V02 - East Coast Crisis Read online

  EAST COAST CRISIS

  Howard Weinstein and A. C. Crispin

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  NEW YORK

  Prologue

  Journey's End

  Ghostly and gray, the small planet rode the loneliest reaches of its solar system, reflecting only the dimmest glow from its distant sun. Five billion miles away, its captor star burned bright and yellow, bathing its closer planets in warmth—even, in the case of one blue-green sphere, life-giving warmth. But this far out, its immensity diminished by sheer distance, it was just another star in the darkness, barely larger and brighter than others studding the void.

  Most of the crew aboard the immense ship took little notice of the gray planet except to verify that the computer-controlled engines compensated automatically for its minor gravitational tug. The ship had crossed nearly nine light-years of featureless space—only the crew members posted at the navigation stations actually saw the icy worldlet, but several of them responded to its image on their screens with relief. It was a psychological boost to witness tangible proof that their mission had advanced so much that they were actually entering the system containing their long-awaited goal.

  The ship's command center was a dim, silent place. Most of the functions of the gigantic ship were controlled by computers—personnel had little to do except monitor and verify that the computers were performing their functions correctly.

  The ship's second-in-command sat perched on the commander's seat, stiff-backed and haughty. Her blonde hair was pulled into a severe ponytail, a utilitarian style that didn't

  detract from her obvious beauty. It was a cold, brittle beauty, though—ice-blue eyes, lips drawn into a thin line, her face a sculpture of sharp-edged planes and angles.

  She glanced down at the navigational, engineering, life-support, communications, and weapons-control stations arrayed before her like the spokes of a giant half-wheel, then focused on one of her subordinates, sitting at the communication console just to the right of the commander's station. The junior officer absently ran a hand through her reddish-brown hair as she scanned her readout screen.

  "Jennifer," the command officer said, her voice reverberating in the near silence.

  The officer addressed did not respond. "Jennifer!" the blonde officer repeated sharply.

  This time the younger female started and turned, her fingers digging into the arms of her seat. "I—I am sorry, Angela," she said, careful with her pronunciation of the superior officer's name. "I still have trouble remembering my assigned name. I'll be more alert next time. What did you wish?"

  Angela glared. "I wished nothing, Jennifer. I have been instructed to verify that each officer is fully prepared for his or her role in meeting our hosts-to-be. That preparedness includes a thorough familiarity with assigned names. You've had the same training period to learn yours as the rest of us. Your lapse wouldn't be forgivable in a bottom-ranked technician—it's totally unacceptable in the officer third in command of this ship. I doubt you've risen to that rank by suffering memory lapses."

  "I said I was sorry," Jennifer said softly. "It won't happen again, Angela."

  Angela narrowed her eyes warningly. "It's true that you're awfully young to be taking on this level of responsibility. In fact, I pointed that out to the Commander when he—"

  "To Roger," Jennifer interrupted, her voice still quiet, but firm now.

  "What?" Angela's attack had been diverted. For a moment she drew a blank.

  "To Roger," Jennifer repeated. "You said, 'the Commander.' His assigned name is Roger—or had you forgotten?"

  Angela stiffened in her seat, but any rejoinder she might have made was forestalled as boot heels rang on an overhead

  East Coast Crisis

  catwalk and the subject of their discussion appeared. The crew acknowledged his presence, but his wave cut short their formal salutations. He sat down in the seat Angela automatically vacated; his eyes, in his weathered, handsome countenance, focused on Jennifer. "Communications standing by, Jennifer?"

  "Yes, Roger," she said, her glance never wavering from his green eyes. "I'm keying in now."

  Her quick touches displayed the information on the screen above their heads, magnified for easy reading. "It seems as though we're about ready," he commented.

  "Not in my opinion, sir," Angela said, determined to make her opinions known.

  "What do you mean, Angela?" the Commander asked, his face creasing as he frowned, then smoothing as he lifted his fingers to touch the worry lines consideringly.

  "I'm concerned that not all of our crew are properly prepared for our mission, sir," Angela said, her eyes flicking coldly to Jennifer.

