John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts
Washington, D.C.
Since first seeing La Bohème during her freshman year at Georgetown University, Dr. Renatta Brickell, the surgeon general of the United States, had been a die-hard opera aficionado. Time had done nothing to erode her passion, and there were few things in life she coveted more than her season subscription to the opera.
With Christmas carols playing softly, she sat in her aisle seat marveling at the lavish red-and-gold silk curtain. Lost in thought, she barely noticed the light tap on her shoulder. When she looked up she saw her assistant, Julian Christakis, standing over her. His mere presence and the apologetic half smile on his baby face caused her to groan inwardly. Five years ago, she had hand-selected Julian from hundreds of applicants. Diplomatic to a fault, he had become one of her key advisors and an invaluable member of her team.
He cleared his throat and spoke in just above a whisper. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, Dr. Brickell, but there’s a…a situation.”
With more than an inkling her evening was in peril, she turned to her husband.
“I’m sorry, Stan. I’ll be right back.”
With a dubious look, he tapped his watch crystal. “The curtain’s about to go up, Renatta. You don’t have much time.”
She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, came to her feet and accompanied Julian to the lobby. After scanning the area, she motioned toward a relatively secluded area in front of the donor recognition wall.
“This better be good,” she told him.
“Once you hear what’s been going on, I suspect you’ll agree it is.” He exhaled a lungful of air, scanned the lobby and then continued in a guarded voice, “I’ve been on the phone with the Centers for Disease Control for the past two hours. It seems they’ve been receiving calls all day from dozens of hospitals from Florida to California that have been treating hundreds of women with a bizarre illness that none of their doctors has ever seen before.”
“What are their symptoms?”
“Mostly neurologic: memory loss, confusion and severe muscle twitching of the legs. What’s particularly disturbing is that many of the women have developed a dancing eye syndrome.”
“I thought that only occurs in infants and children.”
“Except in rare circumstances, that’s usually the case.”
“How seriously ill are these women?”
“Some of them are unresponsive and have been admitted to intensive care units.”
“Any deaths?” she inquired, becoming more concerned with each passing second.
“None reported so far.”
“Just exactly how many cases are we talking about here, Julian?”
“The CDC’s not exactly sure. Their best guess is around four hundred, but there could be a lot more.”
She folded her arms and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. “Has anybody considered that this may just be the beginning of some new strain of flu?”
“None of these women has a fever, sore throat or any other flu symptoms. And, none of their immediate family members is sick. Besides, why would a flu only affect women?” He lightly shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve spoken to a lot of people today. None of them has the first idea of what the hell’s going on.”
“For God’s sake, Julian, you have nine advanced degrees in health care and epidemiology.” She paused briefly to gather her thoughts and then asked, “What’s the first rule of diagnosis we all learned in medical school?”
“That’s easy. The most common things occur most frequently.”
“It’s a little corny, but it’s also very true, which leaves us with only two rational explanations: The first is this is a contagious disease. The second is we’re dealing with some type of widespread toxic exposure.”
Just at that moment, Julian’s cell phone rang. He plucked it from the leather case and checked the display. “It’s the CDC,” he told her, raising the phone to his ear. “This is Julian Christakis,” he answered, pacing in a tight circle while he listened. He suddenly stopped, and then with a solemn nod added, “You’re absolutely sure. There’s no chance of an error? I see. Thanks very much for calling, Dr. Emerson. No, that won’t be necessary. I’m with the surgeon general now. I’ll brief her immediately.”
Julian slid his car keys from the inside pocket of his black blazer. He was generally unflappable but at the moment his expression was ominous. He leaned back against the wall.
“There’s obviously something else,” Renatta stated in a guarded tone.
“I’m afraid so. Not only are the hospitals reporting more new cases every hour but most of the women who were admitted earlier are getting worse. I don’t have the exact numbers but quite a few are now in a near coma.” He paused long enough to push his hand through his curly blond hair. Renatta was familiar with the habit, which was a sure sign of his uneasiness. “Emerson also confirmed something we suspected earlier.”
“I’m listening.”
“All of the affected women are pregnant.”
With his words seemingly suspended in midair, Renatta could feel the color drain from her face.
The lobby lights flickered.
“Give me a minute,” she told him. “I’ll let Stan know I have to leave. You can drive us to the office.”
Renatta made her way back into the opera hall. Clutching her rolled-up program, she descended the center aisle. With her stomach clenched and plagued by a rising sense of urgency, it occurred to her that perhaps the most sensible thing to do was skip the trip to her office and have Julian drive her directly to the White House.