V02 - East Coast Crisis Read online

  Garr found his voice first. "Christ Almighty! What is that?"

  Mayor Daniel O'Connor was in his glory—surrounded by smiling children, clicking cameras, and the soft whirr of videotape minicams. The whole scene on the steps of the new building at the Bronx Zoo was being captured for the local evening news. As City Council President Alison Stein watched him, she was convinced all over again that O'Connor's broad face could hold a wider smile for a longer time than any other human being she'd ever known.

  "Y'know," the Mayor began, "when I was a little Irish-Jewish kid growing up in Hell's Kitchen—that's on the West Side, for those of you too young to—"

  A chorus of groans had erupted from the regular reporters, and O'Connor broke off, looking around at the grinning faces surrounding him. This was a ritual of every "fun" public appearance and the razzing always accompanied his favorite off-the-cuff speech. "Oh, no, Mayor!" called one reporter, "not the little Irish-Jewish-kid from Hell's Kitchen routine again . . . Change the speech, change the speech—"

  Other members of the press picked up the refrain, and it became a chant of mock protest. The Mayor, a stout fireplug of a man, roared with laughter until he was breathless. "Okay! Okay!" He waved for attention. "I promise, no more Irish-Jewish-little-kid stories! Now quiet down!"

  The noise subsided and the mayor tried to look serious, returning to his speechifying cadence. "Y'know, everywhere I go, whatever city, when the mayors complain about having to put up with reporters, I always tell them to thank their lucky stars that they don't have to put up with the New York press corps, the wildest, rowdiest bunch I've ever seen—" The reporters began a chorus of catcalls and mock hisses, and the Mayor finished hastily, "But the best too, and don't anyone forget it!"

  Alison Stein marveled at the way O'Connor handled these spontaneous appearances, the impromptu press conferences, the streetwise give and take that exemplified her city and its sometimes rough edges. Personally, she detested unscripted appearances—she was a careful, methodical person who felt hideously naked without something written down to prompt her. Twenty years as a lawyer and politician had given her a veneer of calm deliberation, but to this day her hands still sweated and her knees knocked when she faced the microphones. She always got a kick out of watching (and envying) O'Connor's masterful handling of the press.

  He was waving his hands for order again, and the crowd quieted to hear him. "Okay, back to why we're here at the Bronx Zoo, the best zoo in the world. When I was a kid, I used to love hopping on the subway and coming up here—and, y'know, I still do. But today I'm even happier and prouder than I was as a kid, because lately, with the support of many local businesses and corporations plus the generosity of private citizens all over the city, the zoo has been raising money for improvements. The zoo we see today is a growing, changing environment, and for hundreds of miles in any direction it's the premier place to see animals in habitats that come as close to nature as possible—right here in the biggest city in America!"

  There was a ripple of applause. O'Connor gestured to the building behind him. "Now, today, we're officially dedicating this new reptile house. This alligator pool behind me, I'm told, duplicates a Southern river ecosystem—a bit of the Everglades right here in the Big Apple. Isn't it great?"

  The photographers snapped away and the kids in the crowd squealed in joyous fright as doors opened in the stony walls and several alligators slithered through them into the pool, tails undulating in powerful swishes, their tiny eyes nearly hidden amid their dark greenish-brown scales. They didn't look particularly hungry, but with jaws nearly a foot and a half long, nobody wanted to stick his or her hand in to see if they'd be interested.

  "Mr. Mayor," called a reporter, "why don't you climb in there and pose with those alligators? It'd make a great shot!"

  The crowd laughed and O'Connor smiled benignly. "You're quite a comedian, Ralston."

  "Why not?" the young woman grinned cheekily. "Are you chicken, Mr. Mayor?"

  O'Connor pursed his lips. "The 'gators might enjoy me more if I was, but no, the Mayor is not chicken. The Mayor is also not a fool. Besides, I'd be perfectly safe. I have it on good authority that these are Democratic alligators."

  A burst of laughter rolled over the uninterested heads of the reptiles. O'Connor waved at them. "Alison Stein made sure they had the right party affiliation before she'd agree to let me come here and introduce 'em to the city. Because, you see, if anything did happen to me, she'd end up as mayor, and as we all know, she's a lady who prefers to run things from behind the scenes. Alison ..." O'Connor looked around. "C'mon up here, Alison."

