the President ripped out the first two pages from her national security executive summary. Williams crumpled the torn out pages into a tightly knit ball. She flung the paper missile toward the Ben Franklin clock, situated on the far side of the room. The nuclear disaster in Minneapolis once again flashed before her eyes. On my watch!

Since the first dirty bomb detonation one year ago, the first woman commander in chief’s migraines had markedly worsened. She massaged away the flaring muscle spasms in the area of her right temple, just behind her earlobe. The President flipped open an opaque two ounce bottle that she pulled from the upper drawer of her desk. She downed a couple of ibuprofens, unable to blot out of her mind the embedded ghastly pictures of disfigured faces and an endless train of coffins.

Since the mass murders had begun, her cardiologist had been treating her for recurrent palpitations—atrial fibrillation. Medications usually did the trick although once she required cardioversion using an electrical current to shock her heart back into a normal sinus rhythm. For the President, a restful night of sleep had clearly become a long lost art. Yet, she accepted that the collateral damage being inflicted on her went with the turf of being the Commander-in-Chief of a country under siege.

She glanced down at the photos near ground zero that lay on her desk and plucked out an aerial shot that was partially concealed underneath her national security report. This vivid image held her attention. It had been snapped by a badly burned survivor with a smart phone just seconds after the nuclear mushroom cloud had showered its deadly brew on Minneapolis.

Maryann. Flashbacks to the last time she had seen her sister alive cascaded throughout her troubled mind, tripping neurons, sending out irrepressible impulses of intense guilt and revenge. But, she knew that no matter what action she would take from this moment on, one haunting fact would never change. Maryann Williams was gone---gone forever, in the blink of an eye. Mac was right! It is my fault!

Her eyelids grew heavy. The rhythmic ticking of the Franklin, with each sweep of the second hand, seduced her into a light daze. Imagined demons began swarming toward her in the form of upright marching human shaped skeletons. Clang! Clang! Clang!

The President’s mental fog was jolted awake by the three piercing chimes of the Franklin clock. Instantly, her body shivered. The throbbing within her brain took center stage as millions of neurons instantly connected with each other—hammering out a strategic plan of what she needed to do.

She spotted an embossed pencil, protruding as a placeholder in her six inch security binder, lying on the carpet. Williams bent over and picked up the pencil. She clutched it tightly at each end. Her mouth twisted into a snarl. Gritting her teeth, she snapped it in half.

The President spun her chair and looked out again at the Rose Garden. Despite a gorgeous mid-September sunny day, the gathering dark clouds on the horizon, just beyond the Washington monument, were a troublesome metaphor to her for the country’s mounting anger. For months, an escalating series of outrages by the public had engulfed her waking moments. Talk of impeachment, an unlikely possibility that had begun as mere gossip inside the beltway just six months ago, was now taking firm root along many main streets across the land.

The forty sixth President of the United States pushed down on the mahogany arms of her chair. Weary, she struggled to rise but unable to sustain her feeble effort, she landed hard back on her seat. I will do this, she said to herself. With a forced thrust of her hips, the first term leader sprang to her feet.

Williams walked steadfastly toward Madison, seated just outside her office. She briefly nodded at her appointment assistant before plodding forward. Within the last year, she had compulsively begun counting the number of paces to the Green Room. It was always between sixty-four or sixty-six strides. Yet today, the twenty foot high door at the far end of the hallway seemed endless, conceivably hundreds of agonizing steps away.

After a series of wobbly strides, she found herself veering toward the right wall. She grazed several of the protruding ornate frames that circled a half dozen hand -painted portrayals of the Founding Fathers. Yet their portraits did not budge from their well entrenched moorings.

Soon, she approached the Secret Service guard who stood to one side of the imposing floor to ceiling dark lime green painted door. The President came to a sudden halt. She sent a commanding glance in his direction. The sentry drew back the massive oak with a powerful twist on the gold plated doorknob.

Williams peered through the opening. The Green Room was buzzing in lively conversations. She took two steps forward, entering the huge chamber. Heads of dozens of captains of industry turned toward her. Seconds later, the clamoring came to an end amid widespread whispers of---Ssshhh!

A sea of CEO’s from Fortune 500 companies began standing in a string of cascading waves. Over the last year, she had felt increasing isolation from this powerful business constituency. The President felt their hostile vibes. She forced a half smile, intentionally avoiding any direct eye contact.

