Warren Murphy: Terminal Transmission

"Quiet, Cheeta," the producer said coldly. "Just lay there until the commercial break."

The feet went away and the floor manager was calling out, "Quiet, please. Don Cooder headlines for affiliates! Five seconds! Four! Quiet!"

Then the voice of Don Cooder, pitched into a low resonant tone, began his clipped recital.

"Senator Ned Clancy issues denial on love-nest rumor. Dr. Doom inaugurates toll-free death line. Scientists dub strange new AIDS-like disease HELP. All that and more coming up soon, so stay with us."

Cheeta started to rise.

The stampeding feet returned.

"That was great, Don. You nailed it in one take."

"Fabulous ad-libbing, Don."

"Will somebody help me up," Cheeta said through clenched teeth. "I have my own show to prep."

She was ignored.

"Here's the script, Don."

"We're losing the bumper, Don."

"One minute to air, everybody!" the floor manager announced.

"Don, we'll lead with Dr. Doom and follow up with the love nest story," the director was saying.

"I think we should lead with the love-nest story, don't you?" Cooder shot back.

"Absolutely, Don," the director returned without skipping a beat. "But it's not written as a lead."

"I'll wing it."

"Fifteen seconds to air!" the floor manager called.

The feet went away again and Cheeta Ching tried again. Her expanded center of gravity was not helpful. She was on her back, and it felt like a cannonball had been placed on her stomach so that a trained elephant could sit on it.

Grimacing, Cheeta rolled over-and collapsed panting.

Out of the corner of her eye she spotted the red ON AIR sign flaring up.

"This is the BCN Evening News with Don Cooder," the stentorian voice of Don Cooder announced. "Tonight, beleaguered democratic senator Ned J. Clancy, married barely a year, is contending with rumors of marital infidelity. With us now is Washington reporter Trip Lutz."

Cheeta was on her hands and knees now, behind the anchor desk and out of camera range. And she felt as if she were being weighed down by an abdominal tumor the size of Rhode Island. She tried to crawl, but the floor manager caught her eye. He was on his knees waving a Magic Markered sign that said: STAY THERE FOR THE FIRST SECTION. PLEASE!

Cheeta flipped him the bird. She started crawling.

And an ostrich-hide cowboy boot came around to plant itself on the small of her back. Cheeta Ching went down hard. "Oof!"

And the hated voice of Don Cooder returned, saying, "Thank you, Trip. In other news . . ."

"Ugh," Cheeta said.

"The retired pathologist and self-styled 'thanatologist' known as Dr. Doom has discovered a fresh wrinkle in the tollfree number game: Dial and die."

"Uhh," Cheeta groaned.

"AT their lines are jammed for the second consecutive day in the wake of the controversial new service for the terminally ill."

"I think my water broke," Cheeta grunted.

"This just in," Cooder said. "Reliable sources tell BCN News that weekend anchor Cheeta Ching is at this moment giving birth at a location not far from here. Speaking on behalf of her colleagues here at the Broadcast Corporation of North America, we wish her Godspeed and a joyful labor."

And the boot heel pushed down harder.

Cheeta Ching's flat, reddening face slammed to the rug and turned sideways. Then she saw it. The line monitor, which showed the picture that millions of faithful BCN viewers were simultaneously watching in the privacy of their own homes.

The line monitor was as black as a virgin Etch-a-Sketch.

If there was one cardinal, inflexible rule in on-set broadcast journalism etiquette it was: Quiet on a live set.

But if there was a prime directive it was: Never, ever go to black.

The prime directive was far, far more important than on-set etiquette.

And so Cheeta Ching took a deep breath and, steeling herself, let out a shriek calculated to scale a salmon.

In the ringing aftermath, Don Cooder barked, "This just in. Cheeta Ching has given birth to a healthy . . ." Cooder cocked an ear for the answer.

"We're in black!" Cheeta shrieked.

All eyes swung to the line monitor.

It was nestled in the cluster of monitors that displayed incoming satellite feeds, previews of about-to be-aired reports, and waiting commercials. The other monitors were busily cutting between segments. But the line monitor, the crucial monitoring terminal, was like a glassy black eye.

A black eye that would be seen by sponsors and network brass alike. A black eye that would cause viewers all over the country to fidget, grumble, and grope for their remotes.

A black eye that would be tomorrow's headlines if it wasn't corrected in time.

"Don't just stand there!" Cooder shouted. "Put up color bars!"

In the control room, the technical director worked the switcher frantically. "Color bars up!" he shouted.

"No, they're not! Hit it again."

The technical director, his eyes widening as the seconds-each one worth over a thousand dollars in commercial airtime-ticked away, shouted, "How's that?"

The producer blinked at the line monitor. "N.G."

"We're going to get creamed in the ratings," Cooder said in a voice twisted with raw emotion.

"No, we're not," the floor manager said matter-of-factly.

"Huh?"

"The other networks. They're black too."

The monitors marked ANC, MBC, and Vox all showed black.

Relief washed over the newsroom as the truth sank in.

"Must be sunspots or something," a stage hand muttered.

"Right, sunspots."

"I never heard of sunspots blacking out TV like this," the technical director said doubtfully.

Telephones began ringing all over the set. In the circle of offices around the Bridge. All over the building.

The word came in. It wasn't a local phenomenon. Broadcast television had gone to black all up and down the East Coast.

"What a story," someone said.

"Let's get on this, troops," Don Cooder said, tearing off his IFB earpiece and storming about the Bridge like an admiral in red suspenders. "Work the phones. How big is this story?"

As it turned out, very big.

"There's no TV in Illinois," a woman at the satellite desk reported.

"St. Louis is black, Don," a reporter added.

"Montana is without reception," chimed in another correspondent.

"How can anyone tell?" said Cooder, who was from Texas.

"LA is down too. And San Francisco."

"It's nationwide!" Cooder crowed. "And it's our new lead story. We'll lead with 'Sunspots Suppress Television Across Nation.' "

"But we don't know it's actually sunspots," the director pointed out.

"It's good enough for the lead. We can always update. Get our science editor on it."

"Feldmeyer? He's on vacation, remember?"

"Then get the backup."

"There isn't one. We lost our backup in the last round of budget cuts."

Don Cooder squared his magnificently photogenic shoulders. It was not for nothing that TV Guide had dubbed him the "Anchor of Steel."

"What do we have for video on this thing?"

The news director blinked. He pointed to the line monitor.

"Just this. A dead screen."

"We can't broadcast a dead screen," Cooder complained.

"We are broadcasting a dead screen. That's the story."

Don Cooder blinked. His perpetual glower darkened. His eyes, which People magazine had described as "cathoderay blue," reverted to the Texas sunsquint of his field reporter days.

"We can't go on the air with this," he mumbled. "A dead screen is terrible television. Folks will turn us off."

"Don, get a grip. We can't go on the air. Period."

"No one can break this story until the air clears?" Don Cooder demanded.

"Right, Don."

"When the air clears, the competition will be over this like piss on a flat rock, right?"