  Trying not to color, she pulled her jacket straight and edged toward the Mayor and the hated microphones, wishing O'Connor had let her just hide in the crowd. She glared at him covertly as she mounted the steps toward him. A woman in her mid-forties, she looked her age. She was a shade on the plump side, with yard-long dark hair (which she kept coiled in a neatly braided bun during the day), fair skin, and determined dark eyes. Divorced for more than a decade, she'd somehow managed to juggle raising three children with a full-time job, law school at night, and working her way up through the male-dominated Democratic hierarchy. This was her second term as City Council president.

  O'Connor slung an arm around her shoulders as Alison joined him at the top of the steps. "Alison Stein here," he said, "is largely responsible for this new reptile facility, though she'd be the last one to take credit for her own hard work. But she spent a lot of time lining up some of the larger donations from local businesses. I think all New Yorkers should thank her—/ want to take this opportunity to publicly express my appreciation." He beckoned to the crowd. "How about it?"

  The applause was enthusiastic. Alison blushed to the roots of her hair, and, irritated, realized the flush would probably show on camera. "And what's more," O'Connor said as the i lapping began to die away, "I think if you reporters want to hear the most heartfelt praise for Alison's work you're likely to hear, you ought to interview the alligators!"

  Hut the line didn't get the laugh O'Connor had expected— the attention of the crowd was suddenly elsewhere. Alison turned on the steps, her gaze searching. There was a gut-quivering hum coming from—from where? It seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. The reporters murmured, wondering. The bass throbbing intensified. Photographers and cameramen and -women turned, searching, trying to be the first to capture the source of the vibrating sound—trying to latch on to a really big story for the evening news.

  It was big, all right. Somehow they all saw it at once. The huge vessel drifted overhead as lightly as one of the clouds, impossibly huge, impossibly real. The Mayor looked at it for a long moment, his freckles standing out against his pallor, then tinned to Alison. "Shit—talk about being upstaged, Ali," he said soberly, his pale blue eyes shining with fear and excitement. "Think I'll get a laugh if I tell 'em it's all a Republican campaign stunt?"

  White House Press Secretary Fred Foster cradled the phone on his shoulder as he hastily scribbled notes on a pad. "No, we have no comment as of yet. The report is still uncomfirmed. No, I won't confirm the name of the city. The reports remain unconfirmed. No, no, as soon as we have a statement to make, you'll have it."

  He slammed the phone down with a muttered curse just as his cubicle door burst open. Chief of Staff Leonard Katowski stood in the doorway, his knuckles resting on his hips, wrinkling the pinstripes of his ancient navy-blue suit. "Let's go, F. F.—now." He ran an urgent hand through his thick black hair, leaving it standing even more on end. His suit was a touch too short for his long thin limbs—Foster had always fancied in idle moments that Katowski would fit right in as the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.

  Foster nodded, standing, ignoring the phone as it shrilled again. "Another one. Christ, how the hell do they expect me to find out anything if they keep me tied up on the phone?"

  Automatically he pulled on his jacket, checked the knot on his tie, and smoothed down his wispy blond hair. Katowski fairly danced in the doorway as Foster came toward him, leaving the phone still jangling insistently.

  The portly Foster, at least a head shorter than the Chief of Staff, had to jog to keep up with Katowski's quick tread. "Hold all my calls!" he shouted at his secretary as they passed her door, his and Katowski's feet silent on the thick carpet. "What's new?" Foster asked, guessing the answer.

  "We've confirmed the sighting. Fighters are being scrambled. We've got to wake up the President now."

  "We do?" Foster remembered the time they'd awakened the Chief Executive from his afternoon nap, only to discover the reports of new troop movement in Afghanistan were the result of a translator's error.

  " We do,"Katowski stated. "Or else, Freddy, you're going to be the one fielding press questions on why the President wasn't bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when the UFO's invaded from space."

  Foster stopped so short he nearly fell. "UFO's? Plural?"

  Katowski grabbed his arm and pulled him along. "Plural. National Security Agency says the things are being sighted all over the world. We've had formal confirmations from Great Britain, France, and Japan."