Williams hastily walked over a light green canvas floor cloth placed in the room two centuries earlier during the Jefferson administration. Just before she reached the head of the forty foot long maple wood table, she allowed herself a momentary glimpse of the hand painted canvas masterpieces of Washington and Lincoln. Their immortal images dominated the emerald painted side wall. Awed by her revered predecessors, she felt puny despite her above average five foot ten stature.

At the head of the conference table, the President turned slowly to face her invited guests. Subtle grimaces seemed to be screaming back at her to do something to save the country from its depressing trajectory toward further chaos & ruin. She brushed aside a water glass and began in a hurried manner. Good morning. Please take your seats.

While she waited for her invited guests to come to order, she thought of Christian James, her Secretary of Health and Human Services. James had wanted to accompany her to this meeting. But, she had insisted on doing this meeting alone, telling Secretary James in no uncertain terms that she alone possessed the mettle to get the job done. This is my ballgame! James understands, she thought.

I want to thank all of you for coming in today. I’ve invited you to the White House to obtain your counsel at this gravest of moments. Williams paused and reached down to take a slow sip of water.

As you well know, despite our selective tactical retaliation on high value military targets within Pakistan, the jihadists remain undeterred. She smacked her parched lips. As a result of the direct and indirect effects of their nuclear strikes in our metropolitan centers, we are seeing massive levels of human suffering and deaths in America not seen since the days of the European Black Plague. From this past year’s nuclear fallout, cancer has become epidemic in America! The incidence of malignancies due to primary strikes on cities and secondary to the down -wind radiation from the numerous cesium dirty bombs have been skyrocketing. Sadly, we can expect many more cancers as a result of the uranium bomb that recently struck Minneapolis. She configured her right hand in the form of a claw and pointed toward her guests. We must act to stop these terrorist and we must act to stop these nuclear radiation induced diseases---and make no mistake about it, we will act!

Williams scanned their faces. The business leaders appeared both dubious and fearful. Their eyes darted, momentarily landing on hers, before quickly shifting in another direction. Her jaw muscles tightened, along with the reappearance of an old habit. Unable to stop the nightly grinding of her teeth, this recent exacerbation of her right sided TMJ syndrome had only added to her worsening migraines.

She latched onto the sullen looking face of Tony Lowman, CEO of General Restaurants of America. His facial features solidified as if he was posing for the fifth spot on Mount Rushmore. He raised his hand. Williams pointed her left index finger at him.

Lowman promptly launched himself to his feet. Madame President, with all due respect, before we contribute our ideas, he said with a caustic edge to his voice, I believe all of us would like to hear your solutions to this unprecedented health crisis. It has added to the soaring health care costs that we all bear for our employees. I know that I am stating the obvious but our businesses are no longer competitive in the world.

The President pulled back her sagging shoulders, locking her gaze on Lowman’s stiff upper lip. Tony, you are correct. Our heath care costs are spiraling out of control. Prior efforts at reforming our healthcare system have not taken root. Our five trillion dollar health care expenditure this past fiscal year, driven to a disproportionate degree by the medical and psychiatric costs of treating radiation induced cancers, has propelled our country toward the brink of economic depression.

Williams allowed her eyes to roam the room for a couple of moments. She dug her low heeled shoes into the nineteenth century cloth covering the floorboards beneath her chair. Earlier today, I consulted with my Secretary of Health and Human Services and the Surgeon General. We have calculated that the short and long term costs of caring for untold hundreds of thousands of cancers may soon approach our aggregate spending on all other health care problems combined. Moreover, not even one scientist, not any health care professional whom Secretary of Health Christian James and Surgeon General Jonathan Rogers have consulted, not one single public health expert harbors any doubt that this already severe situation will soon escalate ten- fold unless we stop the development of these radiation induced cancers.

Williams stopped to gulp in a huge breath. Her parched throat felt as though she was speaking from the middle of the Sahara desert. She drained her water glass, wishing that it had been a double Scotch.

I am proposing a new strategy. The President pointed skyward. We’ve accomplished the near impossible before. It’s been more than a half century since JFK galvanized the will of this country to land a man on the moon in less than a decade. Well, this time we don’t have that long. So, in addition to our ongoing strategy in rooting out and killing the terrorists, I am launching a full scale war on preventing all forms of cancer secondary to nuclear radiation.

