Phantoms

Chapter 21

The Big Story Santa Mira.

Monday-1:02 A.M.

"Hello?”

"Is this the Santa Mira Daily News?”

"Yeah." "The newspaper?”

"Lady, the paper's closed. It's after one in the morning.”

"Closed? I didn't know a newspaper ever closed.”

"This isn't the New York Times.”

"But aren't you printing tomorrow's edition now?" "The printing's not done here. These are the business and editorial offices. Did you want the printer or what?”

"Well… I have a story." "If it's an obituary or a church bake sale or something, what you do is you call back in the morning, after nine o'clock, and you' "No, no. This is a big story.”

"Oh, a garage sale, huh?”

"that?”

"Never mind. You'll just have to call back in the morning.”

"Wait, listen, I work for the phone company.”

"That's not such a big story.”

"No, see, it's because I work for the phone company that I found out about this thing. Are you the editor?”

"No. I'm in charge of selling ad pace.”

:"Well… maybe you can still help me.”

"Lady. I'm sitting here on a Sunday night-no, a Monday morning now- all alone in a dreary little office, trying to figure out how the devil to drum up enough business to keep this paper afloat. I am tired. I am irritable' "How awful.”

— and I am afraid you'll have to call back in the morning.”

"But something terrible has happened in Snowfield. I don't know exactly what, but I know people are dead. There might even be a lot of people dead or at least in danger of dying.”

"Christ, I must be tireder than I thought. I'm getting interested in spite of myself. Tell me.”

"We've rerouted Snowfield's phone service, pulled it off the automatic dialing system, and restricted all ingoing calls.

You can only reach two numbers up there now, and both of them are being answered by the sheriff's men. The reason they've set it up that way is to seal the place off before the reporters find out something's up.”

"Lady, what've you been drinking?”

"I don't drink.”

:"Then what've you been smoking?”

"Listen, I know a little bit more. They're getting calls from the Santa Mira sheriff's office all the time, and from the governor's office, and from some military base out in Utah, and they — ”

San Francisco.

Monday-1:40 A.M.

:"This is Sid Sandowicz. Can I help you?”

"I keep tellin' them I want to talk to a San Francisco Chronicle reporter, man.”

"That's me.”

"Man, you guys have hung up on me three times! What the fuck's the matter with you guys?”

"Watch your language.”

,Shit.”

Listen, do you have any idea how many kids like you call up newspapers, wasting our time with silly-ass gags and hot tip hoaxes?”

"Huh? How'd you even know I was a kid?”

""Cause you sound twelve.”

"I'm fifteen!”

"Congratulations.”

"Shit!”

"Listen, son, I've got a boy your age, which is why I'm bothering to listen to you when the other guys wouldn't. So if you've really got something of interest, spill it.”

"Well, my old man's a professor at Stanford. He's a virologist and an epidemiologist. You know what that means, man?”

"He studies viruses, disease, something like that.”

"Yeah. And he's let himself be corrupted.”

"How's that?”

"He accepted a grant from the fuckin' military. Man, he's involved with some biological warfare outfit. It's supposed to be a peaceful application of his research, but you know that's a lot of horseshit. He sold his soul, and now they're finally claimin' it. The shit's hit the fan.”

"The fact that your father sold out-if he did sell out might be big news in your family, son, but I'm afraid it wouldn't be of much interest to our readers.”

"Hey, man, I didn't call up just to jerk you off. I've got a real story. Tonight they came for him. There's a crisis of some kind. I'm supposed to think he had to fly back East on business.

I snuck upstairs and listened at their bedroom door while he was layin’

it all out for the old lady. There's been some kind of contamination in Snowfield. A big emergency. Everyone's tryin' to keep it secret.”

" Snowfield, California?”

"Yeah, yeah. What I figure, man, is that they were secretly runnin' a test of some germ weapon on our own people and it got out of hand. Or maybe it was an accidental spill. Somethin' real heavy's going' down, for sure.”

"What's your name, son?”

"Ricky Bettenby. My old man's name is Wilson Bettenby.”

"Stanford, you said?”

"Yeah. You gonna follow up on this, man?”

"Maybe there's something to it. But before I start calling people at Stanford, I need to ask you a lot more questions.”

"Fire away. I'll tell you whatever I can. I want to blast this wide open, man. I want him to pay for sellin' out.”

Throughout the night, the leaks sprung one by one. At Dugway, Utah, an army officer, who should have known better, used a pay phone off the base to call New York and spill the story to a much-loved younger brother who was a cub reporter for the Times. In bed, after sex, an aide to the governor told his lover, a woman reporter. Those and other holes in the dam caused the flow of information to grow from a trickle to a flood.

By three o'clock in the morning, the switchboard at the Santa Mira County Sheriff's Office was overloaded. By dawn, the newspaper, television, and radio reporters were swarming into Santa Mira. Within a few hours of first light, the street in front of the sheriff's offices was crowded with press cars, camera vans bearing the logos of TV stations in Sacramento and San Francisco, reporters, and curiosity seekers of all ages.

The deputies gave up trying to keep people from congregating in the middle of the street, for there were too many of them to be herded onto the sidewalks. They sealed off the block with sawhorses and turned it into a big open-air press compound. A couple of enterprising kids from a nearby apartment building starting selling Tang, cookies, and-with the aid of the longest series of extension cords anyone could remember seeing-hot coffee. Their refreshment stand became the rumor center, where reporters gathered to share theories and hearsay while they waited for the latest official information handouts.

Other newsmen spread out through Santa Mira, seeking people who had friends or relatives living up in Snowfield, or who were in some way related to the deputies now stationed there. Out at the junction of the state route and Snowfield Road, still other reporters were camping at the police roadblock.

In spite of all this hurly-burly, fully half of the press had not yet arrived. Many representatives of the Eastern media and the foreign press were still in transit. For the authorities who were trying hard to deal with the mess, the worst was yet to come. By Monday afternoon, it would be a circus.