She told the paramedics that she didn’t want to go to the hospital. She wanted to be present when the big bat was removed from the bridge. Gentry was proud of her as she got in the squad car, though he didn’t have a chance to say anything then. The ESU pilot joined them as they drove out to the bridge, and he had a few dozen questions. Gentry wished the flier had been smart and gone home, like his copilot had done.
Al Doyle and Gordy Weeks were there when they arrived, standing at the windy edge of Dover Street, along with police from Manhattan and Brooklyn and literally dozens of reporters. Even though it was late at night, traffic was backing up in both directions.
Weeks wanted the bat off the bridge as quickly as possible so the cables could be checked for damage and the span could be ready for the morning rush hour. Because the bridge held landmark status, care would have to be taken when removing the bat. The initial idea, floated by Department of Transportation Acting Commissioner Marcy Chelmow, was that the Fire Department’s marine division try to dislodge the creature using high-powered hoses from a fire boat. But Al Doyle said that an autopsy was vital, and he feared that the water pressure might further damage the bat. Inspector Steve Snider, ESU commander, suggested bringing another chopper in and having officers rappel to the bat, put a cable around it, and haul it off. But the pilot of the pursuit chopper, who had remained at the scene, was concerned that the downdraft could cause the animal to fall from the bridge before it could be secured. He was also worried about the weight of the personnel and the creature. The bat looked like it had a lot of muscle and meat on it.
The mayor arrived while the issue was still being debated. Conferring alone with Taylor, and then talking again to both Chelmow and Doyle, Weeks decided on a quick, conservative, low-risk approach; he didn’t want to risk dropping the bat on anyone or anything, especially with TV cameras everywhere. He would have the bridges and tunnels division of the Department of Transportation send a quartet of “ironworkers” up the suspension cables. The engineers would attach a pair of slings around the bat’s waist and lower it to the span. The remains would then be trucked away.
When Weeks had a second alone, Joyce went over and introduced herself. Gentry stayed several yards away. This was her moment.
The tall, silver-haired, African-American OEM chief seemed genuinely happy to meet the young woman. He said that her stock was “very high in the Weeks market” because she’d said the big bat was coming to town and it did.
“I like working with people who are right,” he said.
Gentry was looking at the bridge, pretending not to eavesdrop. But he was proud of her all over again.
Joyce thanked the OEM director, then asked about the other bat.
“She turned northeast and went underground at Ninety-seventh Street,” Weeks said. “She was obviously following the trail of the other bat that grabbed the woman at Riverside Drive this morning. Unfortunately, we had no way of following the bat inside the tunnels.”
“What are you going to do next?”
“We’ll have to talk about that,” he said. “I want your input. For now, we’ve shut down all the west side subways and are deploying police teams at every subway entrance. They’re carrying Ithaca shotguns-heavy duty-if the bat decides to do the town. I talked with the mayor and the police commissioner before coming out here. We’re getting ready to send ESU teams into critical junctures of the tunnels. Once each of those junctures is secured, we can send in Remote Mobile Investigators-our six-wheeled robots with cameras-to check out tunnels ahead of them. With any luck, we can pin the creature down and let the Health Department take it from there.”
Al Doyle wandered over. Weeks introduced Nancy. Chris Henry was right about him. Doyle was a short, round-shouldered man with an elongated nose, a sloping forehead, a small, recessed chin, and buck teeth. He looked like a mouse.
Joyce turned from Doyle back to Weeks. Even Gentry felt the chill rolling from her shoulders.
“What are you going to do about protecting your people from the small bats?” Joyce asked Weeks.
“The teams at the entrances are wearing their Viking dry suits-SCUBA gear. Al Doyle says that should afford the officers as much protection as they’ll need. And when we do go in, they’ll also have full face masks and air tanks so they’re completely covered.”
“That’ll give them about fifteen to twenty seconds of protection,” Joyce told him.
Doyle said, “Those suits have been tested in central South American freshwater against piranhas. They should hold against bats.”
“They won’t,” Joyce said.
“Why not?” Weeks asked.
“Piranhas don’t have claws. They can’t make repeated attacks at the same part of the body.”
Weeks arched a brow in Doyle’s direction. Doyle kept his narrow eyes on Joyce. Neither man looked happy.
“There are also a few hundred thousand bats in the city now,” Joyce said. “The male bat was able to summon them from miles around. I’m betting the female bat can do the same thing. If and when she moves in or out of the tunnel, she’ll have an escort like the heavenly host. Their weight alone, piled on top of your suits, will make movement difficult. The heat of their bodies will cause the heat inside the suits to rise very quickly. And the sounds of a few hundred batting wings won’t be pleasant.”
“So what do we do?” Weeks asked.
“I agree with guarding the subway entrances in case the big bat shows up,” Joyce said. “As for going inside, I’d wait. If we can find a way to jam her signal or lure her out, then we can capture her and kill her quickly. Then the other bats will either fly off or they can be disposed of through normal means.” She looked at Doyle. “As pests.”
“How do we lure her out?” Weeks asked.
Doyle said, “When the large bat flew down the Hudson, she was probably following the male’s call. If we can duplicate that sound, we can take her anywhere we want.”
“Is that possible?” Weeks asked Joyce.
“In theory, yes,” Joyce said. “In practice, it could take months or years to replicate the male’s call.”
“Why?”
“For many reasons. First of all, bats generate sounds that range between twenty and one hundred kilohertz,” Joyce said. “Humans can hear sounds only up to twenty kilohertz.”
“So we can’t hear what we’re listening for,” Weeks said.
“We can, but we’ll need special equipment to do it. We can get the gear in a day or two. That’s not the big problem. Where it gets complicated is that bat cries consist of both FM and CF elements. The frequency-modulated sounds cover a very wide range in a very short time-one hundred kilohertz down to fifty in about two milliseconds.”
“So the sounds are fast,” Weeks said.
“Incredibly so,” Joyce replied. “On top of which you’ve got the CF, the constant frequency. That sound remains at a single frequency and lasts for about fifty milli-seconds. Which means that each frequency has to be isolated and charted. Even if we can duplicate the sounds themselves, that won’t give us the specific ‘buzz’ that called the female or summoned the small bats. That could be any combination of FM and CF sounds, in any range and duration. It could take months or even years to figure out.”
“We obviously need a faster fix,” Weeks said. “Any suggestions?”
“Yes. To start with, I suggest you try and get any videotape that may have been taken of the female’s approach. There may be something that could help us. Her reaction to light, her control over the other bats, possible soft spots for your marksmen.”
Weeks got on his radio and told Marius Pace to hit the TV stations for copies of their tapes.
“What else?” Weeks asked.