They went in the back way, straight to the network president's office. It was after nine, and he had gone home, but the evening director was there, preparing for the eleven o'clock news broadcast. Leaving Donovan, Tony went over to speak to the man, a heavy-set bald fellow. Mike remembered having met him a time or two before. Sitting down gingerly on the edge of one of the newsroom desks, Donovan tried to recall his name. Martini? Gibson? Some kind of drink, he thought fuzzily. The back of his neck was killing him.
Leonetti came back with the bald man. "Mike, this is Paul Madeira. He's willing to put on a special bulletin, if your tape warrants it. Are you willing to do a live interview to accompany it?"
For all his years behind the camera, Donovan had never had one focus on him, except for the press that had gathered around following their first visit to the Mother Ship. He hesitated. "Okay. Just so long as you don't expect Barbara Walters' brand of poise out of me."
They went into one of the rear screening rooms, while Tony readied the tape. Donovan sat in the darkened room, his pulse racing, as the images began to unroll.
First the loading dock. "What's 'venting operations'?" Madeira wanted to know.
"They're evidently taking some of those chemicals up there, then dumping them into the atmosphere," Donovan said. "The chemical story may be just a cover-up."
"But why would they do that? Why present such an elaborate hoax?" Tony asked.
Mike shrugged, wincing as his back protested. "Don't know, buddy. But I doubt they're going to all this trouble just for a social call."
The shadowy walkway came next. "Cut that when we broadcast," Donovan suggested. "It doesn't show up well, and nothing happened there."
Then they heard distant voices. Donovan tensed as the scene with Diana and Steven replayed. When Diana reached into the chamber holding the mouse, Donovan gulped audibly, for the first time realizing what was happening to the creatures off-camera.
"Get set," he whispered quietly to Madeira and Leonetti. "This next part's a doozy. Hope you guys have strong stomachs."
"What?" said Madeira—then the big man froze as Steven gulped down the mouse.
"Holy shit!" Tony hissed.
Donovan swallowed. "The best is yet to come, boys and girls." He watched Diana raise the guinea pig, her jaw expanding
Then, almost without realizing he'd moved, he found himself leaning over the trash can, vomiting. Tony stopped the machine with a curse, then turned on the light. "Mike—"
Donovan waved him away, then heaved again. "No—okay—I'm . . . okay." He straightened, gasping, then rinsed his mouth with the cup of water Madeira handed him. "Thanks. I feel like an asshole—I suppose better here than there, where they might've heard me."
"Believe it," said Tony. "I nearly whoopsed just watching the tape. What are those things?"
Donovan looked at him. "You'll see—at least, I hope you will."
"Start it up again, Tony," said Madeira.
Donovan could have kissed the Betacam. The tough little camera had landed on the bunk, making the picture sideways, but by craning their necks, they could see most of the fight. One or two closeups of the alien, his human mask dangling off the side of his face, made both Madeira and Tony gasp.
Lights back on, the three looked at each other. "Reptiles of some kind," said Madeira. "It was like seeing a science fiction movie come to life. The things are evidently very strong, Donovan. You're lucky you're not hurt worse."
"Yeah," echoed Tony.
"Let's get that bulletin on the air," said Donovan.
Minutes later, Donovan sat with the station's anchorman for the eleven o'clock news, listening to the calls throughout the studio.
"Lights! Give me lights, dammit. Now!"
"We're feeding bars and tone right now."
"Dan, check your patching."
"Get lavs on them. I want them double-miked." A technician came up and fitted them with small mikes. She offered to dab some antiseptic on Donovan's blistered and battered face, but he waved her away, seeing the director give the signal to begin.
Mike heard an off-camera voice: "We interrupt this program for a special bulletin live from our newsroom in Los Angeles."
Madeira's voice reached Donovan. "Stand by, one—take one. Cue, Charles."
The anchorman across the table from Donovan looked up. "An astonishing occurrence just took place aboard the Mother Ship. With us tonight is—"
"Hey! What the hell!" Madeira's voice interrupted. "Hang on, Chuck, we've just lost our line—"
The assistant director, a young black woman with long, dark hair, looked up in amazement. "We've lost our line. We've lost Ma Bell."