Re-focusing on Lowman, the outspoken CEO argued from his seat. President Nixon proposed a war on cancer over forty years ago. Therefore, I must ask you, are there any well respected and independent scientists who truly believe that what you’re suggesting is even possible?

Williams shook her head in the affirmative. She walked toward Sean Parker. Seated near the front of the room, the tall blond middle aged CEO of Doctors Choice Products straightened his red paisley tie while she approached his seat.

Mr. Parker, please tell us about a promising vaccine in your drug company’s pipeline.

Thank you Madame President, he said, slightly bowing his head toward her. Our scientists at DCP have concluded their testing of a compound on Rhesus monkeys who were exposed to high doses of radiation that would mimic a sizable nuclear explosion. Over time, every monkey who did not receive our vaccine has developed a malignancy at the expected rate. However, the good news is all monkeys receiving our vaccine before exposure to the radiation have remained cancer free for more than a year since this experiment began. Parker held his hand out in the direction of the President, deferring to her to take it from here.

Tell us more, Williams added while she progressively inched toward the door in the rear of the room.

The CEO puffed his muscular chest. Scientifically, we have clearly proven that our cancer preventing vaccine is completely safe in monkeys. This was a critical first milestone. After we receive FDA approval based on the overwhelming success of our monkey trials, DCP will begin the first phase of human clinical trials.

Out of the corner of her eye, Williams noted that the entrance to the green door was now slightly ajar. She wondered whether someone was listening, outside in the corridor. A moment later, the door creaked open a couple of inches. Secretary of Health James?

Please continue Mr. Parker.

"Once our product achieves FDA approval for human deployment, DCP intends to call our vaccine by the brand name ---NeoBloc."

She proclaimed, Tomorrow morning, I will instruct that the Secretary of Health and Human Services as well as the Surgeon General to take the lead in what I have dubbed Project Moon Shot. Our goal will be to inoculate every American with this savior vaccine within the year. May God be with all of us!

***

As the President confidently re-entered the Oval Office, she was surprised to be noticing a routine event that she had not been on her radar for months. The sun blazed. The clouds had disappeared. A wide grin broke out. She had almost forgotten what it was like to feel the soothing warmth of the sun. Sitting down at her desk, she scribbled the name of the vaccine over and over again on her presidential pad. NeoBloc. NeoBloc. The savior of America!

CHAPTER ONE

Dr. Jonathan Rogers squirmed impatiently in a wobbly pine wood captain's chair. Twenty minutes earlier, he had chosen this isolated seat in the rear of the dimly lit pub.  Hidden on a narrow cobble-stoned alleyway in Georgetown, the tavern was barely noticeable from the main thoroughfare.  

From the outside, the local watering hole looked like an old horse stable in the shape of an early twentieth century hay barn. The dull gray paint on the pub's siding, pealing in random spots, added to the weathered appearance. Rogers ogled the inside roof peak before dropping his eyes to the splinters protruding from the wall adjacent to his rickety pine wood table. Where is she? With each irritated shuffle of his mug of draft beer, the tabled rocked back and forth.

With mounting boredom, he looked up again at the empty lofts.  The din of the tavern’s rowdy patrons clanged in his ear drums. Proud of his widely admired skills as a problem solver, he wished the owners had retained something in the rafters, maybe a few dozen bales of hay to absorb the noise. Checking his Timex watch, he grew increasingly restless. His wife would be expecting him for dinner within the hour. Kim would not be pleased.

Rogers glanced over at the bartender. Mikey, a six foot six inch strapping chap with numerous red scaly looking islands of actinic keratosis patched on areas of sun damaged skin around his neck and well worn face, leaned against the inside rail of the bar. He wiped off the alcohol spigots with a drenched tan cloth.  Above his head, the establishment sign, Hurleys, flashed green and white. Established 1860. A perch of half empty Vodka, Scotch, Rum, and Bourbon bottles lined a shelf that was easily within his reach. Mikey scanned the tavern, seemingly always at the ready, on the look -out for any customer wanting to order another round.

