Quake Epicenter

By Jack Douglas

There's No Way To Prepare

In the first earth-shaking installment of Jack Douglas's six-part Quake, the northeast experiences the deadliest earthquake in U.S. history—9.0 on the Richter Scale—and the epicenter is New York City. . .

Assistant U.S. Attorney Nick Dykstra has seen his beloved city under attack. He has devoted himself to putting terrorist Feroz Saeed Aliva—one of the architects behind 9/11 on trial for his role in the attacks. But Nick has never seen anything like the catastrophic events about to change New York forever. An earthquake of epic proportions. Buildings will be destroyed. Concrete will shatter. Bridges and tunnels will collapse. It strikes without warning—and gives Feroz Aliva a chance to escape. Now, plunged in chaos and darkness, Nick is determined not to let his adversary get away. Aliva swore he would get his revenge, that he would hunt down Nick's daughter at Columbia University and make her pay for America's crimes. . .with her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pinnacle Books
• Release date: Jun 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780786034598

Jack Douglas

Jack Douglas (1908-1989) was an American author and humorist. He was born in New York City and attended the City College of New York before pursuing a career in writing. Douglas wrote a variety of books and articles, ranging from humor to non-fiction. He is perhaps best known for his humorous works, including "My Brother Was an Only Child," "Never Trust a Naked Bus Driver," and "The Meaning of Yiddish." In addition to his writing, Douglas was also involved in television and film. He wrote for several television shows in the 1950s and 1960s, including The Jack Benny Show and The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson. He also wrote the screenplay for the 1964 film "Good Neighbor Sam," starring Jack Lemmon and Romy Schneider. Douglas was a frequent guest on television talk shows, where he often performed his humorous monologues. He was also a regular contributor to magazines such as Esquire and Playboy. Throughout his career, Douglas received several awards for his writing, including the Thurber Prize for American Humor in 1975. He passed away in 1989 at the age of 80.

Book preview

Page

1

Outside the United States Federal Courthouse at 500 Pearl Street in lower Manhattan, Assistant U.S. Attorney Nick Dykstra wove his way through the throng of protestors, hundreds of them hefting signs and chanting Alivi must leave at the top of their lungs.

Catchy, Nick thought. But far from the best I’ve heard outside 500 Pearl.

Nick kept his head down. Not that he thought he’d be recognized; the Honorable Justice Kaye Gaydos had rightly banned cameras from the courtroom for the duration of the case, leaving the public with little more than 1980s-style courtroom illustrations to gawk at when they tuned in to CNN after work to catch their highlights of the day’s trial testimony. And the courtroom sketches—created by artists hanging on to an all-but-obsolete trade—hardly did Nick justice. At least in his opinion.

Besides, it was the defense attorneys who were the glory seekers; they had everything to gain and nothing to lose by grandstanding. Career prosecutors like Nick didn’t give a damn what the general public thought of them, so long as their higher-ups caught the full show. Particularly the president of the United States; or future presidents to be more precise. No matter what happened at this trial, Nick thought it was highly unlikely that he would be appointed as a U.S. attorney or federal judge within the next two years. And by January 2017, when the next U.S. president took office, this trial would be long forgotten by everyone but its participants.

Unless I nail Alivi with the death penalty, Nick mused as he shoved his way through the crowd. That would keep the trial and the defendant in the minds of the American public for years to come. Years of appeals by Alivi and his lawyers would keep Nick’s name in the transcripts and the New York tabloids, if not the national TV news.

As Nick approached the makeshift gate, the protestors morphed into journalists, and for a moment Nick wondered which were worse. The protestors at least had a legitimate gripe, even if Nick didn’t agree with them. Hell, they were New Yorkers, and Feroz Saeed Alivi was one of the last men to be captured and charged for his role in the death and destruction that took place just a few city blocks away on September 11, 2001. And here he was, Feroz Saeed Alivi on American soil. Here he was, in New York City. In downtown Manhattan for Christ’s sake, just a five-minute subway ride from Ground Zero. About to receive a fair trial with all the rights and privileges afforded your average American citizen.

The protestors had wanted Alivi to be tried as an enemy combatant in private at Gitmo. Osama bin Laden and the rest of the self-proclaimed jihadists who attacked the United States twelve years ago had been in the spotlight long enough; these protestors wanted them thrust back into the shadows, where they belonged. This trial, they claimed, was opening freshly healed wounds and giving Alivi the world stage yet again. In the realm of radical Islam, Alivi was being heralded as a genuine hero and a martyr to the cause.

I’ll make damn sure he’s a martyr, Nick thought as he approached the U.S. marshals guarding the gate. There were four of them and they were armed with assault rifles. Just in case someone somehow made it past the line of NYPD officers dressed in full riot gear, which Nick thought highly unlikely, if not impossible. Then again, the Boston Marathon bombing had managed to put New York on edge again, even if its impact on the nation as a whole was relatively minor and short-lived.

Nick Dykstra dipped into his suit jacket and fished out his attorney ID, flashed it to the marshals who parted the gates and allowed him through. That’s when Nick was finally recognized, at least by members of the press. The press. The once noble profession was noble no more, in Nick’s opinion. Over the past two decades the twenty-four-hour cable news networks had gleefully reduced the profession of Edward R. Murrow to an around-the-clock reality show that better served as a punch line for late-night talk show hosts than as a serious source for information on current national and global affairs. So Nick wasn’t the least bit surprised when reporters started barking questions at him as though they