the Plan (1995)

by Stephen Cannell

  "Jesus H. Christ, ginune a break," the VP of The Nightly News screamed to a much higher authority.

  The phones went dead as Ryan threw the fourth circuit breaker in the basement.

  Then Steve Israel uttered the worst phrase imaginable in a network control room:

  "We've lost the signal. We're off the air," he said.

  In the basement, when Ryan and Lucinda threw the last power circuit, they could hear the airflow starters struggling to get the backup generators going. Both generators turned on for one rotation, then fell silent as the blankets were sucked deep into the intakes.

  The basement was dark except for the battery flashlights that threw their beams on the wall. Ryan continued to bang away at the ice-cold power lever handles. Lucinda had been right, the cold had hardened the viscosity of the metal and the first handle snapped off with the third or fourth blow from the sledgehammer. It flew across the room and clattered against the far wall.

  Ryan closed his eyes to increase the effort as he swung the heavy sledgehammer, occasionally missing his target in the dim light. Lucinda stood to his right, aiming the nozzle of the fire extinguisher at the base of the steel levers while he swung.

  "What's going on down here?" a man's voice called.

  They turned around but couldn't see him. "Engineering," Ryan said. "Trying to get these damn levers back on.

  "Stay where you are. I'm Security. Drop that."

  Ryan and Lucinda were dimly lit by the flashlights and they couldn't see the security man standing in the blackened doorway. "I got a gun. Drop it."

  Ryan wasn't about to stop. The guard could reverse everything by just putting the remaining three circuit breakers back up. They'd gone too far. He wasn't convinced the man had a gun, or would use it, so he kept swinging the sledgehammer. The second handle broke off, snapping halfway up the arm, and flew across the room. When the security man fired, the noise was deafening in the enclosed concrete space. The bullet hit near Ryan's head, chipping out a piece of the wall and blowing concrete dust into his eyes. For a moment, he couldn't see. Then Lucinda turned the nozzle of the fire extinguisher toward the sound of the gunshot and filled the doorway with cold, white carbon dioxide gas.

  In the truck, Cole was waiting. The network was off the air, but the local stations didn't know it because they still had ten more seconds of local airtime before the network was scheduled to take the signal back and come out of black. John had already done a cross-check on the polarity to guarantee they were solidly on both the East and West coast transponder.

  "Okay," John said. "Uplink . . . in ten we're coming out of black."

  Cole started the tape and John hit the Transmit button, shooting the signal up onto the bird. "We're on in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . ." he said, as the network news break bulletin music led the tape. John had found the Special Report music in the sound caddy in the truck. John opened the "announcer's pot," and Cole leaned in toward the mike: "This is a UBC Special Report," he said sternly.

  The tape they had made at Madison Junior High came onto the screen, but without the Special Report bulletin card which would normally precede a break-in. Then Cole's image filled the screen.

  "This is Cole Harris with a late-breaking story," he said into the camera with professional reporter ease. He was sitting at the desk in the small video lab in his tie and paisley suspenders. They had pulled a school bookcase in behind him to create an office set. To both Cole and John, it looked cheesy, but they hoped it would get past the local station directors. John knew that they would become suspicious shortly, so he was going to send them a "network alert." Normally, when a special bulletin hit the airwaves, it was preceded by a network alert, warning the local stations it was coming. For obvious reasons, they had not been able to do that, but in emergencies, the network alert could come a few minutes into the news break. John could type the special-frequency message onto the transmission and it would appear at the bottom of the screen so that only the local program director and his staff could see it. He decided to send it a minute or two into the broadcast, just as the news directors were becoming concerned and reaching for their phones. It would be part of a familia r p attern and should calm them. Meanwhile, Cole was doing his preamble on the line monitor. The story was raining out from Galaxy Four all across the United States: "Governments are fragile," Cole started, importantly. "They exist by virtue of the whims and passions of their populations. Power is, indeed, a heady perfume, so it is not surprising that in this decade, we have seen governments fall to political insurrection and intrigue."

  Naomi had pushed the small Trinitron camera in the Madison Junior High School video lab in slowly, tightening the shot to give Cole's words more impact.