Rogers cursed inwardly for agreeing to meet with Laura Timmons at Hurleys.  She had called him earlier that afternoon at his office at Health and Human Services. It was at her insistence that he agreed to meet at Hurleys this evening. Basically, she had begged him to meet with her. Yet, if she had not been married to Adam Timmons, Governor of Michigan, he chided himself that he would have declined her last minute demand to meet tonight. He shook his head. Since becoming the nation’s Surgeon General, through last year’s appointment by President Jane Williams, he frequently blamed himself for being far too accommodative of politicians, who for the most part, he despised.

Rogers remembered hearing about Timmons from his previous near death experiences at the hands of the prior CEO of her Company, Doctor’s Choice Products. Since then, he had seen her name many times in the state newspaper. Lauren was certainly no shrinking violet. She had a penchant for the limelight. In fact, the word on the street was that she would do almost anything to further her career.

Back home, near the company’s corporate headquarters in Michigan, Lauren enjoyed a reputation as a dutiful wife, embracing her husband’s meteoric rise in his political career. So, it came as quite a shock to read in the newspapers that she had recently filed for divorce. And then the truth came out. News of Governor Timmons’s sexually explicit adulterous scandal turned public opinion against him. Folks in the Wolverine state began to empathize with her plight as the faithful wife, a wife who inadvertently let on to the media that she knew many secrets that could bring down her husband, the latest political rock star.

The Surgeon General reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet. He grabbed a ten spot to cover his beer and tip for Mikey. In grabbing for the bill, he spotted his own wedding photo in one of the well worn leather slots. For sure, he thought, he had savored every year of his close relationship with Kim.  Thirty years later, he still cherished their close bond. He chuckled at a thought that ironically sprang to his mind. Both of them often referred to themselves as two peas in a pod. BFF. He laid the bill on the unsteady wooden table while internally beating himself up one last time as to why he had been so easily swayed to accept her last minute invite.

In speaking with her no more than three hours earlier, she had identified herself as the Vice-President of operations at the pharmacy of DCP, a Michigan biotech company that he had known all too well.  In his brief conversation with her, she claimed to have vital information; data that he --as the country’s Surgeon General--the top doc--needed to know. When he had pressed her for details, she told him in no uncertain terms that he would have to wait until she was face to face with him.

Rogers countered with an offer to meet with her in his office the following morning. She declined, offering a plausible excuse for tonight’s urgent meeting. Lauren was going to be in DC only for the night. Early the next morning, she would be flying out of Reagan Airport, back to Michigan, to assist in the move to her new bachelorette apartment.

Rogers cracked his knuckles a few times. Lauren was now more than thirty minutes late. He peered out the side window.  Through crisscrossing fractures in the white and yellow stained glass panels, rays of the setting sun bounced off the slanted lamp post at the corner of Mill Road, projecting a source of streaming light through the window cracks. Twenty feet to the rear of the seldom traveled intersection lay hundreds of tombstones in Oak Hill Cemetery.  Bored, he began counting the headstones. Fifteen in the first row. Twenty in the next.

He took a final swig from his mug, tapped his finger several times on the table, and seriously began to think about heading home to see Kim. While Rogers was staring at the front door of the tavern, it creaked open. A half- dozen men barged in, yelling to Mikey for a full set up at the bar. Distracted by the rowdy behavior of the latest arrivals, Rogers hadn’t noticed until now a tall heavily bearded man at an adjacent table next to his. The well tanned man yelled out for table service. Seemingly on cue, the bartender appeared at his table with three whiskey shot glasses which the customer grabbed, draining each in successive gulps.

Mikey headed back to the bar just as Rogers’ neighbor shouted out for another round of three. Curious, mainly out of the monotony of the evening, the Surgeon General found himself gawking at the man, taking note of the deep crow's feet harboring near a pair of reddened slits and an elongated narrow nose. His dark blue overalls and a freshly pressed red lumberjack shirt were remarkable for how spotless they appeared, given the numerous red paint stains that adorned the smooth looking skin of both of his hands. Half- way slumped on his chair, the apparent painter was vigorously typing in several text messages on his cell phone.

Apparently sensing that he was being closely observed, the patron cast a wary glance over at Rogers. The Surgeon General averted the direct eye contact and promised himself to give Lauren just one more minute to appear. Fifty-nine, fifty eight…

With his countdown in single digits, a middle aged woman wearing huge dark sunglasses and a form fitting navy blue dress sauntered through the front door on her way to the bar. Her three inch heels clanked across the wood flooring. As most heads turned in her direction, Rogers was clearly not the only man in the tavern who had taken notice of her striking good looks.

