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It was raining when President Joanna Weston stepped out into the White House Rose Garden. In one hand, she clung onto a paperback romance novel and in her other was a glass of tea. Weston looked up at the new opaque glass roof that had been constructed over the garden. This was the first time she was genuinely pleased to have the dome overhead to protect her from the rain. In the past, if it had been raining, she was stuck indoors. At least now, she could enjoy being outdoors in all sorts of weather. It remained to be seen if she would still feel that way when the snows hit Washington, D.C.
The glass table in the center of the garden held a crystal vase with three roses. Weston pulled out a chair from the table, kicked off her heels and used the adjacent chair to prop her feet. She took a sip of her tea, set the drink on the glass table, and opened her book.
Fat raindrops made plinking sounds on the glass above—a relaxing sound to the President. She scrunched down a little more in her chair and let her head lean back onto the fat seat cushion.
She didn’t hear the drone until it was literally mere feet away from her. From somewhere off to her left, the drone had flown under the glass awning and made a beeline straight for her table.
The President flinched, and her heart skipped a beat when the small drone knocked over the vase, which rolled off the table’s edge and shattered to pieces on the ground.
Three tripod legs began sprouting from under the drone, and its flexible LED video screen began to unroll.
President Weston’s face distorted as anger began to boil within her when she recognized this was the same drone Hail had landed on the table just a few weeks before the glass dome had been constructed to prevent this from occurring—again. But how? How was this even possible? The opaque glass dome fully enclosed the Rose Garden, and security had all electronic signals around the White House jammed from outside interference.
In one fluid motion, the President pulled her feet off the chair and sat up straight. She slapped her book down on the table as she watched Marshall Hail’s face appear on the screen.
Hail began the conversation, “Good afternoon, Madam President—I mean, Joanna. I hope I’m not interrupting you, but we need to talk.”
From Marshall Hail’s perspective, the POTUS looked understandably upset. Her first words verified his assumption.
“How in the Hell were you able to land this—this—contraption on my table? Do you have any idea what extensive measures we have taken to prevent this from continually occurring?”
The President pointed up to the glass roof and sternly continued, “We installed opaque glass over the garden to prevent you or anyone else, from using lasers to pilot drones onto the White House property.”
Hail sensed that even though the President had run out of words, her tirade had not yet diffused her anger. She was still fuming.
Doing a remarkable job of hiding his personal amusement, Hail meekly replied, “Well, the drone keeps track of the exact X and Y coordinates of its last landing spot, so it doesn’t require communication with anything in order to return. But, if you had moved the table, it might have—”
The President was no longer listening. She threw her hands up in the air and looked up at the glass dome. She shook her fists and yelled, “Mr. Hail, you are really trying my patience! Do you have any idea how much your drone’s unscheduled visits are costing the taxpayers?”
Hail shrugged and said, “If it makes your staff take more security precautions I am doing my civic duty.”
The President made a face Hail thought looked a little angry, a little frustrated, and a whole lot overwhelmed.
In a tone that sounded like a woman who was trying to get rid of Hare Krishnas who had knocked on her front door, the president asked, “Why are you sitting on my table yet again, Marshall?”
Hail was pleased to get down to business. “It’s really no big deal. I just need two things: First, I need the names of the Marines I got in trouble and their contact information.”
“You mean the Marines that you got dishonorably discharged,” the President corrected.
“It sounded better the way I said it,” Hail insisted.
The President huffed and asked, “And what’s the other thing you require?”
Hail looked sheepishly at the president and stated, “And I also need some weapons-grade anthrax.”
“I beg your pardon?” The President almost choked on the tea she was drinking. She was certain she had not heard Hail correctly.
“Yeah, you see we could manufacture our own strain of anthrax in Hail’s laboratories. But each strain has its own variant that allows it be traced back to the lab that created it. For example, when the strain of anthrax sent through the U.S. Postal Service that killed five people was tested, it was determined to have originated from the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases at Fort Detrick.”
“This isn’t making sense to me on so many levels,” President Weston responded. “Why would we give you anthrax for any reason? And if we did, why would we give you a strain that could be traced back to the United States?”
Hail shook his head and said, “We don’t want a variant of anthrax that can be traced back to the United States, and my guess is that you probably have samples created in other countries, if for no other reason, to compare them to active strains such as the one that killed those five Americans. If not, what was the benefit of testing the origins of the anthrax?”
The President understood Hail’s purpose, but she still didn’t know why he wanted it. Providing a citizen with such a deadly organism didn’t set well with her. Rules and procedures were in place to manage who had access to deadly pathogens to prevent them from being used in a manner that could cause any number of fatalities, which could occur especially if weapons-grade anthrax were ever aerosolized. Knowing the capabilities of Hail, she had deep concern over just handing that over to him without further information. But even then—
Hail patiently waited on the other end of the video conference for the President to respond to his request. The President asked for further clarification.
“Why do you want anthrax?” Weston asked. Her tone was like a mother asking why her child wants a toy on the shelf at the checkout line of a supermarket.
“Just a project we’re working on,” Hail said.
The President was at a loss for words. She understood why, in the past, the United States had provided Hail Industries with implements of war, such as Hellfire missiles. They had done so to protect the shipments of radioactive material Hail was transporting to other countries. So why did she feel this request from Hail was crazy? An attack with Hellfire missiles could kill thousands, and an attack with aerosolized anthrax could kill just as many. However at this point, no one had successfully aerosolized anthrax, so its threat of lethality was relatively low. Nevertheless, anthrax in any form was not a thing to play with.
Choosing to change the subject, the President told Hail, “I’ll discuss it with my staff and let you know what we decide.”
“Fair enough,” Hail agreed.
There was a moment of silence while Hail considered if he should press the President for further favors.
At the same time, the President was considering if she should terminate the video meeting.
“You know, Joanna, we both want the same thing. We want to take out the bad guys who are causing the world an immeasurable amount of pain and unrest.”
The President gave Hail a polite smile and said, “Marshall, you know what I really want?”
“What’s that?” Hail asked, believing the president would level with him.
“I want your damn drone off my table.”