Jesus H. Christ.
She said calmly: “Listen carefully. What I want you to do, Major, is first sound the alarm sirens. Then send a Level Four van to Colonel Hamilton’s laboratory, and when you’ve done that, get a Level Four BioLab on emergency standby. Got all that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then do it,” the garrison commander said, and broke the connection.
Major Lott raised the cover of the alarm activation switch and then pressed on the switch. Sirens all over began to howl.
He then consulted the standing operating procedure to see what else was required of him to do—thus knocking over the first of the dominoes.
The provost marshal was notified. The first thing listed on his SOP was to lock down the fort. Nobody in. Nobody out. He did so. The second thing on his list was to notify the garrison medical facility to prepare for casualties. The third thing listed was to notify the Secret Service detachment on the base. He did so, and then continued to work down his list.
The first thing on the Secret Service Detachment SOP was to notify local law enforcement agencies. With Fort Detrick equidistant between Washington, D.C. (forty-five miles), and Baltimore, Maryland (forty-six miles), there was a large number of law enforcement agencies in that area, each of which was entitled to know of the problem at Fort Detrick.
The Secret Service agent instead first called his special agent in charge at the Department of Homeland Security at the Nebraska Avenue complex in the District of Columbia. He told him about the Potential Level Four Disaster, but had to confess that was all he knew.
“I’ll handle it,” the SAC said.
The Secret Service agent began calling the numbers on his list of law enforcement agencies to be notified.
The SAC at Homeland Security attempted to contact the secretary of Homeland Security but was told he was in Chicago with Mayor Daley. He then got the assistant secretary for enforcement on the telephone and told him about the Potential Level Four Disaster at Fort Detrick.
“I’ll be damned,” he said. “I’ll handle it.”
He contacted the garrison commander on a hotline.
“Assistant Homeland Security Secretary Andrews, Colonel,” he said. “I understand you’ve got a little problem over there.”
The garrison commander had by then spoken with Master Sergeant Dennis, who had told her about the container that had arrived with the morning FedEx shipment.
When she had told Andrews this, he said, “I’ll take immediate action.”
Andrews then called the SAC back, told him to get on the horn to his people at Detrick, and have them grab the container and not let anybody else near it.
“How’s the quickest way for me to get there?” the assistant secretary asked.
“It would probably be quicker in one of our Yukons than trying to get a chopper, Mr. Secretary. I can have one at your door in ninety seconds.”
“Do it.”
Five and a half minutes later, a black Secret Service Yukon—red and blue lights flashing from behind its grille and with another magnet-based blue light flashing on the roof—skidded to a stop in front of the main building and picked up Assistant Secretary Andrews. The SAC was in the front seat, where the assistant secretary preferred to ride.
Andrews thought: Ninety seconds, my ass.
That took five minutes plus, and we need to roll.
“Get in the back,” he said.
Only then did the assistant secretary remember he had had another option. He could have told the SAC to get out.
But it was too late. He took a seat in the second row and, siren screaming and lights flashing, they were on their way to the Potential Level Four Disaster at Fort Detrick.
[THREE]
Office of the Presidential Press Secretary
The White House