Jack Cavanaugh - Death Watch

Josh had a sly grin on his face. There was something behind it, more than just being amused over her choice of words. Did he know something?

“Were you watching me today?”

Josh laughed. “No more than usual. Why?”

“Because I backslid this morning with a police officer.”

“To get out of a ticket?”

“To get a story.”

“Good, you should do it more often,” Josh said. He stretched his mouth around a mountain of deli meat and took a hearty bite.

“Good? What do you mean, good? I told you I didn’t want to use my looks to my advantage.”

“I know. “Josh said, chewing. “You’re wrong.”

“No, I’m not,” Sydney said stubbornly.

“All right, have it your way.”

Sydney fumed. Sometimes Josh could be too agreeable. “No, you said I was wrong. I want to hear your reasoning.”

“You won’t like it.”

“Try me.”

Josh shrugged as though it made no difference to him either way. He took a sip of drink and leaned forward. “You were born beautiful.”

“That’s it? That’s your reasoning?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” He picked up his sandwich and took another bite.

“Not a very strong argument,” Sydney said.

Josh shot her a grin. “Wilt Chamberlain was born tall.”

“So?”

“What do you mean, so? Wilt Chamberlain. Basketball player. Seven foot one inch. Four-time Most Valuable Player in the NBA. Scored seventy-eight points in a single game. And never once did he apologize to his opponents because he was taller than them.”

Sydney sat back, not wanting to admit he might have a point.

“All I’m saying is you’re the Wilt Chamberlain of good looks. We work in a competitive business. Stop feeling guilty about being beautiful and use what you have to do the best job you can.”

“You’re quite a philosopher, Josh Leven.”

“It’s the pastrami. I always wax eloquent when I eat pastrami.”

What do we know about these death notices?” Helen Gordon said, getting the afternoon meeting started.

Sydney picked up from snippets of conversation that Sol Rosenthal had managed to salvage one item on his itinerary—lunch at Ago’s, actor Robert de Niro’s elegant, open-kitchen restaurant with its specialty, fettuccine with shaved white truffles. But Hunz Vonner cut the lunch short by insisting they get started on the death watch story. It had been his idea for Helen to call the staff together.

Seated around Command Central were producer Sol Rosenthal, coanchor Grant Forsythe, interim coanchor Cori Zinn, Hunz Vonner, Sydney, and news director Brad Miller, whose job it was to oversee the news operations and maintain consistency among the various newscasts.

Brad was a gruff man who hid behind a full beard. Plainspoken and direct, he made decisions quickly and decisively. He’d missed the early morning meeting because of traffic.

“So what do we know?” Helen said.

“I’ve been in contact with my sources at EuroNet,” Hunz said. “They project the number of deaths in the thousands and it’s accelerating.”

Helen leaned forward intently. “Does EuroNet have any idea who’s behind it?”

“Not yet,” Hunz said. “They have a couple of leads. They’re working around the clock. I should have something tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“I have something,” Grant Forsythe said. “The Department of Homeland Security is raising the awareness system to Level Three for the entire nation. Secretary Perkins is scheduled to hold a news briefing in an hour.”

“Does station programming know about this?” Helen asked.

“They do now,” Brad Miller said.

It was Miller’s job to coordinate the new Homeland Security Awareness system with the network following the revamp of the color-coded advisory system. Taking a cue from the Amber Alert, the missing person’s emergency broadcast system, Homeland Security devised a program that would keep the nation in a state of constant awareness regarding the level of national security.

A four-pointed graphic was designed, resembling the four points of a compass, to be broadcast continuously in the lower right-hand corner of all television programming. Proceeding clockwise, the shaded area between points lit up according to the level of risk. Level One indicated a low risk of attack; Level Two, a significant risk; Level Three, a high risk; and Level Four, a severe risk. The graphic flashed when an attack was in progress.

Radios broadcast beeps every hour on the hour, one beep for each current level of risk.

Improving on the previous color-coded system, now each city and region had its own level of awareness that reflected threats to specific targets. For the director of Homeland Security to set the risk at Level Three nationally was an indication the entire country was under high risk of attack.

“Grant, has the government given any indication which terrorist group might be behind this attack?” Helen asked.

“Has any group claimed credit for the deaths?” Sol asked.

Grant shook his head. “At present, the government’s reporting zilch. Scuttlebutt is that everyone’s stumped. Anyone else hear anything?”

Heads shook all around the table.

Sydney said, “An attack of this magnitude would limit the number of terrorist organizations that could be responsible, wouldn’t it? Who has the resources to do something this large?”

“Good point, Sydney,” Helen said.

“Any number of organizations, or countries, for that matter, could pull it off,” Hunz said, without naming any specifically.

“But considering the deaths are worldwide,” Sydney said, “couldn’t we just look for a nation that is reporting no death watch-related deaths? I mean, they wouldn’t kill their own people just to cover their tracks, would they?”

Sol Rosenthal flipped through the printout pages from the news wires. “Saudi Arabia. Afghanistan. Iraq. Iran. Pakistan. Palestine. All report deaths.”

“It’s flawed reasoning,” Hunz said. “Terrorists have no qualms about killing their own.”

“All right, then,” Helen said, before Sydney could respond, “bottom line is, we have nothing. We’ll keep track of the newswires here at the station. Sydney, you and Mr. Vonner see what you can dig up locally. Begin with the accident victim. See if his family knows anything. Find out how he died. See if the police have any leads on the telegram.”

“Helen,” Cori Zinn said.

“Yes?”

“In light of recent developments, wouldn’t it be better if Sydney covered the governor’s news conference? That would free me to—”

“No,” Helen said curtly. “Sydney doesn’t have your contact with the governor’s staff. We’re counting on you for an exclusive. However, make sure you get a quote from the governor on these death watch notices.”

Cori started to object.

Grant Forsythe cut her off. “So we’re officially labeling this story Death Watch?”

“That’s what the terrorists are calling it in their notices,” Helen said.

Grant shrugged. “Just asking.”

An intern placed a pile of pink telephone memo notes in front of Helen. She sifted through them quickly. There were at least a dozen. As the meeting broke up, she handed them to Sydney.

“These are the calls that have come into the station in response to the noon broadcast, people who say they’ve received a death watch notice,” Helen said. “Follow up on them.”

Sydney shuffled through the notes. “Have any of them passed the deadline?”

“What do you mean?” Helen frowned.

“Each death watch notice gives its victim forty-eight hours. Have any of them lived past their designated time to die?”