Brian Freemantle - The Watchmen

“You’ve disobeyed orders!”

“I’m here.”

“Make sure you are in the future. You’re part of the struggle.”

Using pseudonyms and phrases was all right cracking through the Web and playing war games. Verbally it sounded ridiculous. Hollis said, “I’ve got some more account numbers.”

“How many?”

“Ten.”

“That’s not enough!”

“It’ll have to do. I’ll get more.”

“Don’t be insubordinate. We want you to work. We need a lot of money.”

“No more than cents. Otherwise you’ll be picked up.”

“I give the orders. Be here on time, for the next contact. And I want you personally to raise $20,000.”

“That’s impossible!”

“You invented the system. Make it work.”

“All sorted out?” his mother asked as he got back into the Jaguar.

“I think so,” Hollis said contentedly. There was no way thefts of the size the General was talking about could be restricted to cents and therefore no way they could go undiscovered.

The Chinese-initiated debate intended internationally to humiliate both America and Russia-the one unable to protect the world’s UN statesmen, the other the treaty-ignoring manufacturer of weapons of mass destruction in the hands of terrorists-was destroyed as if by another bomb by the new, unspecified threat. Within an hour of its being made and relayed worldwide, the favored analyses of the intelligence and terrorist pundits in permanent-sometimes unshaved for effect-residence in television studios and newspaper offices was that the United Nations complex was to be targeted again.

Within almost the same time frame Beijing realized there wasn’t the remotest possibility of its carefully cultivated supporting army of podium attackers from Africa and Asia getting within fifty miles of Manhattan for the beginning of the assembly but refused an unthinkable loss of face by asking for a postponement. The impasse was resolved again by UN Secretary-General Ibrahim Saads, who ordered that the complex be evacuated once more. That announcement convinced the already uncertain New York mayor to declare the city closed the following day to all incoming commuters with the advice to residents to leave immediately.

The exodus was only slightly less chaotic than before, and there was almost a familiarity about the aerial television coverage of people in unthinking flight. All the city’s airports, including Newark, closed, although some landings were allowed for refueling. After Canada warned that its East Coast and central airports might not be able to cope with the rerouting, departures from Europe and eastbound from within the United States began to be canceled. Grand Central and Penn Central railway terminals were shut. There was looting and arson. By 3:00 A.M. seven looters had been shot.

The mayor of Washington stopped just short of officially ordering the evacuation of the district, gauging from the migration accounts of an increasingly overwhelmed police commissioner that so many people were already on the move that the advice was unnecessary. Besides, he wanted nothing later to prove an albatross around his already aching neck. The closure of the Mall and all government offices was extended to include the Capitol and all its administrative buildings, and thirty senators and House representatives issued individual declarations that their duty required them to be at home with their constituents in times of national crisis. Other congressmen who weren’t quick enough to think of the reelectorally correct escape were glad they hadn’t, so cowardly facile did the virtually identical statements sound, and left without attempting to justify their hurried abandonment of the as-yet unsinking ship. Dulles and Reagan airports closed down, as well as D.C.’s Union Station. Three blacks died when police opened fire on early-morning looters who started torching shops in Anacostia, just beyond Capitol Hill.

Throughout the long night there were equally frantic efforts made to guard other likely targets through the country. All army, airforce, and naval bases-including the already penetrated, previously and derided Pentagon-were placed on full alert. So were the Kennedy space launch site in Florida, Houston Control, and the Mojave space shuttle landing facility. Disney World and Disneyland announced their closure. After McDonald’s declared it would not be opening until the threat was understood and prevented, all the other fast food franchises shut, too.

With nothing more-no way of predicting more-than a five-line message registered on the federal government’s Internet-accessible home page, the crisis team that assembled within two hours at the White House was limited to Frank Norton, Henry Hartz, the directors of the FBI and CIA, and Peter Prentice, the president’s media spokesperson. Prentice stood by the Oval Office television that was permanently left on, relaying developing frenzy throughout the country.

“I’ve got to say something, but what the fuck is there for me to say!” demanded the president. “If I go on television again with the same speech rewritten the fourth time I’m the dumbest-ass chief executive in history. Which is what I already am in the ratings history.”

“The bureau assessment is that it’s an overreaction,” suggested Leonard Ross. “Cowley sees the Watchmen’s message as some kind of embarrassing disclosure.” Ross had spent the entire journey from his home to the White House on the car phone to the incident room.

“About what?” demanded the president.

“We don’t know,” Ross conceded lamely.

“Thank you for that, Mr. Director! That really tells me how to convince the American people we’ve got everything under control and that there’s nothing to panic about!” He jerked a finger toward the television. “Look at it out there, for Christ’s sake!”

“We don’t have anything to say,” declared Frank Norton, ever mindful that he needed the endorsement of a respected departing president to further his own ambitions and that therefore the man had to be safeguarded from mistimed public appearances. “So it would be wrong to make another personal television address. Even worse to face the press, where you’d have to take questions. The announcement’s got to be in your name but by Prentice. It’s got to make it very clear that you’re still here in the White House, the president who definitely didn’t run-”

“What’s the announcement say?” demanded the man, not needing the paint-by-numbers explanation. “There’s got to be some substance.”

“Russia,” said Hartz, as the idea came to him. “Call the Russian president personally. Maybe invite the Russian foreign minister here to talk to me. It’s positive. High level. And shows you’re standing up against the demands the Watchmen made in their first message, protesting the detente between the two countries.

“That’s good,” Norton agreed.

“Yes,” said the president more slowly, digesting before regurgitating. “Yes, that’s good. You following this, Peter? Put out something right away on the wires: that there’s soon to be an important announcement. Promise each of the majors personally-tell them I told you to-it’ll be in time for their late news. But insist I’m too occupied-occupied’s the word, not “too busy,” as if I don’t know what I’m doing-to do anything on camera myself.” The man began to make rolling motions with his hand. “We’re refusing to give in to terrorism …” He looked at the FBI director. “You say that Russian guy’s arrived?”

“Earlier today,” said Ross.

“Good,” said the other man, picking up the briefing. “Senior Russian investigators already here … combined, highest-level cooperation … nowhere to hide … that sort of stuff, got it?”