She tugged along a colorful DC Sports Club bag under her arm as she strolled up to the bar. The lady seductively grazed her hand over the bartender’s hairy forearms. Leaning forward, Mikey gave her a quick peck on her cheek. She gingerly lowered the pink and white stripped bag to the floor planks below her three inch stilettos.  A martini swiftly appeared in front of her. The woman snatched her drink off the bar and held it firmly in her right hand. She promenaded toward the rest rooms in the tavern rear. While she seemed to be casually surveying each of the gawking men, she conspicuously yanked off her large sunglasses.

Near the rest room door, she sharply spun around, walking straight toward Rogers.  She sat down on a chair on the opposite side of his table and plunked down her martini and sunglasses.

Feeling extremely uncomfortable, he pushed back his chair. He rose to his feet, his eyes still drawn to her deep cleavage.

In a hushed voice, she asked, Come here often?

He slouched back down on his seat. This is my first time here.
First of many opportunities, she said coyly.

Rogers frowned. I'm supposed to meet a business woman.  But she's late.
She dipped her index finger in her drink and stirred the martini. Withdrawing her finger, she placed it on her lips and sucked on it. What about your wife?
He toyed with his watch while uncomfortably looking over at Mikey.  The bartender flashed him a thumb up sign despite casting a jealous expression toward him.

You know what I think. She pursed her lips. I think you're stepping out on your wife and looking for someone else to enjoy the evening. Taking an unhurried prolonged swallow from her martini, she added, Actually, I could use some attention myself. My husband is bad news.

Rogers shook his head.  Look, I need to go.

She winked. Listen, I'm here to meet a doctor—a big shot doctor.

Is that so?

Actually, I do need a checkup. Her eyes sparkled. Know of any good doctors?

Intrigued, he curtly asked, What’s the name of the doctor who is supposed to meet you?

You’re such a tease. She giggled. Come on, Dr. Jonathan Rogers?

The Surgeon General leaned back in his chair, saying nothing. Lauren Timmons? His attention was momentarily diverted as the painter at the adjacent table began to snore loudly. The Surgeon General uneasily surveyed the other patrons in the tavern before returning his rapt gaze back on her.

You still haven’t told me your name.

The woman laughed. "Hey -doc. I’m just playing with you. I’ve seen your picture on Facebook, Twitter, and the Washington Post."

Annoyed, he said, What’s your name?

She leaned across the table and spoke softly, Look, Dr. Rogers, Surgeon General, I spoke with you earlier today.

He said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

To be frank, reaching you was not very easy. I had to use up a favor from my ex-husband. His office contacted you so I could be patched in to speak with you—the famous Surgeon General of the United States of America. I told you that I had news to share with you. She looked at his expressionless face. OK, I’ll give you more. I work at Doctor’s Choice Products. Yes, it’s me, Lauren Timmons.

Thank you. I’m sure you can understand why I need to be cautious.

She lightly placed her hand on his. So, can we be friends?

He pulled his hand away. So, Mrs. Timmons, what exactly did you want to share with me?

Call me Lauren. I hate my last name—more to the point, I hate my husband. But, I guess I’m stuck with my surname until my divorce comes through. Timmons sent a flirtatious look his way. She cocked her head. Who knows the future? I could be Lauren Rogers if it’s meant to be. Get my drift?

Look, I’m happily married. Rogers crossed his arms over his chest. Let’s get down to why you wanted to meet me here. And, since you’re already late, I don't have much time. While he spoke, he sensed the senior at the next table periodically awakening from his slumber, sneaking furtive peaks at them. The painter yawned and stretched before reaching for his cell. He began texting, fast and furiously.

Rogers pulled a notepad from the inner pocket of his navy blue suit jacket and began scribbling. He pushed it toward Lauren.

Let’s write down our conversations. There is a possibility that we’re being watched.

She responded with a knowing look. Lauren began printing in large letters and turned the note to face him. I know everything about NeoBloc.

His eyes widened. Abandoning the game he had just established, he leaned toward her so that their faces were no more than a foot apart. He whispered, Know what?

