story.”
Jenna shifted her attention to a monitor on the set and watched Randall, a strikingly handsome former Army Ranger, offer Andrea a tight smile. Then he reported that the same Islamic Web site that had released the video of the hijacking had just announced that the jihadists would blow up the tanker—if the industrialized world didn’t reduce its carbon emissions by 50 percent in the next five years.
Over video of the supertanker, Randall said, “The jihadists have given the U.S. one week to shut down the country’s ten largest coal-fired power plants as a show of good faith.”
Randall reappeared on camera, naming a handful of the plants listed by the hijackers.
“Thank you, Chris Randall, special terrorism correspondent.” Andrea turned back to Jenna and Harold Swenson. “What do you make of those demands?”
“To be expected,” Swenson said. “Al Qaeda’s been blaming climate change on the U.S. for the past three years.”
“There’s no way to get anywhere near a fifty-percent reduction in greenhouse gasses, even in the next fifteen years,” Jenna said. “That’s a nonstarter.”
“I’ve just been informed,” Andrea adjusted her earpiece, “that President Reynolds is calling the hijacking ‘Islamo ecoterrorism.’ That’s a new term.”
“I couldn’t have put it better,” Swenson said. “Maybe Al Qaeda remembers what the oceanographer John Martin once said: ‘Give me a half tanker of iron, and I’ll give you an ice age.’” Swenson looked pointedly at Jenna.
“I would never go that far,” she said.
“Where does this leave us?” Andrea asked.
“On the brink of the abyss,” Swenson answered.
“In a dangerous spot,” Jenna said, “but—”
“The abyss,” Swenson repeated emphatically.
That’s how the segment ended. Jenna found it ironic to see herself as the voice of reason after years of being criticized for trying to raise awareness of the dangers of climate change. But her position was nuanced, and she would not join in Swenson’s dire prophesying.
Now she was off to see James Elfren. The urgency of the meeting with the news division vice president—scheduled for minutes after The Morning Show signed off—signaled its importance, but when Marv hustled to join Jenna on the way to Elfren’s office, she knew without question that a pivotal development was in the works.
Elfren’s young male assistant jumped from his desk outside his boss’s office to escort Jenna and Marv into a spacious corner lair, which was well insulated from the squawking horns, squealing brakes, and piercing sirens of Manhattan traffic. Elfren rose from behind his cherrywood desk and smiled at Jenna. She saw him so rarely—Jenna was not officially in the news division, as Marv was wont to remind her—that Elfren’s tall, slope-shouldered stature took her aback. As did his bright hazel eyes and mocha-colored hair. An altogether attractive example of the executive species.
He gestured to a sitting area, and Jenna knew instinctively to take the tufted couch. Marv appeared to weigh the wisdom of claiming the brass tack armchair, before realizing, or perhaps remembering, that that was likely the boss’s perch and that it might not behoove him to long so openly for the perquisites of power. Jenna thought Marv looked like a stumpy Ecuadorian general lusting after the presidential palace in the hours before a coup.
Dream on, twit.
“Your outfit was a huge improvement today,” Elfren said to her, adjusting his smartly striped tie as he assumed his throne.
As soon as he spoke, Jenna recalled why Elfren had never been a candidate for on-air honors: His voice sounded as if his throat was being continually throttled by a murderous hand. Every high-pitched word sounded panicked.
“Yesterday, you had her looking half undressed out there in that sleazy Dorothy outfit, Marv.” Elfren spoke without a smile or any evidence of cheesy, male-bonding humor. To the contrary, this was unadulterated admonishment, Jenna realized, and brought to mind Elfren’s other appealing quality: He was a decent guy, a married man with two kids and no reputation for chasing women.
“I’ll talk to Jeremy,” Marv said.
“You mean you didn’t have him clear those outfits with you first?”
Marv looked pained, like he wished more than anything that he could slink back to the fourth floor. “I trusted him.”
“I wouldn’t,” Elfren said in a way that made it clear that Marv shouldn’t have, either. “I never want to see that again.”
“Numbers were up,” Marv peeped.
“So were viewer complaints. Thousands of e-mails have come in. They’re still coming, and most of them thought our host looked like a slut. I don’t want viewers thinking of Andrea—a mother-to-be—as a slut, Marv. It’s bad morning television.”
Maybe Marv’s getting fired. Jenna had never seen a