The Best Laid Plans

The WTE television studios took up the entire sixth floor of Building Four. Tom Hawkins, the producer of the nightly news, led Dana into his office.

"Have you ever worked in television?"

"No, sir. I've worked on newspapers."

"Dinosaurs. They're the past. We're the present. And who knows what the future will be? Let me show you around."

There were dozens of people working at desks and monitors. Wire copy from half a dozen news services was appearing on computers.

"Here's where stories and news breaks come in from all over the world," Hawkins explained. "I decide which ones we're going with. The assignment desk sends out crews to cover those stories. Our reporters in the field send in their stories by microwave or transmitters. Besides our wire services, we have one hundred and sixty police channels, reporters with cell phones, scanners, monitors. Every story is planned to the second. The writers work with tape editors to get the timing exact. The average news story runs between a minute and a half and a minute and forty-five seconds."

"How many writers work here?" Dana asked.

"Six. Then you have a video coordinator, news tape editors, producers, directors, reporters, anchors..." He stopped. A man and woman were approaching them. "Speaking of anchors, meet Julia Brinkman and Michael Tate."

Julia Brinkman was a stunning woman, with chestnut-colored hair, tinted contacts that made her eyes a sultry green, and a practiced, disarming smile. Michael Tate was an athletic-looking man with a burstingly genial smile and an outgoing manner.

"Our new writer," Hawkins said. "Donna Evanston."

"Dana Evans."

"Whatever. Let's get to work."

He took Dana back to his office. He nodded toward the assignment board on the wall. "Those are the stories I'll choose from. They're called slugs. We're on twice a day. We do the noon news from twelve to one and the nightly news from ten to eleven. When I tell you which stories I want to run with, you'll put them together and make everything sound so exciting that the viewers can't switch channels. The tape editor will feed you video clips, and you'll work them into the scripts and indicate where the clips go."

"Right."

"Sometimes there's a breaking story, and then we'll cut into our regular programming with a live feed."

"That's interesting," Dana said.

She had no idea that one day it was going to save her life.

The first night's program was a disaster. Dana had put the news leads in the middle instead of the beginning, and Julia Brinkman found herself reading Michael Tate's stories while Michael was reading hers.

When the broadcast was over, the director said to Dana, "Mr. Hawkins would like to see you in his office. Now."

Hawkins was sitting behind his desk, grimfaced.

"I know," Dana said contritely. "It was a new low in television, and it's all my fault."

Hawkins sat there watching her.

Dana tried again. "The good news, Tom, is that from now on it can only get better. Right?"

He kept staring at her.

"And it will never happen again because" - she saw the look on his face - "I'm fired."

"No," Hawkins said curtly. "That would be letting you off too easily. You're going to do this until you get it right. And I'm talking about the noon news tomorrow. Am I making myself clear?"

"Very."

"Good. I want you here at eight o'clock in the morning."

"Right, Tom."

"And since we're going to be working together - you can call me Mr. Hawkins."

The noon news the next day went smoothly. Tom Hawkins had been right, Dana decided. It was just a matter of getting used to the rhythm. Get your assignment...write the story...work with the tape editor...set up the TelePrompTer for the anchors to read.

From that point on, it became routine.

Dana's break came eight months after she had started working at WTE. She had just finished putting the evening news report on the TelePrompTer at nine forty-five and was preparing to leave. When she walked into the television studio to say good night, there was chaos. Everyone was talking at once.

Rob Cline, the director, was shouting, "Where the hell is she?"

"I don't know."

"Hasn't anyone seen her?"

"No."

"Did you phone her apartment?"

"I got the answering machine."

"Wonderful. We're on the air" - he looked at his watch - "in twelve minutes."

"Maybe Julia was in an accident," Michael Tate said. "She could be dead."

"That's no excuse. She should have phoned."

Dana said, "Excuse me..."

The director turned to her impatiently. "Yes?"

"If Julia doesn't show up, I could do the newscast."

"Forget it." He turned back to his assistant. "Call security and see if she's come into the building."

The assistant picked up the phone and dialed. "Has Julia Brinkman checked in yet...? Well, when she does, tell her to get up here, fast."