"My company, Doctor's Choice Products, is working on a vaccine to prevent cancer in monkeys exposed to lethal doses of nuclear radiation.

Rogers noticed that the painter had stopped texting and was leaning toward them. Covering the side of his face nearest the painter, Rogers pointed toward the note. Write
Lauren picked up the ballpoint and wrote her message. There is a deadly problem with the vaccine. We shouldn’t start the human clinical trials.

Reading her reply, he covered his mouth.

Once again, Timmons began writing furiously. She pushed him the latest note. In the monkey trials with NeoBloc, every monkey died within a year. The vaccine is a killer.
Rogers's mind whirled back to that morning’s meeting with President Williams and his own boss, Secretary of Health and Human Services, Christian James. The President had just charged both of them to evaluate the safety of NeoBloc as part of Project Moon Shot. Stunned by her revelation, the Surgeon General sat speechless.

Lauren pulled the paper toward her and flipped it to face her. She began writing again.

At that moment, Rogers felt a hard tug on his left shoulder.  Spinning around, he saw Mikey towering above him. The Surgeon General glanced over at the painter. The man was in the middle of downing the 2nd shot in his latest row of three whiskeys.

The bartender shouted down at the Surgeon General, Another beer?

Focused on the fear erupting on Lauren’s face, Rogers waved him off. No thanks.

The bartender lowered his voice several octaves. Passing love notes I see. Mikey bent over, grazing Rogers’s ear with his shoulder length unkempt tousled hair. You're a lucky guy. Usually when she comes in here, she sits alone.

I’m about to leave.

Rogers watched Mikey march away. The bartender shrugged his shoulders. Looking back at Lauren, her latest directive faced him. Take my gym bag when you leave. It’s by the bar. I need to leave for an appointment. Someone else is opposed to NeoBloc. That means we have an ally. That someone wants to discuss this matter with me—TONIGHT!

He wrinkled his forehead. Rogers took the pen. Who?

Lauren shook her head. She grabbed the pen, completing the next verse in their mutual communiqué. By now, he noted that the painter had vacated his seat and was leaning against the bar talking with Mikey. The Surgeon General thought about calling Secretary James. He checked his watch. Kim will not be pleased.

He glanced down at her last message.

I’ll be walking through Rock Creek Park to catch a subway at Dupont. In case we have to meet again, I’ll leave you a voice message in your office with a code letter. P for Park. D for Dupont. Wish me luck.

Rogers scratched out a reply.  The park is dangerous this time of night. I’ll call you a cab.

Lauren’s leg was shaking and her jaw began to quiver. She began writing again, looking around nervously every few seconds.  Once again, she flipped the notepad toward him.

I’ll call you in your office tomorrow after you’ve had a chance to study what’s in my gym bag. Please tell your administrative assistant to put my call through to you.
 Apprehensively, he covered the well worn note with his hands. As if she was reading his mind, Lauren scooped up the page and rolled it up into a one-half inch round ball.  She moistened it with a hefty wad of her saliva.  Swallowing it in one forced guzzle, she murmured, "Guard my gym bag with your--- life."

He looked over to the bar. Mikey stood in front of it. His bulbous abdomen protruded from his tight blue tee shirt. His right foot rested on the DC Sports Club bag. Without another word, Lauren rose and began walking toward the back door of the tavern.

Rogers looked back at the bar. Mikey was now holding the gym bag, motioning for him to come and get it. The Surgeon General stood and began walking to claim the bag. He heard the back door of the tavern slam shut. Along with many men in the tavern, his attention was now on the rear of the bar. Oddly, the seemingly drunken painter was methodically pacing the floor, near the rest room, speaking excitedly into his cell phone.

He threw down the ten dollar bill on the bar and then reached for the gym bag. Smiling a wry grin, the bartender held on to the pink and white stripped bag tightly before several seconds later finally surrendering it to Rogers. Mikey then unleashed a wicked sounding laugh that unnerved the Surgeon General. Timidly, he waved to the bartender and ambled out of Hurleys. Lauren’s gift hung securely from his right hand as he made a sharp left out of the front door.

Rogers spotted the main entrance to Rock Creek Park behind the tavern. Straight ahead was P Street. The gym bag appeared to weigh a few pounds. He hailed a passing taxi cab. After hopping in, he commanded the driver to head toward Pennsylvania Avenue. I’m late. Kim is not going to be happy.