  "Normally, these coups d'etat take place in third world countries. So it is doubly surprising when one is attempted here, at home in the United States of America." He stood and walked around and sat on the corner of the desk. "We will show proof that the Democratic nominee Haze Richards entered into a contract with Mafia kingpin Michael Alo in New Jersey. The goal of the alliance between these men was to put Haze Richards into the White House. Before this broadcast is complete, we will show you tapes and film connecting these two men with the late underworld financial boss Meyer Lansky. More importantly, we will prove that the New Jersey Alo crime family, working through Meyer Lansky, financed C. Wallace Litman's purchase and control of the United Broadcasting Company. These men used this powerful electronic communications network to influence, control, and script the events of the primary campaign. . . To influence public opinion for the purpose of hijacking next week's national election for the presidency of the United States."

  John started to type his "network alert" into the transmission.

  "Attention Stations . . . This Special Report will conclude at 6:14." He signed it: "Air Control, New York."

  On the roof of the Lincoln Plaza, the printout flashed on Red Decker's GPS Sony hand unit. He scribbled the latitude and longitude on a piece of paper.

  "Get the helicopter going," Mickey yelled.

  The pilot, who was already in the Bell Jet Ranger, started to turn the blades.

  Red Decker looked at the map in front of him and found the latitude and longitude: 4(047'1" north, 73deg48'8" west. He tracked his fingers on the map until he found the exact location. "Gotta be a mistake," Red said.

  "Why? What's wrong?" Mickey yelled over the noise of the helicopter.

  "This is our own dish. It's right here." He pointed on the map to the block where the UBC parking structure was located. "That's where we have our main C-band uplink. This is our own signal."

  Mickey looked at him, trying to understand. "Whatta you talking about?"

  "That's our uplink," Red said, trying to get Mickey to understand.

  Babbling John Baily had hoped to create confusion by broadcasting right next to the UBC ten-meter C-band dish. He hoped it would buy valuable time. It did. It bought fifty-three seconds.

  Red Decker moved away from the helicopter and reactivated his GPS unit, waited for it to get the bounce-back ATIS signal, then shook his head. 'This is nuts," he said as he got the same reading.

  "What!" Mickey was losing patience.

  "Our big dish is a C-band and this GPS receiver is only for K-U band transmission, so it can't be our signal. . . . But it's coming from the same place. How can that be?"

  "They're on the fucking roof with that stolen dish, asshole!" Mickey turned and ran to the helicopter and jumped in

  Red watched as some of the men in the helicopter grabbed up automatic weapons and began pulling the slides, chambering rounds. He saw the chopper take off and lean to starboard. Then the rotor changed pitch as they streaked off toward UBC and the final confrontation.

  Chapter 71.

  TRUMP

  C. WALLACE LITMAN AND HIS WIFE SALLY HAD INVITED Karen and Max Jergenson over for a game of bridge. Litman always kept the UBC broadcast on low in the living r oom. He had one eye on the TV as h
e looked at his hand.

  Diamonds were trump. C. Wallace pondered his opening lead. Then he saw a picture of Joseph Alo on the TV. He reached for the remote control and turned up the volume.

  Sally and the Jergensons swung around to look at the screen.

  Cole's voice still carried the narrative: ". . financing that set up the broadcasting empire of C. Wallace Litman came from Meyer Lansky's offshore Bahamian company Mary Carver Paints. This painting supply company, which had been acquired in the sixties, was a corporate shell funneling offshore cash payments from Meyer Lansky to C. Wallace Litman. These cash transfers occurred all throughout the seventies and into the eighties. It was these underworld funds that enabled C. Wallace Litman to purchase his broadcasting empire."

  "What . . . ?" C. Wallace Litman got unsteadily to his feet, torn between turning off the set so the Jergensons wouldn't be able to see it, and keeping it on to hear what was being said about him. Then he heard his own tape-recorded voice talking to Meyer Lansky.

  "Good to talk to you, Meyer."

  Meyer's brittle voice answered.

  "Did you get the package, Wally?"

