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  Terminal Transmission

  ( The Destroyer - 93 )

  Warren Murphy

  Richard Sapir

  When Captain Audion holds America hostage by jamming all television transmission and star news anchor Cheeta Ching is kidnapped, Remo must save the country by defeating Captain Audion and rescuing Cheeta.

  Destroyer 93: Terminal Transmission

  By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir

  Chapter 1

  The greatest domestic crisis since the Civil War struck the United States of America at exactly 6:28 p.m. Daylight Savings Time on the last Thursday in April.

  Approximately thirty million citizens scattered throughout the nation and in Mexico and the lower reaches of Canada saw the crisis unfold on their television sets. And every one of them, no matter what broadcast station or network they were tuned to, UHF or VHF, saw the exact same thing.

  A dead black rectangle where a moment before busy phosphor pixels had been generating kaleidoscopic images of entertainment, information, and commercials.

  The blackness was relieved by thin white letters in the upper right-hand corner. The letters spelled out two words.

  The words: NO SIGNAL.

  TV speakers everywhere, in private homes, in hospitals, in offices, in neighborhood bars, reproduced the same staticky carrier wave hissing of dead air.

  Then a voice began speaking in a monotone:

  "There is nothing wrong with your television set . . ."

  Don Cooder was late.

  The news director was in a panic. The floor manager was running from restroom to restroom in the Broadcast Corporation of North America headquarters building on Manhattan's West Forty-third Street, peering under stalls for a pair of trademark ostrichhide wrangler boots.

  "Try the ledge," the harried domestic producer cried. "He sometimes hides out on the ledge when he's unhappy."

  Everybody who wasn't frantically racing around the Bridge-as the BCN newsroom was called-preparing the 6:30 news feed to the affiliates, raced to the nearest window. Don Cooder was late. Nobody knew what it was about, but everybody knew what it could mean. Their eyes were stark and frantic.

  Troubled voices called back reports.

  "He's not on the third floor ledge."

  "He's not on the fourth floor ledge."

  "He's not on any of the ledges!"

  "Maybe he fell off," said a lowly desk assistant.

  In the great TV-screen-blue newsroom set a hush fell. Faces, so strained a moment ago, lit with entirely different lights. Ambition leapt to some. Relief to others. And all eyes went to the Chair, more coveted than many modern thrones, which now sat spotlit but empty. Power flowed from that elegant seat, situated in the exact geometric center of the Bridge, which had been designed to make the anchor desk seem to be the center of the universe, but in practice made many viewers change channels thinking that they had tuned in to an old Star Trek rerun.

  "Maybe he fell off . . ." the producer muttered.

  "Maybe he jumped!" said the director.

  "CBN star anchor Don Cooder succumbs to ratings pressure!" the chief news writer cried. "Makes dramatic leap into oblivion!"

  A dozen lips whispered the rumor. Faces froze, some in shock, others to conceal their pleasure. The makeup woman broke down weeping for her job.

  The domestic producer, his face paling, took charge. He began issuing husky orders.

  "Camera crew to the sidewalk. If Cooder's a messy spot on the pavement, we'll want to lead with that." He shouted after the running figures, "If he's dying, try to get his last words."

  "What about the headlines for the affiliates?" asked the director, gazing at the digital clock which read 06:28:57.

  "Somebody get Cheeta Ching! I'd be damned if we go black again because of that Aggie prima donna."

  An intern leaped from the room.

  In her office in the outermost concentric ring that orbits the Bridge, CBN weekend anchor Cheeta Ching, nine months, one week, and three days pregnant, and as bloated as a floater freshly fished out of the East River, looked up from her script for the evening broadcast of Eyeball to Eyeball with Cheeta Ching as her door unceremoniously crashed in. The can of hair varnish she had been emptying into her raven tresses dropped from her long fingers.

  "Miss Ching!" an intern panted. "You're on."

  "What are you talking about? I'm not on for two hours yet."

  The intern fought for his breath. "Cooder fell down the rabbit hole again," he gasped.

  "His job is mine!" screeched Cheeta Ching, selfstyled "superanchorwoman of the nineties," as she bolted from her desk and trampled the unfortunate staffer before he could get out of the way.

  The run from Cheeta Ching's office to the Chair was a straight unwavering line. After hours, Cheeta had timed the run with a stopwatch. Her best time had been 47:03 seconds.

  That was before the home pregnancy test had come up blue, of course.