  "Who gave the order to scramble the jets?"

  "Base commanders. SOP. Reconnaissance and radio contact, if possible, to establish their intentions. Now move it, Freddy—quit asking so many questions! We've gotta get our asses in gear and tell Morrow!"

  Foster tried to stop again, but Katowski wouldn't even let him break stride. "I have to ask questions," he sputtered. "I'm the goddamned Press Secretary!"

  They swung into Katowski's office, one door away from the Oval Office. The Chief of Staff began shoveling papers from his blotter into a file folder, his bony hands moving with the precision of a threshing machine—churning, sorting, and sifting. "I thought you were
in a hurry," Foster protested halfheartedly.

  "Briefing papers. I'm not getting caught with my pants down, and I won't let Morrow or you face the press without doing my job."

  Foster began to laugh. "Briefing papers? For something that Killed three minutes ago? Are you nuts? What are you giving him, a synopsis of Earth Versus the Flying Saucers?"

  Katowski gave Foster a bland look. "I have briefing papers lor any contingency you could possibly dream up, Freddy."

  "I could never have thought of this."

  "That's why I'm Chief of Staff, and you're the Press Secretary." Katowski looked grim.

  There was a knock from the open door. They looked up to see a compactly built man looking in. "Ready to go?" asked Gerald Livingston, the perfectly tailored and barbered National Security Adviser.

  "One more report," said Katowski, heading for the file cabinets across the room. "How are things downstairs?"

  "We're on top of it," said Livingston, sounding miffed that Katowski could think otherwise.

  Foster pursed his lips. He'd never liked or trusted Livingston, a man who had no rough edges, no apparent weak spots. He was entirely too calculated for Foster's tastes; "Isn't State gonna be pissed that NSA was in on this from the instant we woke the President up?" asked the Press Secretary.

  Livingston shrugged, smiling faintly. "Who cares? Let State be pissed. That's the price Nick Draper pays for having that lancy, plush office out in Foggy Bottom, while I slave in the White House basement."

  Katowski yanked one more folder out of a file cabinet, sending the metal drawer slamming back into place. "Got it. Let's go."

  "Who's actually going to do the waking?" asked Livingston.

  "Do we look like idiots?" growled Foster. "Morrow's wife is going to do it."

  They took the elevator upstairs to the First Family's living quarters. Foster thought about his secretary and deputy handling a Christmas tree's worth of press office phone lines lit up by cabinet officials, Pentagon brass, citizens, and foreign allies, all wanting to be able to rest easy, to know that President William Brent Morrow had the situation well in hand. In truth, Morrow was probably one of the few Americans remaining who was still resting easy—but that, obviously, was about to change.

  The elevator door opened, and Barbara Morrow, a slim, patrician woman in her late fifties, greeted them with a thin smile. "Gentlemen, does anyone have any idea what's actually going on?"

  "Not really," said Katowski. "Not yet. No sightings in this area—but they're confirmed in New York, Dallas, St. Louis, and several cities in Europe."

  "However bad this may get," said Foster, resisting the urge to drum his fingers on the door frame, "it'll be worse if it gets out that we didn't wake him right away."

  Barbara Morrow nodded and led them into the bedroom, clicking the lamp on to its lowest setting. The aides stood back while she gently touched her husband's shoulder. He was stretched out on the handmade quilt, dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, a big, handsome man with thick gray hair—what a President should look like, Foster had always thought. But he did not like being awakened from the naps his physician had prescribed when the Chief Executive had suffered minor chest pains last year.

  Morrow rolled over with a grunt, saw his wife, then his aides. "What's wrong?" he mumbled.

  "Are you awake, sir?" asked Foster gingerly, remembering the President's heart. Perhaps they should have brought Dr. Washington along.

  "I wake up instantly," Morrow snapped. "It's a skill I learned during World War Two in airfield barracks. Now, you boys know what I said the last time you woke me for a bad reason—so I'm safe in assuming this is a good one, am I not?"

  Katowski, Foster, and Livingston swallowed in unison, looked at each other to see who wanted to go first, then back at the President. Morrow gave his wife an exasperated glance. "You interrupted my nap for the Three Stooges?"