"What?!" Madeira looked frazzled. The studio lights glistened on his bald head.
"Somebody's pulled AT&T right out from under us! The whole damn network's off the air!"
"So are both the others!" shouted the technical director.
"And now I've lost New York," said the young woman in a hopeless tone.
The monitor flickered above Mike's head. "There's something!" shouted Madeira.
The screen filled with the Visitors' symbol.
Chapter 9
"Damn," Donovan mumbled, looking up at the monitors on the newsroom wall. The screens flickered, then filled with Kristine Walsh's familiar features.
"This is Kristine Walsh. The Visitors' Supreme Commander, John, is here to make a statement."
Mike sighed, slumping on his spine behind the broadcast desk. We were too late . . . too damn late, and now we're shit outa luck. He didn't look up as John spoke:
"My friends throughout the world. First, I must thank the leaders of each of your countries, who have graciously and in the interests of peace, turned over all their broadcasting facilities to us to help avoid confusion in this crisis." Donovan heard the ripple of disbelief and growing anger as the broadcast room reacted to the Visitor leader's lie.
"I am sad to say that there has been a carefully coordinated, and quite violent attempt by the conspiracy of scientists to commandeer control of our facilities at many key locations around the world." Shots of several refineries in flames filled the monitors. "These scenes came from Rio de Janeiro, Tokyo, and Cairo, where our plants came under furious attack by terrorists—at least two dozen other places suffered similar attempted assaults, but managed to partially or completely repel them."
Shots of ambulances and stretcher-bearing paramedics appeared against a backdrop of flaming chemical tanks and guerrilla-style warfare. The victims wore human clothing as well as Visitor uniforms. John's words voiced-over the scenes: "The loss of life has been enormous—both to your people and ours. In addition, thousands have been wounded—and we're fearful there will be more attacks."
John's image filled the screens again. "The outbreak is so widespread and so dangerous that most civilian members of your governments have asked us to extend them protection—which, of course, we were happy to provide. They're safe aboard our ships, and we'll take good care of them."
"I'll bet, you lying sonofabitch!" the assistant director snarled. Donovan looked over at Madeira, who appeared to be in shock.
John sighed, looking regretful. "I'm also sorry to report that this man—a person in whom we placed considerable trust"—a photo appeared on the screens, and with weary expectation, Mike looked up to see his own face—"Michael Donovan, of the United States, has proved to be the biggest traitor to the peace and well-being of the world. He is one of the leaders of the conspiracy, and is responsible for engineering the violent attacks conducted today."
"Too bad they didn't get one of your best side, Mike," said a disgusted voice, and Donovan looked down to see Tony Leonetti crouched by his side. "Come on, you'd better get out of here. This'll be the first place they'll look."
Donovan followed his partner to the videotape room. "Did you get a chance to copy my tape?"
"Setting up to do it now. Man, we're in trouble."
"Tell me about it," said Donovan bitterly, hearing the last
words of John's statement: "Any person who gives information leading to Donovan's capture will be handsomely rewarded by the UN General Assembly and the government of the United States.
"If you see this man, do not—I repeat, do not attempt to apprehend or speak to him. He should be considered armed and dangerous."
"What?!" Donovan turned to Leonetti. He'd never thought they'd go this far. It was like something out of the Middle Ages.
A scream broke from the newsroom, then the place seemed to erupt with the sounds of booted feet and strange, whining pulses of sounds. "They're here, Mike!" shouted Tony.
The locked door burst inward, and beyond it Donovan could see Visitors wearing strange protective helmets and carrying heavy-duty weapons. He yanked open the other door, just as Tony tossed him his tape. "Here!" Leonetti overturned a rack of video components in the path of the Visitors—effectively cutting off his own escape route. Donovan had no choice—it was run or be gunned down where he stood.
He bolted out the door, dashed across the corridor, hit the fire exit door with his shoulder, and, accompanied by the shriek of the alarm, hurtled out into the night. The stair railing caught him across the waist, as, unable to stop, he careened over it and down to the parking lot. It was a short drop—only four or five feet—but Donovan landed badly, the wind knocked out of him.