In the rear view mirror, he watched the driver’s right eye twitching. It would be better to wait, he decided, until he got home before he would open his gift from Lauren.

The taxi sped off. He reflected on his encounter with Lauren and wondered why she would be taking the Dupont Circle subway by crossing though the pitch dark park, alone! He thought about Mikey’s bizarre laugh when the bartender handed him the gym bag. Who is she meeting in the park?

The two story brownstones flashed by him as the taxi picked up speed. The Surgeon General made a snap decision. I need to find her—now.

Rogers tapped on the glass separating the driver from him. Please turn onto Rock Creek Potomac Parkway. Take me through the park.

The driver complied. Rogers reconstructed in his mind her written messages. Lauren said she was late for an appointment. She was meeting a guy who was also opposed to NeoBloc. An ally!

Rogers spotted the sign for the Parkway. The cab zoomed through the sharp turns in the park as though the driver was competing in the Tour de France. He tapped on the window. Please slow down. The driver grunted but followed orders.

He recalled his meeting earlier that day with the President and Secretary of Health Christian James. The President had wanted NeoBloc tested as soon as possible in humans. And, Secretary James certainly didn’t mention any safety issue with the monkeys in the NeoBloc trials.

He pressed an automatic window button. The rear right window powered open. The warm summer breeze felt good. Back and forth, he looked, to both sides of the Parkway roadway, hoping to spot Lauren walking through the park. Listening carefully, he heard a single high pitched scream. Rogers banged on the window pane in front of him and shouted, Stop. Turn off the engine.

The cab came to a dead stop. He heard only the constant chirping of crickets. His ears perked up. A second scream, more muffled came from his left—in the distance, over by the tree line. Just beyond that area, he surmised; laid the rear entrance to the tavern.

Rogers grabbed his prize package and tucked it under his right armpit. He ran in the direction of the second scream and stumbled down a grassy slope. He caught his balance just before falling. Slowing his pace, he kept a close eye on the rolling terrain while intently listening.

A half moon was shining down. He scanned the horizon. Nothing! A series of shrill chirps from the crickets seemed to be getting louder. Believing that he heard fast paced footsteps hurtling across the open field in front of him, he came to a halt. His eye caught a reflection of the moonlight on a yard long shiny image—in motion--about thirty yards ahead. It’s a tall man running toward the Georgetown entrance to the park. He’s carrying something. A familiar smell hit Rogers in the face. Not a skunk. The footsteps were now gone. The sky grew darker as clouds covered the limited amount of moonlight.

He looked back at the taxi; thankful that the cabbie was still there, standing, peering out in the darkness toward him. Need a light. Rogers fumbled to find his key chain in his pants’ pocket. He grabbed it and flipped on the attached penlight. He aimed the dim beam but saw only rolling hills of freshly mowed grass.

The pungent smell grew stronger. A hospital type of smell. With each step, he sensed that he was ascending a graduated slope. The flickering beam outlined what looked like a drop off, up ahead, to a lower clearing. He took another long whiff of the evening air. A breeze whipping toward him smacked him in the face with an overpowering odor, an almost metallic aroma. It reminded him of his days as a practicing gastroenterologist. He recognized the smell. It was the aroma of the iron in the red blood cells that when mixed with air gave off that unique scent.

Reaching the edge of the grassy knoll, he pointed the small beam of light down at the small ravine below his feet. The stench was now unmistakable. The cricket chirping became intense. Looking back, he noticed that the cabbie was frantically waving his arms. Something is wrong! Time to leave!

He scanned the ravine below his feet one last time. A reflection of several pools of bright red blood came into view---seemingly strung together over a six foot area. He methodically followed the lighted trail inch by inch until he saw it.

No cadaver medical school dissection had ever prepared him for this moment. Oh my God! Rogers recoiled in shock upon seeing what lay in the weeds, just six feet below his black wingtips. There it was. Nestled between two sharp edged stones was the fully detached head of Lauren Timmons. A quick scan of the area showed that the rest of her body was nowhere in sight.

Waves of nausea smacked him. Rogers recoiled upon seeing moonbeams eerily bouncing off her motionless bright blue eyes. Bright red blood flowed from the bottom edge of her skull onto the dark green grass. He twisted his head away, no longer able to hold in his Hurley’s beer.

