The Anchor War

All Rights Reserved © 2003 by John Westin

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Although the background of the novel is based on actual events and prominent newsmakers, any resemblance between the fictional characters in this book and actual people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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ISBN: 0-595-26503-0 (pbk)

ISBN: 0-595-65605-6 (cloth)

ISBN 978-1-4620-8232-2 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

PART I

Death of an Anchor

1

Roberta and Harry

2

Goodbye, Harry

3

Sheldon in Tokyo

4

West Out West

5

Marilyn in Moscow

6

New York Rendezvous

PART II

The First Week: The Best & The Brightest

7

Sheldon at Home

8

She’s Baaaack

9

Consultants Are a Dime a Dozen

10

Quillin’s Conspiracy Theory

11

Frank and Sara

12

Morning With Marilyn

13

Saudi Arabian Nights

14

West on the Weekend

PART III

The Second Week: It Must Be Magic

15

Cool It, Frank

16

PowWow on the War

17

Sheldon & the Eight Saddams

18

Dating Allison

19

Marilyn Fights Back

20

Frank & Sara & Fred

21

CIA Games

22

The Evansville Connection

23

The Patriotic Journalist

24

The View From Evansville

25

Mopping Up After David

26

Frank’s Magic Town

PART IV

The Third Week: For All the Marbles

27

Marilyn: The Best Dressed and the Undressed

28

Dead Men Leave Clues

29

We Need to Talk, Frank

30

R is for Ratings

31

Tuesday at Ma ry’s

32

Sheldon Takes the News to the People

33

The News From Ma ry’s

34

Closing In on the Conspirator

35

Marilyn’s Uptown News

36

Allison in Kiserland

37

West’s Finale

38

Deciding Over Drinks

39

Winners & Losers

PART V

Later: The Fallout

40

New Beginnings

It is much easier to wage war

than to wage peace.

PART I 

Death of an Anchor 

1 

Roberta and Harry 

NEW YORK—THURSDAY, JANUARY 17,1991

Only dimly aware of the cold evening air, Roberta Cawlfield clacked briskly along 42nd Street in red high heeled shoes. To passersby and drug addicts she seemed cool and detached, but inside her body emotional turmoil was tearing her apart. She wanted to release a long, piercing primeval scream, but what good would it do? In Manhattan, who would notice?

Her face was taut and pale. Strands of soft, black hair fell teasingly to her neck, where they brushed against her imitation mink coat. Her elegant red satin dress from Saks Fifth Avenue lent a Rolls Royce touch to a body that looked more like a Yugo with each passing year.

When she reached the World Broadcasting Network’s News Building, Cawlfield entered the lobby. The front desk security guard, engrossed in a telephone conversation with a seductive voice at the other end of a 900 number, paid no attention to her.

She rode the elevator to the second floor, then strode relentlessly toward the studio where WBN’s evening newscast originated. On this night, the studio bustled with activity. The Persian Gulf War was barely twenty-four hours old, and WBN had been on the air with war coverage since the fighting began.

In the distance, Cawlfield could see the marble anchor desk where Harrison Kiser, known to friends as Harry, chatted patronizingly with a news assistant, a young Oriental woman. Once a heartthrob, the legendary, grey-haired Kiser was now a father figure to many viewers, a kindly bumpkin to others. A contemporary of Walter Cronkite, he was a dinosaur in the youthful, fast-paced television news divisions of the 1990s. He survived because many network executives and much of the public could not imagine what network TV news would be like without him. Monumental events would come and go, changing the course of history, but Harrison Kiser would always be there to report them.

Kiser straightened his blue silk tie, obviously preparing to go on the air again. Cawlfield drew closer and closer, pausing only when she neared one of the huge cameras focused on Kiser. She glanced around the studio. The production crew was preoccupied with doing its job. Slowly, Cawlfield opened her purse and reached inside.

TWO FLOORS BELOW ground level, in a television control room packed with high-tech equipment, blurry-eyed Larry Bentson stifled a yawn and cued Kiser he was about to go on the air. Bentson—blond, balding and beer-bellied—had been in the director’s chair most of the day, and the pressures of the job were taking their toll. He leaned back and reached for a Marlboro. A few seconds of rest here, a few seconds there…before long it would add up to a minute. Bentson shook his head. What am I thinking? A minute of rest is a big deal? I’ve gotta get out of this business.

Bentson rubbed his eyes and surveyed the array of monitors. George Tucker, WBN’s chief correspondent in Saudi Arabia, appeared on the Line monitor, indicating Tucker’s report was being fed live from the New York City studios to WBN affiliates throughout the country. On other monitors appeared reporters and commentators standing by for their turn on the tube—the network’s military analyst, General Horace Crowder (Retd.), and correspondents Jerry Dryer in Baghdad, Iraq, Carl Hunt in Tel Aviv, Israel, and Linda Mattson at the Pentagon.

