The whole city was a giant whose stomach clenched in fear. Millions of breaths held in, but there were no blasts.
OEM had coordinated with Homeland Security to initiate emergency response procedures simultaneously with Jefferson’s team lifting off for Strawberry Mansion. And when he radioed in the news about video feeds from scattered subway stations, those of New York’s 35,000 police officers who were on duty, together with already alerted OEM and Federal Emergency Management Agency teams, were swiftly dispatched around the island. FEMA wasn’t going to have any Hurricane Katrina criticisms about this operation, no way. It didn’t take the authorities fifteen minutes to get each one of the couriers into temporary custody; this is what these guys were trained to do. Almost as quickly, 229 identical stories got radioed in, stories Emergency HQ backed up with the fifteen courier firms’ own records.
CITIES around the nation shook with false alarms and rumours. The country teetered on hysteria.
Bobby Foster was at a campaign barbecue in Alabama when he was told the news on camera, and he dropped his mouth and his plate.
The plate was plastic admittedly, but his oh-fuck face would be memorialised in the press and on TV and no amount of wheedling explanations—“I was bumped,” for example—could get the clip taken off the David Letterman Late Show’s “Top Ten Stupidest Moments of the Year”. Niki Abbott would have given anything to have been there. Almost.
HANK Clemens was in Charleston, giving an award for the best shag, the uniquely named state dance of the two Carolinas. He slowly put the ribbon down, wiped the corners of his mouth and, after taking a moment’s breath, looked deep into the intruding TV camera’s lens. “The men and women in our security and emergency response agencies know how to handle this threat.” They were comforting though sombre words. “I know a little about these things myself,” he said, “and I can assure you we are in good hands. Please… please, follow their directions until order is restored and then just go about your business. If we change… our routines… our activities… ourselves… ‘they’ will win… and we must not let that happen.”
Gregory, who was there with him, was agog. Hank’s quiet modesty. His confidence. His calm. Hank hadn’t blown this. He wasn’t masterful, he wasn’t deep, but he was reassuring and showed a previously concealed hint of spine and resilience. It was lucky no one noticed, but a smile cracked open on Gregory’s face. Hank had a chance at winning.
ISABEL Diaz was at a town hall meeting in Harlem when one of the TV reporters cleared by security barged onto the stage, stuck his microphone at her and demanded her reaction. The image that viewers would hang onto was her serene poise.
It was almost as if Isabel had prepared for this moment… that she knew it was coming.
At first it was unnerving—“how could anyone be so composed?”—but as the seconds dragged on, her unruffled tranquillity was soothing to those watching: how evenly she listened, how she asked the reporter a couple of sensible clarifying questions (which he had no answer to), and how she finished with, “My heart goes out to anyone who has been injured and their loved ones. My prayers…” She bowed her head for a moment and looked up again into the camera. “Please… those of you watching, please join me… and all of us here in Harlem… in a moment of silent prayer.” The camera panned the town hall as everyone stood and bowed their heads with her and then, for fifteen long seconds, all that could be heard was an occasional shuffle of feet or a suppressed cough.
Finally, Isabel looked up and her eyes were grim, “Our world has hardened, but we must not. However, we must and we will defend our country, our way of life … and our families. I have confidence that our President, and our next president, will lead us in doing just that.”
She paused for a moment, looked to the side and nodded, then faced the camera and said, “All of us who aren’t in the front line dealing with the emergency, please stay calm. Do what police or other emergency officials advise you.” She coughed into her fist and continued, “Perhaps the best thing for all of us here on Manhattan would be just to walk quietly on home and give our families and neighbours a hug. If you’re sitting in a car in a traffic jam, check with the police, park your car and walk home… come back for it tomorrow. Tonight is a remarkable night. A catastrophe has been averted because we were prepared… Let us all sing songs of peace and thanks in our streets. If you can’t get home, buy a candle and go to Central Park, to any park, and sing for peace and thanks there. I have every confidence this will be under control quickly. May God bless America.”