Horrified that Lauren’s life was snuffed out in such a horrendously violent manner simply because she knew confidential information about NeoBloc, Rogers felt compelled to follow her lead—wherever it might lead. What’s in that gym bag?

CHAPTER TWO

Just after he dialed 911 on his cell, Rogers punched in a text message to his boss. He revealed to the Secretary of Health a brief description of the repulsion that he had just witnessed. Within a minute, his Blackberry rang. Pulling it out of the inner pocket of his jacket, he saw the name of Christian James on the screen. He flipped it open and listened. Not able to hear anything that Secretary James was saying amid the deafening police sirens approaching him, he powered down his mobile device.

Three squad cars with a half dozen DC cops were running toward him—toward the crime scene. A plainclothes dressed detective, who had just closed his cell, walked toward Rogers. The detective asked him only about what he saw at the crime scene. After a few cursory questions, he was told that he was free to leave.

While walking back to the cab, he was incredulous that the detective in charge never asked his name. All he remembered saying was that he had known about Lauren from the past and they had met just fifteen minutes earlier at a local bar. Yet, the detective seemed totally disinterested in anything other than what the Surgeon General actually saw in the ravine where he discovered Lauren’s head.

Slipping into the back seat of the cab, it dawned on him that Christian James must have intervened on his behalf with the police. Why? Just as perplexing to him, the detectives never even spoke to the cab driver. He looked out the back window of the taxi--in the direction of the bloodbath that he had just witnessed. Rogers then laid down the gym bag on the seat beside him and shivered despite the warm summer air, streaming in from the driver’s open window.

He mumbled his destination and buckled his rear seat belt. His hand rubbed up against the polyester gym bag causing a static electrical shock to pinch him. The blood curdling image of Lauren’s head kept flashing before his eyes. The image of the razor sharp edge around the circumference of her mid-neck haunted him. She was guillotined.

He tried to distract himself. Kim would ask why he was so late. Not wanting to alarm her, he would tell her about a last minute meeting related to public health. He stared out the cab’s side window. As the cab snaked through the streets, he counted the multi-colored fast food restaurant neon signs. The fifth sign flashed by him, closely followed by thoughts of the ghastly scene in the Park. Kim will be furious. I promised her that I would resign as Surgeon General if any danger surfaced.

It was crystal clear that his family had already suffered far too much as a result of his carrying out his duties when he previously served as the Commissioner of Health in Michigan. Now, he thought to himself, his wife would go ballistic once she learned that he was again being sucked into yet another potentially lethal vortex. If he told Kim what had just happened to Lauren Timmons, she would insist that he resign as Surgeon General. I can’t do that, he thought. Lauren gave her life for what was in that gym bag. I have a duty to the American public to find out if she was telling the truth about NeoBloc!

Nothing would stand in his way. Not even Kim, his best friend and closest confidant.

***

In a moderate state of nausea, he arrived in front of his two story brick faced townhouse. He snatched Lauren’s package off the seat. The cabbie slid open the bullet proof plastic window separating the back of the cab from the front seat. Rogers handed him two twenty dollar bills. He hoped that was enough, given the time that had elapsed since he first entered the cab near the tavern.

Exiting the taxi, he caught a glimpse of Kim in the front window. She was gaping down at him, her hands resting on both hips. A deep frown creased her forehead. Her eyes protruded outward, sending out a cold stare. It was not the first time he had seen her look that way.

While standing underneath the street light on Decatur Place, he found himself holding the gym bag tightly against his chest---as if it were filled with rare coins. His back to Kim, he thought of what he would say when he greeted her. Lord knows, I can’t involve her. It could be dangerous!

Still facing the driver, he wondered why the cabbie didn’t pull away by now. Instead, the front window of the cab opened. The dark skinned middle aged husky man turned his neck to Rogers.

Hey doc, got a second? I need to talk with you, the cabbie said in a gravelly voice with a distinct Middle Eastern accent.

He bent down on both knees to be eye-level with the driver. Who said I was a doc?

The bald headed rotund driver turned his back on the Surgeon General and seemed to be fumbling with something on the passenger side of the front seat. And, then in one rapid blurry motion, Rogers caught just a glimpse of a hand-held object. Caught by surprise, the camera flash temporarily