  Pictures of Meyer and C. Wallace Litman from old magazines that Naomi Zur had collected from the wire service were side by side on the screen.

  "Sure did, but we're gonna hold it in the paint company offshore until we need it."

  `That's you, Wallace,' Sally said, a look of pure confusion on her face.

  "Okay, good," Meyer continued. "I think you should level off on the newspaper and radio. We got four chairs but I'm much more interested in television."

  "I agree, Meyer. I got my eye on United Broadcasting. They're a group of independent stations, but I think they can be bought for the right price. We can leverage the buy. And I'd recommend that because I think we're gonna need a lot more cash downriver to acquire additional stations and fund programming."

  C. Wallace Litman was frozen, unable to turn off the TV or stop this searing indictment. The Jergensons laid down their cards and looked first at Wallace, then at each other, as the conspiracy between their host, Meyer Lansky, and the Mafia came into sharper focus.

  "How's Teddy?" Litman said on the tape, referring to Meyer's wife.

  "She's fine. And Mrs. Litman . . . ?"

  "She's fine. You two are gonna have to meet sometime."

  We can't meet. Joseph wants you in the clear. If he puts a man in the White House, you're the one who's gonna do it. You and that TV network. Once we own the Man, we're gonna put all these fucks in the Justice Department out of business."

  The Special Report ended with film footage from FBI hidden cameras, first of Joseph Alo and Meyer Lansky, then one shot of Joseph Alo with Litman in the Vegas e levator of the Frontier Hotel twenty years ago. Litma n s till had hair, but the billionaire was plainly recognizable.

  Cole wound up the broadcast as the camera came back to the Madison Junior High video lab. He was still sitting on the edge of the desk:

  "It is not hard to understand why an organized crime family in this country would attempt to buy a President. In Italy, in 1993, government corruption from the Mafia went all the way to the prime minister. It destroyed the institutions of that government. As Haze Richards stands on the threshold of the White House, you can bet that he has made a pledge of obedience to the men who financed him and controlled his candidacy, men who created his image and popularity through the subtle use and manipulation of network broadcasting." The camera moved in closer.

  "This report was prepared by four people, including myself, who are currently being sought by the FBI. We have been accused of planning the assassination of Haze Richards, a charge that was made to discredit us and this report. All of the material we have gathered is available now to the press and law enforcement agencies. Voice prints will validate the accuracy of the audiotapes. The film speaks for itself."

  "Naomi Zur, Lucinda Alo, Ryan Bolt, and I will offer ourselves up for arrest. A brave man, retired FBI agent Solomon Kazorowski, gave his life for this story and for his country."

  The camera was now in an extreme close-up as Cole concluded: "I have devoted my life to the concept of a free and open press. In a democracy, the press is the watchdog for the evils men commit, but what happens when the press has been capWred? What happens if our greatest freedom is sold to society's villains? What if free speech is constrained by media conspiracies? If the pen is to remain mightier than the sword, then it must be defended passionately.... Defended by . . ."

  And the broadcast was interrupted. The screen turned to snow.

  The helicopter hovered low over the parking garage as two of the Italian "cousins" leaned out of the bay and riddled the SNG truck with .223-caliber copper-jacketed devastators. They shot off the "feed flow" and took the pirate transmission off the air. Naomi Zur ran out from behind the truck, her eye glued to her Nikon. She strobed fifteen pictures of the helicopter before she got caught in the hailstorm.

  She was hit twice.

  One bullet went through the palm of her right hand. The other went through her chest, puncturing her heart.

  She was dead before she hit the ground.

  Cole urged John to take off on foot. His part of the plot was over and Cole didn't want the engineer exposed to more danger. They could hear the gunfire in the distance. The RF engineer carefully shut down his equipment in the MCC and took off into the rainy night.

  In the basement next door, Ryan and Lucinda had taken cover behind the generators as the security guard, his eyes watering from Lucinda's blast of carbon dioxide, moved into the dark room with his gun out. Ryan hurled himself at the man as he approached . and drove him back against the wall. The security guard was a sixty-seven-year-old ex-cop from Brooklyn. He folded up, wheezing out a lungful of smoker's breath. His gun flew from his hand and landed next to the wall. Lucinda grabbed a flashlight and went to scoop it up as Ryan snatched the handcuffs off the guard's belt and cuffed the old man to one of the pipes in the basement.