Bad landing or not, the fall saved his life. Almost before he'd landed, a bolt of energy cut the air above the railing like a lash, leaving a singed, ozone smell. Scrambling to his feet, Donovan stuffed the precious tape inside his jacket pocket and raced down the alley toward where he thought the parking lot lay.
He rounded a corner, running full-tilt into another trooper—a California highway patrolman, this time. The man reeled back, then, seeing Donovan's face, made a grab for his sidearm. Mike's foot lashed out, and the weapon went spiraling away.
Panicked by this new evidence that his own people believed the Visitor report and would treat him like a criminal, Donovan raced on farther into the alley. With a sick feeling he realized he'd lost his sense of direction—instead of the parking lot ahead, there was nothing but a high wall.
Behind him came the beat of booted footsteps, then that strange whining pulse as the shock troopers fired their alien weapons. Realizing he had no choice, Donovan lengthened his strides, then, when he was only feet away from squashing himself on the bricks like a bug, leaped, arms over his head. His groping fingers closed over the top of the wall, and he hung there, feet kicking wildly, trying to get a toehold that would allow him to swing up—
A bolt singed the wall beside him, and Donovan felt sudden heat in his right buttock. As though the blast had been a whip to encourage a balky horse, Mike pulled himself up, his leg swinging up to hook over the wall. He hesitated for just a second, then another pulse nearly singed his hair, and he jumped outward, into the darkness below.
Daniel Bernstein sat up excitedly as rhe Visitor leader, John, described the violent attempt to take over the chemical plants. "I wonder if they got Richland," Stanley Bernstein murmured. Abraham sat across the room, very still, only his eyes moving.
"Oh, God, Stanley!" Lynn whimpered. "Look at all those people they injured! What's going to happen to us?"
"Nothing, honey, nothing." Bernstein patted his wife's shoulders encouragingly.
"Quiet, Dad!" Daniel turned around. "This is important!"
John had just finished describing the manhunt going on for the photographer, Michael Donovan. Daniel's lip curled, watching the picture. After all these guys are doing for us, this sonofabitch tries to screw it up? He'd better not get in my path . . .
John smiled reassuringly from the television screen, and Daniel smiled back automatically. John would handle everything.
"Your national leaders have suggested that a state of martial law will be most helpful at this time, and we agree. Police at local levels will be working with our Visitor patrols—and we'll also ask the help of all our Visitor Friends units everywhere . . ."
"All right!!" Daniel sat up, squaring his shoulders, tugging at his uniform to straighten it.
"We anticipate that this crisis will pass relatively quickly. In the meantime, friends, I and my fellow Visitors will do our best to see you through it and help you maintain control. There will be more announcements later, giving you specific rules to follow during the crisis."
The television screen went black. Daniel stood up, his head held proudly. "Gotta go, Mom and Dad! You heard the Supreme Commander!"
He left, hearing his mother behind him. "Stanley, oh, my God . . ."
Then his father's reassurance. "It'll pass—you heard what John said. Right, Dad?"
But Abraham said nothing at all.
Chapter 10
Mike Donovan lay on his belly on a windswept hillside, sighting through the telephoto lens of his 35-millimeter reflex camera at what lay below: Davis Air Force Base—Strategic Air Command Headquarters for Southern California. He snapped off several shots of the Visitor sentries patrolling the entrances and perimeters of the base. Suddenly a puff of dust rose in the distance, and Donovan focused on a long black limousine approaching.
As the car came closer, he could see several high-ranking military officers in the vehicle's passenger seats, and—he narrowed his eyes to read the stripes—a Captain was driving.
He swung the camera back, focusing on the base again, then saw something interesting—the Visitor shock troopers scattered, moving quickly inside the building, and suddenly several MPs clad in standard-issue uniforms appeared, taking up positions at the entrance gate. Donovan glanced back at the limo, frowning helplessly. The gate was too far away for those in the car to have seen what was happening.
The Lincoln pulled up in front of the gate, and the Lieutenant Colonel got out, gesturing at the inside of the car. Mike squinted again at the older man inside. He was a General.
