V - The Original Miniseries (14 page)
"What?" said Madeira-then the big man froze as Steven gulped down the mouse. "Holy shit!" Tony hissed.
Donovan waved him away, then heaved again. "No-okayI'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.
"Lights! Give me lights, dammit. Now!" "We're feeding bars and tone right now." "Dan, check your patching."
"Get lays 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.
"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.
"DAMN," DONOVAN MUMBLED, LOOKING UP AT THE MONITORS ON the newsroom wall. The screens flickered, then filled with Kristine Walsh's familiar features.
"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 protectionwhich, of course, we were happy to provide. They're safe aboard our ships, and we'll take good care of them."
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.
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 Visitorseffectively 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 THE 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.
"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 ...
"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 ..."
"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."
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.
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.
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 standardissue 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.
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 kitchenswhen 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 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 thenfleas, compared to dysentery, lice, and torture, paled a bit. Now the little buggers were driving him crazy.