As Tucker wound up his report, Kiser was standing by.

Four, three, two…

A moment later, Kiser’s familiar bushy eyebrows and ample jowls dominated the Line monitor. He discussed the latest reports of Iraqi Scud missile firings in the Persian Gulf.

Bentson was watching the monitor carrying the feed from Saudi Arabia when out of the corner of his eye he noticed something unusual happening on the Line monitor. Just as Bentson looked at it, Kiser let out a groan and slumped over the anchor desk, burying his head in news copy that quoted Iraqi President Saddam Hussein as boasting the mother of all wars has begun. Blood trickled onto the paper. For two or three seconds—a long time in Bentson’s world—he was too stunned to say anything. Then…

What’s going on? What the hell’s wrong with Harry?

SHE SHOT HIM! a cameraman yelled, turning the camera toward Roberta Cawlfield as security guards approached her from behind.

Put the gun down! a guard ordered. Put it down now!

For the first time, Cawlfield seemed nervous. All right. Give me a chance. I won’t shoot anyone else. Only Harry, the son of a bitch.

The guard handcuffed Cawlfield and picked up her revolver.

A cameraman felt Kiser’s wrist. There’s no pulse! he shouted.

Executive Producer Ed Reardon hurried over to the anchor desk. At fifty-one, Reardon was a whirlwind of energy, though his wavy black hair was gray at the temples and he was beginning to look his age.

Call 911, he ordered. He looked at the assailant and realized he knew her. Roberta Cawlfield was Kiser’s long-time mistress.

Roberta! My God! You shot Harry!

Hi, Ed, she said, relieved to see someone she knew. Someone who wasn’t carrying a gun. Nice day, isn’t it.

"But Roberta…you shot Harry!"

"You’re repeating yourself, Ed The bastard deserved it. I put up

with that airhead and his empty promises for twelve years. Was he grateful? Hell, no. He dumped me. Well, I told him goodbye in my own way."

Reardon was flabbergasted. You could have walked out on him. You could have dropped him from your Christmas card list. You didn’t have to shoot him!

"Harry paid my rent. I didn’t have anywhere to go. At least this way Harry got what was coming to him… .So how has your day been, Ed?"

Reardon stared at the lifeless body of his long-time friend. About like Harry’s, he mumbled.

Three policemen arrived and escorted dazzling, unrepentant Roberta toward the exit as Reardon looked on dumbfoundedly.

Ed, do you think I should plead insanity? she asked.

Reardon sighed. You’ve got my vote, babe. You killed Harry in front of fifteen million witnesses. You must be nuts.

NUTS, HELL, BENTSON mumbled in the Control Room. "She’ll get millions for selling her story as a movie of the week, and we’ll probably be the network that buys it. We’ll pay her a fortune for shooting our anchor! What a screwed up world we live in."

AN AMBULANCE ATTENDANT examined Kiser and confirmed the venerable anchorman was dead.

Despite the shocking developments, Reardon’s years of producing the news in a professional manner come hell or high water enabled him to perform his job without falling apart. The network had no choice but to continue on the air without missing a beat. Reardon picked up a phone and called Bentson in the Control Room.

What’s the status, Larry?

"Chaos. The shooting and the arrest went out live. We’re still on top of it, but we need an anchor!"

O.K., Reardon said. He hung up. Across the room he spotted Marvin Neukirk, the veteran weekend anchorman.

Marvin, get over here! Reardon ordered.

Kiser’s body was removed on a stretcher as Neukirk approached the hot seat.

How about cleaning up the blood before I sit down? Neukirk grumbled.

The cleaning crew is on its way, Reardon said.

Am I in danger? No one’s waiting around to shoot me?

"It was a personal thing. She was Harry’s mistress. You’re in no danger.

What a way to run a railroad, mumbled Neukirk, who thought he had seen it all during his thirty-one years at WBN.

As cleaning crews hurriedly washed down the anchor desk, Reardon told a desk assistant to get Kiser’s wife, Patricia, on the phone so he could tell her Kiser had died. Patricia didn’t watch much television. Reardon ordered obit material and film highlights of Kiser’s career from the library, then briefed Neukirk on what he knew about the shooting. A film crew already had been dispatched to the police station.

Reardon spoke briefly to Kiser’s widow, telling her what had happened. He phrased it delicately by saying a woman Harry knew had plugged him. A minute later, Reardon hung up and immediately told Bentson to put Neukirk on the air.

Cue, Neukirk…Ten seconds…

Neukirk cautiously slipped into the chair behind the anchor desk.

Take 1! snapped Bentson in the Control Room.