  "I'm sorry," Ryan said to the security guard, who was unable to answer as he struggled to get his breath.

  They climbed the stairs, Ryan's leg quivering from the effort. When they went out into the alley, it was dark and a heavy rain was falling. They could hear automatic gunfire, and as they ran to the mouth of the alley, they could see the gray and red helicopter hovering above the parking structure with four men leaning out, firing. He sensed that Mickey was in the chopper. The moment Ryan had predicted was upon them.

  The cold rain drenched them as they took off running, moving as fast as Ryan's leg would allow. They reached the staircase where the mobile control room was parked. The helicopter was now hovering above, but the men had stopped firing momentarily. Ryan banged on the door of the big truck while Lucinda ducked into the building.

  "It's me! . . . It's Ryan!"

  Cole swung the door open, his face flushed with excitement "The fucker put six or seven rounds right through the top of this bastard," he said, grinning and pointing to the roof of the mobile control center.

  "Get the tapes and get into the garage," Ryan said. "I'm going after Mickey." He didn't wait for an answer but ran to the fire door.

  Ryan was forced to pull himself up the fire stairs by the banister rail. His leg had lost almost all of its strength. It felt wobbly under him.

  Finally, he stepped out onto the roof and stood staring at the helicopter a hundred yards away, still hovering. He could see Mickey in the seat next to the pilot.

  "Come here! Come here, Mickey," he yelled into the wind and rain. He knew Mickey couldn't hear him. "Come down here, you son of a bitch!" he shouted, waving his fist at the chopper.

  From the helicopter, Mickey saw Ryan come out of the stairwell. Anger fueled by adrenaline hit him, frying all reason.

  "Cocksucker!" he screamed at the windshield. The pilot looked at him in amazement and alarm. Mickey was in a new zone, someplace he'd never been before. His emotions were completely controlling his actions. He banged the pilot on
the shoulder and pointed down. The four Ita l ian "cousins" jammed new clips into their AR-15s. Mickey yelled at them, "You shoot this asshole if he gets me . . . put him under if I go down."

  The Italian cousins looked at him blankly, and Mickey repeated the instructions in Italian. They nodded, grave expressions on their faces.

  "Gimme," he said to Pulacarpo, pointing at a nine-millimeter Beretta in the Sicilian's belt. Pulacarpo gave the gun to Mickey as the helicopter set down on the side of Hertz Castle farthest away from the big dish. Mickey jumped out onto the rain-soaked roof.

  Mickey and Ryan were now only fifty feet apart. The wind from the rotor blades was blowing rainwater everywhere. Mickey waved at the pilot to back off. The gray and red chopper pulled back slightly and the prep school roommates stood facing each other, Naomi Zur's dead body between them. Rain hammered down on the concrete. Ryan moved to Naomi, knelt awkwardly, and checked her pulse. He knew when he touched her. He knew she was dead. Then he stood up and looked at Mickey.

  "It was bound to come to this," Mickey shouted over the noise of the rain and the helicopter. Anger and bitterness were in his voice. He raised the gun and pointed it at Ryan.

  "I'm not armed," Ryan yelled. But Mickey didn't respond. "You need a gun, 'cause you never could take me one-on-one. You're a pussy, Mickey. A fat, oily little piece of shit with no guts."

  Mickey looked across the pavement at the handsome blond man. God had given Ryan the gift of beauty... Mickey had always scorned that gift, but Mickey had the devil's gift of power. And now he vowed to take Ryan's beauty from him . . . take it with his bare hands. Anger swelled. Emotion flooded through him. It filled his empty vessel with rage. Mickey dropped the gun and moved forward.

  Ryan stood his ground. He put his weak left leg forward so that he would get punching power off his stronger right leg. They net in the center of the roof, drenched from the downpour. Both held up their fists.

  "You could a' been my friend," Mickey said, bitterly. "I was trying to help you."