  Suddenly the White House shuddered down to its two-century-old bones. Morrow was on his feet immediately. "Are we under attack?"

  "Not exactly," said Katowski, edging nervously toward the window.

  "Not exactlyl" the President echoed. "We don't have earthquakes here, and it feels like the plaster's going to come down if those vibrations get any worse!"

  "We—we don't know if they're hostile," said Katowski, avoiding the President's question.

  "Who is 'they'?" the President demanded.

  Foster pulled open the heavy drapes, feeling his heart pause, then pound with hammer blows that made him wish they'd brought Dr. Washington along for him. Morrow strode to the window, stopped, and stared out. His wife and aides arrayed themselves behind him.

  "That is 'they,' sir," said Foster.

  "We don't know who they are," said Livingston, "but there are apparently a lot of them."

  It took the Commander-in-Chief of the most powerful nation on earth many heartbeats to find his voice. "Holy shit. You sure I'm not dreaming?"

  "No windows. I never know what time of day it is," grumbled Denise Daltrey, rubbing her eyes as she looked at the digital clock on her office desk. It told her it was 4:06 p.m. in the CBS News Building, a former dairy barn in this less-than-chic neighborhood on Manhattan's West Side. It also told her that she'd definitely never make her tennis lesson that afternoon.

  As she reached for the telephone to call the pro and apologize, a didactic little voice began a sermonizing monologue: You're skipping your tennis lesson today, and yesterday you were too tired to get it up to jog. And because you skipped your exercise, you're now so bleary-eyed that you probably don't recall a damn thing you just skipped your tennis lesson to read. Those nice young kids in research did all that digging for you, and when you get on the air tomorrow and the most intelligent thing you can utter is a burp, they'll think it was their fault you blew it, and one of them will try to pitch him or herself out the nearest upper-story window . . . which may be why they make researchers work in an office that has no windows. You're going to have to take better care of yourself, Denise old gal, if you want to keep your job. Viewers will take a dim view of a morning news anchorwoman who falls asleep in the middle of her own show . . .

  "Idiot!" a voice chided aloud, and Denise barely avoided jumping as she recognized it as her own. Firmly she gave herself a silent reminder to get a grip on things—after all, she loved her job. After a rocky start, she'd gone on to make the co-anchor spot her own. But now, a year into the mad pace, the hours were starting to take their toll—rising at 1:30 a.m. and getting to work by 3:30; being charming, witty, and incisive for two hours while millions of people watched her over their eggs and juice and the sounds of showers, razors, and hair dryers; then meetings on the following day's lineup, followed by lunch and more meetings; then tennis or a workout (when she could squeeze it in and wasn't too exhausted) and back to the office for more work. Finally, she was home by 5:00 for a nap, up at 7:00 to watch the network's flagship, The Evening News, then to sleep, perchance not to dream—please!—of all the things she should have done that day but hadn't.

  Denise made her apologetic call, then peered into the mirror hanging at eye level over her IBM Selectric. Bags were starting to take up permanent residence beneath her blue eyes and some mornings, even her heavy sweep of sable hair looked tired.

  Frowning, Denise quickly wielded her under-eye coverup stick, then freshened her mascara and shadow. Yeah, okay, so the job was grueling. Nobody had ever said it would be easy— and the fact remained that she had never wanted to do anything else and that she was in a very prestigious position for her age. She was getting a ton of experience and exposure—not bad for a kid who'd worked her way up from doing the weather on a Providence radio station. At thirty-three, Denise was what she'd always wanted to be, and she'd achieved that goal without ever compromising her integrity. She'd made it totally on her abilities, her rapport with people, and to be brutally honest, her looks. Homely people had a real disadvantage when bucking for an anchor slot.

  Now, her-hand resting on the telephone, she faced a turning point—she could read more background on this story she'd be doing tomorrow, or she could call a friend to wangle a late afternoon match. Kathy was a good player, and while she wouldn't give Denise the workout her pro would, at least it would be something. She kicked back in her chair, closed her eyes, and mumbled her decision in a small, guilt-ridden voice: "Tennis." Her hips felt bulgy, and she was convinced that only immediate exercise would prevent her looking like a blimp onscreen tomorrow.