Neukirk gazed into Camera 1. His voice trembled slightly:

"WBN news anchor Harrison Kiser was shot and killed minutes ago when a woman pulled out a .38-caliber revolver and fired it three times. Millions of people viewing WBN’s coverage of the Persian Gulf War saw the bullets strike Kiser.

"Police have arrested Roberta Cawlfield, a friend of Kiser’s, in the murder. A film crew is on its way to the police station. We will keep you informed as developments warrant.

"Kiser’s crew and friends who were in the studio at the time were stunned by the shooting. Kiser, sixty-three, was married and had three children. He had been the anchor of the ‘WBN Evening News’ since 1975. He

was widely respected in the television industry and by his beloved viewers. He will be missed."

2 

Goodbye, Harry 

SATURDAY

Two days later, as bombing runs over Iraq and Kuwait increased to two thousand a day and Israel mopped up after a wave of Iraqi Scud missile attacks, Harrison Kiser was laid to rest in Hampton Bays, Long Island.

Clouds hovered overhead and a nearby temperature sign recorded thirty-seven degrees as the casket holding Kiser’s body was carried to the site where it would be lowered into the ground. At the network’s request, Kiser would be buried with a dozen Armbruster Ratings reports—for reading matter on the long, hot days ahead—and his favorite pipe. One network bigshot who had known Kiser for twenty-three years suggested Kiser should be buried with copies of the porno magazines he ogled when he thought no one was looking.

Mourners included broadcast industry executives, government leaders, Kiser’s family and several hundred loyal viewers. Kiser had told his wife that when he died, he wanted Bradford McClain, president of WBN’s News Division, to deliver his eulogy. Even in death, Kiser was still sucking up to the network bigshots.

Wearing a gray wool overcoat and a black pinstriped Savile Row suit that complemented his slicked-back gray hair, McClain had the demeanor of a senior public relations executive. The family was counting on McClain to give Kiser an uneventful and dignified sendoff, despite the lurid circumstances of his death.

In his eulogy, McClain reviewed the highlights of Kiser’s life, recalling how he had been raised on a farm in western Oklahoma, worked his way through the University of Oklahoma, and landed a job with a little station in Oklahoma that had about as much wattage as a toaster—perhaps even less. Kiser labored there two years before joining a WBN affiliate in Omaha, Nebraska. His big break came the day fire gutted the Omaha television station. The network noticed the fire coverage and hired Kiser, assigning him to its Denver bureau. Some of Kiser’s detractors later would suggest he had started the fire himself. After three years in Denver, WBN brought Kiser to its Washington bureau for two years before sending him overseas, where he covered earth-shattering news stories for fifteen years before WBN called him home to assume the weekend anchor job. Two years later he was handed the jewel of all broadcasting jobs, the primetime anchor throne.

In a husky voice laced with emotion, McClain declared that to many viewers Kiser was a friend they welcomed into their homes. "To them, Harrison Kiser was the ‘WBN Evening News’, McClain declared. They tuned in because it was more than a newscast. Every evening, good old boy Harry Kiser would come into their living rooms and tell them what was happening in the world." It didn’t seem to matter to viewers that Kiser earned two and a half million dollars a year—more than most of them would earn in six or seven lifetimes. He was their trusted reporter and confidant right to the end.

As McClain rambled, mourners noticed he returned several times to the subject of ratings, pointing out Kiser had positioned WBN solidly in second place in the evening news competition, within striking distance of ABC but never quite making it into first place. The implication seemed to be that Kiser was never going to lead the network into the promised land of ratings leadership so there wasn’t much left for him to do but die. Finally, Kiser’s widow, Patricia, could take it no longer.

Can’t we bury Harry without harping on ratings? she pleaded in a shrill voice. Ratings ruled his life for thirty years. I’m sick of it! I don’t want to hear any more about your damn ratings!

The grieving widow’s outburst shocked network executives, whose eyes glazed over as their mouths dropped open. But they recovered quickly enough.

It’s been rough for Patricia and she’s obviously lost her mind, McClain whispered to Reardon.

As Kiser was lowered into the ground, one of WBN’s vice presidents muttered that the network should have televised the funeral. Since other major networks were airing war coverage, Kiser’s funeral might have been good for a 28 share or more—except in Omaha, where people still remembered the fire.

No one had mentioned the unspoken subject on the minds of all the broadcasting people who attended the funeral—who would fill the gaping hole Kiser left when he surrendered the anchor slot? Who would anchor The WBN Evening News?

As the funeral services concluded, network Chairman of the Board J.B. Furst pulled McClain aside. Furst’s six-foot-four frame, heavy build and reputation for ruthlessness intimidated subordinates, a classification which included nearly everyone but God. His face was frozen in dogged-determination mode, a result of his lifelong struggle to attain—and hold onto—raw power.

The publicity surrounding this incident is damaging the network, Furst declared gruffly. "Did you see this morning’s Daily News?"