"Have him hold an elevator for her. We're on the air in" - he looked at his watch again - "seven damned minutes."

Dana stood there, watching the growing panic.

Michael Tate said, "I could do both parts."

"No," the director snapped. "We need two of you up there." He looked at his watch again. "Three minutes. Goddammit. How could she do this to us? We're on the air in - "

Dana spoke up. "I know all the words. I wrote them."

He gave her a quick glance. "You have no makeup on. You're dressed wrong."

A voice came from the sound engineer's booth. "Two minutes. Take your places, please."

Michael Tate shrugged and took his seat on the platform in front of the cameras.

"Places, please!"

Dana smiled at the director. "Good night, Mr. Cline." She started toward the door.

"Wait a minute!" He was rubbing his hand across his forehead. "Are you sure you can do this?"

"Try me," Dana said.

"I don't have any choice, do I?" he moaned. "All right. Get up there. My God! Why didn't I listen to my mother and become a doctor?"

Dana hurried up to the platform and took the seat next to Michael Tate.

"Thirty seconds...twenty...ten...five..."

The director signaled with his hand, and the red light on the camera flashed on.

"Good evening," Dana said smoothly. "Welcome to the WTE ten-o'clock news. We have a breaking story for you in Holland. There was an explosion at an Amsterdam school this afternoon and..."

The rest of the broadcast went smoothly.

The following morning, Rob Cline came into Dana's office. "Bad news. Julia was in an automobile accident last night. Her face is" - he hesitated - "disfigured."

"I'm sorry," Dana said, concerned. "How bad is it?"

"Pretty bad."

"But today plastic surgery can - "

He shook his head. "Not this time. She won't be coming back."

"I'd like to go see her. Where is she?"

"They're taking her back to her family, in Oregon."

"I'm so sorry."

"You win some, you lose some." He studied Dana a moment. "You were okay last night. We'll keep you on until we find someone permanent."

Dana went to see Matt Baker. "Did you see the news last night?" she asked.

"Yes," he grunted. "For God's sakes, try putting on some makeup and a more appropriate dress."

Dana felt deflated. "Right."

As she turned to leave, Matt Baker said grudgingly, "You weren't bad." Coming from him, it was a high compliment.

On the fifth night of the news broadcast, the director said to Dana, "By the way, the big brass said to keep you on."

She wondered if the big brass was Matt Baker.

Within six months, Dana became a fixture on the Washington scene. She was young and attractive and her intelligence shone through. At the end of the year, she was given a raise and special assignments. One of her shows, Here and Now, interviews with celebrities, had zoomed to the top of the ratings. Her interviews were personal and sympathetic, and celebrities who hesitated to appear on other talk shows asked to be on Dana's show. Magazines and newspapers began interviewing Dana. She was becoming a celebrity herself.

At night, Dana would watch the international news. She envied the foreign correspondents. They were doing something important. They were reporting history, informing the world about the important events that were happening around the globe. She felt frustrated.

Dana's two-year contract with WTE was nearly up. Philip Cole, the chief of correspondents, called her in.

"You're doing a great job, Dana. We're all proud of you."

"Thank you, Philip."

"It's time for us to be talking about your new contract. First of all - "

"I'm quitting."

"I beg your pardon?"

"When my contract's up, I'm not doing the show anymore."

He was looking at her incredulously. "Why would you want to quit? Don't you like it here?"

"I like it a lot," Dana said. "I want to be with WTE, but I want to be a foreign correspondent"

"That's a miserable life," he exploded. "Why in God's name would you want to do that?"

"Because I'm tired of hearing what celebrities want to cook for dinner and how they met their fifth husband. There are wars going on, and people are suffering and dying. The world doesn't give a damn. I want to make them care." She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I can't stay on here." She rose and started toward the door.

"Wait a minute! Are you sure this is what you want to do?"

"It's what I've always wanted to do," Dana said quietly.

He was thoughtful for a moment. "Where do you want to go?"

It took her a moment for the import of his words to sink in. When Dana found her voice, she said, "Sarajevo."