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After reading the Presidential Daily Brief Joanna Weston was concerned enough over the missing CIA agent, as well as her video visit from Marshall Hail, to call a meeting with her top advisors. In attendance was meek-looking Eric Spearman, Director of National Intelligence. Next to him was General Ford, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Also present were the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, Jarret Pepper, and the director of the FBI, Trevor Rodgers (Marshall Hail’s boyhood friend). The President sat behind her desk in the Oval Office with the four men seated across from her.
“I wanted to start today’s meeting by informing you that yesterday I had a visit from Marshall Hail. Or to be more precise, I had an unscheduled and unwelcomed intrusion from one of his video drones which landed across from me on a table in the Rose Garden.”
Weston scrutinized the men’s faces for reactions. It was interesting to see how each advisor perceived Hail’s visit.
Trevor Rodgers flashed a wisp of a smile. The President assumed that he was smiling at the brashness of his friend, which was somewhat understandable. Trevor knew what made Hail tick.
General Ford looked intrigued. His big bushy eyebrows lifted high enough to drag his baggy red cheeks a good half-inch higher on his face.
Spearman was stoically impassive, but the President didn’t expect much of a reaction from the man. She would bet she could light her own hair on fire and he wouldn’t bat an eye or say anything other than, “Oh, your hair appears to be on fire, Madam President.”
Finally, she regarded the director of the CIA, Jarret Pepper, who appeared infuriated. But all someone had to do was mention Hail’s name and he looked enraged. Thus, she didn’t place any great value on his reaction.
After giving the men a moment to digest this new information, the President continued the meeting, evaluating what type of read her advisors had on the billionaire.
Weston said, “I will provide each of you one guess about Marshall Hail’s newest request from us.”
Pepper was the first to claim one of the guesses. “He probably asked for some more intelligence about the location of more terrorists so he could track them down and kill them.”
“No,” the President said with a degree of enjoyment in her voice.
Pepper look miffed and the general gave it a shot.
“My guess is that Hail requested our new LOCO missile, which has replaced the Hellfire missiles we have supplied him in the past.”
“Wrong,” the President responded, making a little checkmark in the air.
The four men exchanged glances. To maintain their dignity, it was essential they correctly guess Hail’s request of the President.
Rodgers said, “My guess is that he requested the names and contact information for the Marines who were disciplined for landing the chopper on the Mall.”
The President’s look of surprise could only be matched if the director of the FBI had guessed her name was Rumpelstiltskin.
Instead of giving Rodgers kudos, she asked, “Trevor, have you been in contact with your friend lately?”
Rodgers didn’t know why he felt embarrassment about conversing with an old friend but he did.
“Hail and I communicate every now and then, but I also know him pretty well. He tends to get into situations by continually driving forward without ample consideration of the consequences. After he discovers that his actions have caused collateral damage, he backpedals and tries to fix the damage. If Hail was a bull in a china shop, that bull would own a lot of superglue.”
“Interesting,” the President said, purposely not verifying if Rodgers had guessed correctly.
The President paused and looked at a neat stack of research papers about weaponized anthrax on her desk a staffer had collected for her. The President had read as much as she could absorb, doing her best to extract the threat level from all the chemical jargon held within the pile of papers. She was by no means an expert on the subject matter, but at least she now thought she had an elementary understanding of the basics.
She asked the men, “Do you know of any reason Marshall Hail would request weapons-grade anthrax?” The President rested her gaze on Trevor since he appeared to know the man better than the rest.
Rodgers looked just as surprised as the other men.
General Ford responded, “Well, I don’t know why Hail would request it, but I also don’t know why we wouldn’t fulfill that request.”
The general’s comment didn’t sit well with the President. She immediately snapped, “Please, tell me you’re kidding!”
The general looked puzzled. “I mean we have given the man, or his company to be more precise, hundreds of Hellfire missiles and other armaments we would only supply to our closest allies. We also know that Hail is doing covert work in which a Hellfire missile is the antithesis of keeping a low profile. Based on his poisoning of Kim Yong Chang, it only makes sense that he is requesting injectable agents.”
Spearman spoke up and suggested, “Do we know if he is going to use it as an injectable agent, or does he intend to aerosolize the anthrax?”
The question was just put out there—a rhetorical statement Spearmen knew couldn’t be answered.
Weston said, “From the research I’ve done, weapons-grade means the size of each particle of anthrax is extremely small so if they are inhaled they get caught in the tiny pockets of the lungs.”
The President waited for an endorsement of her statement. Instead Pepper commented, “It’s not only the size of the particles that makes it weapons grade; it’s also the seed culture of the anthrax organism itself. The more infectious and resistant the culture is to antibiotics, the more it tends to be classified as weapons-grade.”
Spearman asked, “Did anyone ask Hail how the anthrax was going to be used?”
The President paused to reassemble her thoughts. While she was thinking, Pepper started to say something and the President held up her hand. Pepper stopped after a word or two. Weston mused some more, glancing down at the anthrax research, not really reading anything. She focused on the pieces of paper to clear her mind.
Finally, she looked up and said, “All of this pontificating over weapons-grade anthrax and what Hail will do with it is really moot. All we need to decide is if we’re going to supply Marshall Hail a deadly anthrax agent.”
The President looked over her men. With no one offering any other suggestions, she directed, “Let’s take a vote.”
The men glanced at one another, none of them coming up with a better idea of solving the issue.
“Who votes for providing Mr. Hail with anthrax?” the President asked.
Two were in favor and two were opposed.
“Wonderful,” the President mumbled to herself, knowing that she was the tie-breaking vote.