  Roger looked at his officers. "The test ratings on this ship are comparable with the highest in the Fleet. Do you agree with Angela, Jennifer?"

  "Well, no, Roger," the younger officer said, moving up to stand beside him and Angela and lowering her voice so that it would not carry to the rest of the bridge personnel. "That is, not exactly. I do agree that we may not be as fully prepared as we should be. Our strategy is based almost entirely on long-range surveillance and monitoring of informational and entertainment broadcasts. In many ways, this is a world still completely alien to us. And our mission ..." She hesitated. "The details of the Great Leader's plan are still not clear to many of the officers, Roger. I perceive this to be a possible weak link in our strategy—that so many of our people don't fully realize our purpose, yet will still be interacting with the native population."

  The Commander was a bit surprised to hear such apparent pessimism in Jennifer's precise assessment, but nodded thoughtfully. Angela glared at him before whirling to face Jennifer. "How dare you question the Leader's wisdom? Are you privy to things he doesn't know?"

  "No," said Jennifer defensively. "It's just that—"

  Angela cut her off with an angry hiss. "It seems to me that you don't have the faith and courage to devote to this mission, Jennifer! How can you question the goals of a mission designed to insure the very survival of our civilization?"

  Roger stopped any retort from the younger officer with an upraised hand. "We're tired. This has been a long voyage—for all of us. I know each of us is concerned about what we're going to encounter here. I appreciate both of your opinions, but my command judgment is that we—and the Fleet as a whole— are prepared to fulfill Our Leader's expectations of us." He gestured at the communications console. "Jennifer, we will need your services in just a few minutes."

  As the younger officer nodded and resumed her post, the Commander turned to the navigation station, his eyes fixing on the main viewscreen. "Navigation status?"

  "Preprogrammed coordinates have initiated deceleration maneuver number three. Estimated time to Earth orbit—six hours."

  Roger nodded, carefully keeping his face from reflecting his perplexity. Mentally, he went through the laborious process of converting the local time—"hours"—to his own people's time units. After a second he nodded slightly. Soon, he thought, soon . . .

  He turned back to the viewscreen to see the featureless face of the gray planet receding. It revealed neither sign nor omen nor comment on the chances for success of the Great Leader's mission. The fleet of starships passed it by, and its monochrome clouds swirled in enigmatic salute.

  Chapter 1

  Where Were You When the UFOs Landed?

  Peter Forsythe crouched low, elbows on knees. Ten feet off third base, he was edging in toward the infield grass. His glove was loose and open, but his spikes dug into the dirt, and Ihe muscles of his legs were coiled tightly in anticipation. His eyes bore in on the bat at home plate, just ninety feet away— not on the batter, but on the bat, held high and twitching as
if it held a life of its own.

  Automatically Pete's eyes rechecked the alignment of the batter's feet. The ball would definitely be headed this way. Eight years as the premier third baseman in the American League made him confident in his ability to judge.

  He heard the pitch cut the air, straight and fast. The bat whipped forward, too quickly for the human eye to follow except as a tawny blur. The ball came off it like a shot, the sharp rifle crack sounding a split second later

  Even before the sound reached his ears, Pete's reflexes had taken over, his blue eyes tracking the ball as it angled down toward the grass. His compact, lean-muscled body twisted, his left, gloved hand aiming itself where his brain—without any conscious thought—knew the ball would ricochet upward after its impact with the grass.

  It wasn't enough! He needed another foot of reach, and Pete's body automatically left the ground, diving smoothly, his legs following his trajectory like the tail of a comet. The ball drilled itself into the deep leather pocket of his glove. He landed on his chest, already scrambling to his knees, his bare right hand clutching the ball and effortlessly snapping a hard throw across the field. With a lazy arc belying the speed and power behind it, the ball thudded into the first baseman's mitt.