McClain had seen it. Sharing the front page with war news was a bold headline:

WBN MOPPING UP AFTER BLOODBATH

This is no time for indecision, Furst declared. We must act swiftly to repair the damage. How soon can we name a new anchor?

As soon as possible, J.B., replied McClain.

"That’s not good enough. That’s the kind of crap I expect to hear from a Pentagon PR flack, not from one of my executives. I want to know exactly when. The country’s at war and February is a sweeps month. This is a terrible time to have our anchor chair vacant."

Damn inconsiderate of Harry to die, McClain muttered.

What was that, Brad? Furst growled.

Nothing, J.B. I know that selecting a new anchor isn’t a responsibility you want us to take lightly. We must consider the matter carefully. I think we could reach a decision within a month.

Furst’s face tightened into a grimace. He pulled from his Brooks Brothers overcoat a small notebook and opened it. McClain could see a calculator and small calendar on one side of the notebook and note paper on the other. Four weeks from the day would be February 19. "Hell, in a month, the February sweeps will be nearly over. Three weeks, Brad. The longer we delay, the more rating points we could lose. Three weeks. No more."

McClain nodded. Furst pocketed his notebook and wandered off to say a few words to Kiser’s grieving widow and her two sons and daughter. McClain had a sinking feeling Furst would pull out his notebook again, do a little figuring and inform Kiser’s widow she could forget about receiving a pension check because the network was having a lousy first quarter.

AN HOUR AFTER THE funeral ended, a limousine rushed McClain to the sleek, thirty-four-story WBN Building on Fifth Avenue, four blocks west of the network’s News Building. McClain hurried to the elevator and ascended to the twenty-eighth floor. As soon as he reached his office, he called Ed Reardon, ordering the executive producer to report to the twenty-eighth floor immediately.

Since Reardon worked in the News Building, ten minutes passed before he was knocking on McClain’s door. Reardon thrived on pressure in the newsroom, but he was always ill at ease on the twenty-eighth floor. The huge corporate offices—lavishly furnished with oak desks, expensive imported chairs and original prints by starving artists—belonged to a world far removed from Reardon’s domain, the sparsely furnished WBN News Building.

McClain, reclining in his padded leather executive chair, motioned for Reardon to sit in the wooden chair nearest his desk. The chair had been imported from Finland for an ungodly amount of money and was nearly impossible to sit in comfortably. McClain obviously did not want visitors to overstay their welcome.

Wonderful eulogy, Brad, said Reardon, who was known to lick a few boots when it seemed appropriate. I thought you captured the essence of the man.

It wasn’t easy, McClain grumbled. I kept reminding myself not to mention the way Kiser died, the four-week fling in Rio he wrote off as a business expense, or the incident a few years ago when he beat up our Seattle bureau chief. Ignore the tabloid junk and it doesn’t leave a lot to talk about. By the way, what’s the deal on that Cawlfield woman who shot him?

She was arraigned yesterday. Don’t know when her trial will be.

Let’s hope she cops a plea. If there’s a trial, we could get a slew of bad publicity.

McClain leaned back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling, as though awaiting divine inspiration. Finally, he spoke. Furst has given us three weeks to submit the name of a new anchor for his approval. That’s not a lot of time for a decision that’s crucial to the network’s future. If we make the wrong decision and ratings plummet, the network will lose a fortune in advertising revenue, and you and I will be out on the streets begging for coins and kicking the stuffing out of pigeons. McClain lit a cigar and glared at Reardon. "I don’t want to spend my days begging for coins with you. Do you catch my drift?"

Reardon nodded. He had no desire to spend his days kicking the stuffing out of pigeons with McClain. He shifted his weight in the Devil Chair From Finland, trying to stop the pain that was shooting down his legs.

McClain continued: "The way I see it, our anchor must have charisma and credibility. If the anchor tells people to jump in a lake, they’ll do it willingly because they like our anchor, and they believe our anchor. The anchor must have the smell and the look of success. If the anchor looks like a winner, the network looks like a winner!"

Reardon made a mental note…anchor should smell and wear expensive clothes. McClain was still talking.

And, of course, the anchor should be an experienced, stable newsperson who will not entangle us in multimillion-dollar lawsuits or embarrass us by checking into a loony bin because the pressure was too much. So, what do you suggest?

Reardon had been thinking about possible successors since Kiser’s final bow. As I see it, the leading candidates for the job are David Sheldon and Frank West. Both have solid experience in the field, they know a lot about the technical side of the business, and they have the credentials to be credible anchors. And, both do well in viewer surveys and focus groups.

Sheldon was WBN’s handsome and likeable chief correspondent in Tokyo. He had roamed the world, and also had worked the WBN weekend news anchor desk for a few months three years