Sick, he watched. The sentries stood helplessly as the Visitor troopers emerged from the building, heavy-duty weapons at ready. They ordered everyone out of the car, and when the Lieutenant Colonel made a move toward his sidearm, shot him without hesitation. The General, the Colonel, and the Captain were led away under guard, while the MPs, under direction of one of the Visitor troopers, picked up the Lieutenant Colonel's body and carried it away.
Donovan recorded the entire incident on film, wondering, as he'd wondered so often these past two weeks, if anyone would ever see this record he was collecting of the Visitor occupation. He changed film, stowing the record of the slaying safely in his jacket. His pockets bulged with film and the VTR tape—he'd have to try to get copies made and the pictures developed soon, but wasn't sure just how he was going to manage that. He fingered his week-old beard . . . Not really enough yet to cover his features.
He wished his beard grew faster, or that he hadn't worked so hard, that entire first week, to shave each day. It hadn't been easy—sleeping in flophouses, all-night movies, one night at the "Y." He rolled over onto his back, letting the sun play on the now-gaunt planes of his face, appreciating its warmth. He'd had only fifteen bucks on him the night of his foray into the Mother Ship, and the money had soon run out. For the past two days he'd eaten at missions and soup kitchens—when he'd eaten. His thinking was a little fuzzy from hunger, he suspected.
Four days ago he'd picked up ten dollars from a woman living near Eleanor when he'd knocked on her door, asking for work. His nose wrinkled. The only job she'd been able to offer him was cleaning stalls in her backyard stable. He'd taken it—but if he didn't get his clothes washed soon, he didn't know what he'd do . . . There were always coin-op Laundromats, but when he only had the one set of clothes . . . He pictured himself sitting buck naked on a wooden bench, watching his clothes spin, and found himself chuckling. The laughter had a desperate, zero-hour quality.
He wondered bleakly if Tony Leonetti had managed to get away. He hadn't seen a soul he knew, but he'd have to try and make some contacts. He couldn't, go on like this much longer.
&n
bsp; He scratched suddenly at his shin, then felt something nip his thigh. He'd been fleabitten before, when he'd been caught and interned briefly in Laos, but he'd hardly noticed then—fleas, compared to dysentery, lice, and torture, paled a bit. Now the little buggers were driving him crazy.
He'd have to take the risk of trying to phone Tony, he decided. He hadn't heard any news reports given by anyone but Kristine lately—he didn't think any of the networks were doing their own news anymore—but the situation was terrible, and getting worse. Visitor troopers were stationed on nearly every street corner. Others spent their time, along with the Visitor Friends, putting up propaganda posters showing Visitors hugging old folks, or toting babies on their shoulders. Prices had risen astronomically, and the curfew was still in effect. Donovan had overheard gossip in the flophouses that the police force was acting only on the written orders of the Mayor—that the man hadn't actually been seen for more than a week. Donovan wondered bleakly which hand the Mayor had used to write those orders commanding the police to cooperate in every way with the Visitor troops . . .
Wearily he climbed to his feet, stowing his camera in a battered plastic shopping bag. The camera represented his one foray to gain help—he'd broken into Eleanor's house one night, while she and Arthur were in the living room with Steven, talking. He'd left the camera there the night the Richland plant began producing the Visitors' "life-sustaining" chemical. The camera and some of the rolls of film—now used—were all he'd had a chance to grab.
Arthur, hearing a noise in the back, had come in just as Mike had put a leg over the sill in the spare bedroom and was climbing out. Eleanor's husband had stood in the doorway, his gaze locked with Donovan's, for seemingly endless seconds. Then Donovan had forced himself to move, waiting all the time for the shout that would bring Steven and the other Visitors down on him. But the man hadn't raised the alarm.
With a sigh, Donovan began the long walk back to the main highway. If he was lucky—and he admitted, fleas or not, he was incredibly lucky still to be free and in one piece—he'd be able to thumb a ride back to L.A. by late afternoon. Then he'd try and scrounge a few bucks, and maybe by night he could risk calling Tony . . .
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