  Panting, Pete listened automatically for the umpire's bellow of "Out!" But there was no bellow, no cheers from the crowd, no disgruntled opposing player glaring at him as he trudged back to the dugout, eliminated from the inning by yet another Pete Forsythe golden play. Yankee Stadium was empty on this crisp mid-October afternoon—except for Pete, his teammate Joey Vitale at bat, the Yankees' owner, Alexander Garr, playing the first-base side of the infield, and team manager Bobby Neal loading and adjusting the pitching machine as he kept a careful eye on Joey's batting stance. All wore dark-blue team warm-up suits.

  "Not bad for an old man," said Garr, his rasping voice carrying all too well across the field. "A few more plays like that during the season and we might've been in the Series now."

  The taunt stung. Pete recalled all the grounders that had bounced just beyond his reach, the hanging curve balls he'd inexplicably missed hitting for home runs, all the plays he might have made a season or two ago—and all the nights he'd spent wondering if age was really catching up with him. The season's fourth-place finish hadn't been all his fault, but he was ready to accept his share of the blame, and probably more.

  "C'mon, Alex," Joey Vitale called from the batter's box. "Ragging Pete ain't gonna help. And he's not old—my dad says thirty-three is barely out of diapers!" The tall, whippet-lean young athlete had celebrated his twenty-fifth birthday only last week.

  Garr shook his head, a sour smile making his teeth flash in the brilliant sunshine. He started across the diamond toward Pete, circling around the pitching machine on the mound. "Joey, tell that to the insurance people who cover this Methuselah—he's had so many injuries, they've optioned his legs for the Mayo Clinic."

  Forsythe stayed on his knees, enjoying the feeling of the cool grass. Then he looked up at Garr. The owner's perfect posture and cropped gray hair still gave him the air of the

  Marine he'd been in Korea. He looked younger than his fifty-five years.

  "More sweet talk?" said Pete.

  "Maybe you are tradable after all," Garr said with a sardonic grin. "Can I convince another club you've got a few more years of those impossible plays in you, Pete?"

  Pete gave him a level stare, then laughed. "Have you forgotten my no-trade contract? Besides, I may have the knees of a seventy-year-old arthritic cripple, but there's still nobody who makes that play more than I do. Right, Joey?"

  Joey watched an imagined drive drop into the stands, turned, looked blank for a second, then nodded. "Sure, Pete—all the way." His slow, warmhearted grin brightened his rawboned, homely features, making him almost handsome. Pete grinned back—it was tough for people to stay stone-faced when Joey Vitale smiled at them.

  Garr smiled too, but with all the charm of a cattle owner surveying his prizes as they boarded the stock car. "Swift, real swift, isn't he, Forsythe? It's a good thing he's as strong as a bull, 'cause he's got about as much gray matter." He shook his head, watching Bobby Neal set the young batter up for another pitch. The ball streaked toward Vitale and the kid sent it screaming over their heads, a line drive headed for the stands like a tiny rocket plane.

  "He ain't so dumb," said Bobby Neal affably, patting his ample belly. "He hits pretty good, and you pay him a million dollars a year for it. Pretty smart if you ask me."

  Pete laughed out loud. Neal's down-home common sense always deflated Garr's sarcasm, and the veteran manager was such a sweet-natured man that Garr never hit back. "Damned smart," Pete kidded, following Neal's lead. "A million dollars a year, and the kid didn't even go to Harvard Business School like you did, Alex."

  Garr's face softened as he watched Joey hit another pitch deep into left field. "He is a classic, isn't he?" Garr said, too low for Joey to hear—not that Joey listened much to what people said about him. "He might be the most graceful outfielder since Joe DiMaggio, Pete. Much as it pains me, I have you to thank for some of this. You've really settled Joey down. I appreciate the big-brother routine. Of course, now that he's matured, I don't need you anymore," Garr quipped.

  "Every pup needs a sheepdog," Neal reminded him.

  "Only a sheepdog who stays on the wagon," said Garr—the sarcasm was back, full strength and aimed at Pete.

  Forsythe felt his jaw tighten as he tried not to show how much it annoyed him when the owner brought up the drinking incident. Once he'd admitted he had a problem three years back, Pete had fought to solve it. He'd had it under control too—until that night in Florida. It had been a bad day, one of the worst he'd ever lived through—one he almost didn't live through. He'd let his guard down, had one drink, thinking he could stop after that. But he didn't stop even after he left the bar. Not until he'd downed an entire bottle of vodka.