  Still, Cheeta gave it her best. She had known for years-ever since Don Cooder had let the BCN Evening News with Don Cooder remain black for an unprecedented six minutes because a World Wide Wrestling match had spilled over its allotted span and into his time slot, that it could happen again. And she was ready.

  Because Cheeta Ching knew that if she landed in the coveted anchor chair at the right moment, Cooder's job would be hers.

  Flinging off her Georgio Armani taupe wool faille maternity skirt, she ran through the halls in her Victoria's Secret chenille slip.

  The thought of the high seven-figure salary, the perks, and the intoxicating power that lay at the end of the run drove her to pound down the carpeted hall like a water buffalo in heat. Staff pressed themselves against the walls before her. A cameraman, seeing her careen toward him, hit the rug and covered his head with a script. A technician opening a door flung himself back. Too late. Cheeta hit the closing door like a linebacker; it flew back and broke the technician's nose and glasses where he stood.

  The Chair was within sight now. Cheeta could see it clearly through the semicircle of indoor glass windows that overlooked the Bridge from the inner concentric ring of offices.

  The director, spotting her, waved her on frantically with a script that flapped like a wounded dove.

  "Mine! It's mine!" Cheeta shrieked.

  The last door crashed open under the blind force of her padded shoulder. Cheeta was panting now. Only a stretch of a few cable-strewn yards stood between her and the highest-paid job in television news.

  Staffers shouted encouragement.

  "Come on, Cheeta!"

  "You can do it, girl!"

  Then a bosun's whistle shrilled and the floor manager shouted, "Admiral on the Bridge! All hands! Admiral on the Bridge!"

  That's me! Cheeta thought wildly. I'm the admiral on the Bridge now.

  And from out of nowhere, a pinstriped blue shape blindsided her. Heart pounding, Cheeta understood immediately what it meant. Her bloodred fingernails extended like talons as she made a last, desperate lunge for the Chair.

  And an ostrich-hide boot stomped on her instep while a hard hip like a whale's jawbone knocked her down. An immaculate shoe sole flattened her nose.

  And over the squeal of the Chair's springs adjusting to 185 pounds of human ego, a deep, masculine voice growled, "There's only one admiral on this bridge. And don't you forget it."

  Cheeta Ching tried to struggle to her feet. But all around her sycophantic shoes had appeared, preventing her from rising.

  "Don, where have you been?" the relieved producer asked.

  "None of your business."

  "Don, so great that you're here," said the chief news writer.

  "Don Cooder is great, no ma
tter where he is."

  "Don, here's your script for the affiliates update," said the director.

  "Don Cooder doesn't need a script to read headlines. Just tell me what they are and I'll wing it."

  "Senator Ned Clancy issues denial on love-nest rumor," the director recited in an urgent voice. "Dr. Doom inaugurates toll-free death line. Scientists dub strange new AIDS-like disease HELP."

  "Here's your lavaliere, Don."

  "Will somebody please let me up?" Cheeta snapped.

  "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?"

  "I guess so," said the director, who never understood his star anchor's homespun aphorisms.

  "I'm not waiting for the air to break. I'm breaking this story here, now and first. And all of you are my witnesses."

  "What are you going to do, Don?"

  Without answering, leaving the carefully prepared script on his desk and the teleprompters standing frozen in time, Don Cooder, the highest paid news anchor in human history, strode from the Bridge to the nearest outside office. He threw up a window sash, stuck out his head and broad shoulders, and in a voice loud enough to startle the pigeons roosting on nearby Times Square buildings, proclaimed, "This is a BCN Evening News Special Report. Don Cooder reporting. All over the continental United States, broadcast television was blacked out at the start of the first national news feeds. The mysterious force responsible for this tragedy has yet to be identified, but for now, in this slice of time, for the first time in the over forty-year history of television, America is staring into a blackness more terrible than the Great Blackout of 1965. And the blackness is staring back. Who will blink first? That is the question of the hour."

  The producer tapped him on the shoulder. "Forget it, Don."

  "Shut up! I'm broadcasting. The old-fashioned way."

  "KNNN is on the air."

  Don Cooder straightened so fast he bumped his intensely black hair against the window sash. He wheeled, leaving sticky strands of hair adhering to the wood. "What!"

  "It's true. They're been broadcasting uninterrupted all along."

  "Damn! Did they scoop me?"

  "Afraid so."

  "Damn."

  Cooder strode into the control room, where a monitor showed a calm anchor speaking in a flat voice under the worldfamous Kable Newsworthy News Network logo-a nautical anchor.