  The memory blurred painfully ... the car ... the rain . . . headlights blinding him . . . swerving . . . then real pain, physical pain, and the blacking out.

  Driving while intoxicated. The papers loved reporting on athletes messing up their lives, Pete thought bitterly. He'd never forget the accident, and he righteously felt he'd done his public penance, but it had taken Bobby Neal's intervention to smooth things over with Garr. The owner wouldn't even speak to his star third baseman until Neal insisted on a meeting. In a room far chillier than the coldest air conditioner could make it, Garr had exacted a promise—no more drinking or, no-trade clause or not, he'd get rid of Pete in a hurry.

  Pete kept that promise. Haven't had a drink since then . . . nineteen months dry as a bone. Won't he ever forget?

  Garr cocked his head at him, his eyes knowing. "What's the matter, Pete? Scared I really might trade you? Or make it so rough you'll quit? Afraid that if you didn't have training to keep you straight you'd go to pot—or alcohol?" He chuckled at his own pun. "I thought you had your post-baseball future all sewed up, Doc."

  Forsythe shrugged. "If I wasn't sure there was life after baseball, I wouldn't be spending my winters in med school, now would I? Besides, with the cost of medical care, the only way I'll be able to afford to keep my legs in working order is to have a bunch of colleagues giving me professional courtesy."

  "I knew there hadta be a good reason for you to be crazy enough to go back to medical school," said Neal with a chuckle. "Hey, I'm gonna be sixty-five soon and I've been seein' docs more than my wife lately. Are you gonna be a doctor before I'm dead?"

  Pete laughed. "I'll give it my best shot, Bobby. And you stick around for a while, okay?"

  "I'll give it my best shot."

  "Hey!" Joey's voice rang out. "You guys want beers?"

  "Sure, kid," said Garr.

  Joey went to the cooler in the dugout and came back with three bottles of Bud—and a Diet 7Up for Pete. The third baseman looked at the beers for a moment, then resolutely twisted the cap off his soda. He glanced up at Joey as
the younger player drank—at six-three, Vitale was a good four inches taller than the stocky Forsythe. With their difference in height, Joey's dark hair and Pete's thinning blond curls, they made for an arresting contrast in looks.

  Joey cocked his head at a questioning angle. The pose reminded Forsythe of a collie he'd had as a kid. "What is it, Joey?"

  "I dunno," Joey said, his dark eyes narrowing as he scanned the scudding clouds over Yankee Stadium's upper deck. "Can't you hear it?"

  "Hear what?" asked Garr.

  Pete frowned, not sure that his ears picked up any actual noise—but his feet sure as hell sensed a vibration. Reflexively, he dug his spikes into the grass as the ground began to shudder the way it does when a subway rumbles underneath the street gratings. But there was no subway under the stadium.

  Garr's face paled beneath his tan. "Earthquake?"

  The throbbing filled the air now, a deep humming that hurt the ears. They looked around, but there was nothing to account for the phenomenon—nothing visible.

  Joey Vitale's keen young eyes spotted it first, moving in from the north, over the Hudson River. "Look!" he pointed.

  Pete Forsythe's gaze followed Joey's finger, and his stomach tightened in disbelief, the way it had when Jean told him she wanted the divorce. He experienced a sudden, irrevocable certainty that his life—that every life on earth—had suddenly changed. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  It moved majestically through the air, glimmering silver-blue, a massive round shape thickened in the middle, tapering around its edges. It was so huge as it moved over Yankee Stadium that the sun was totally eclipsed, the brightness of the October day quenched as though it had been snuffed like a candle.

  Miles across, Pete thought, his numbed mind struggling to take in the scale of the mammoth ship. The sonofabitch is miles across!

  It descended through the clouds, the sun playing off its upper surfaces while its belly remained dark. The edge of its monstrous shadow slid across the stadium, rippling down the bleachers, gliding across the outfield. Then the men were looking at the ship as it moved away, settling over Manhattan.