Godzilla at World's End (3 page)

To Leena, public appearances were nothing special, though she didn't particularly enjoy going on television, because the cameras seemed to invade her life - as they did now, by taping in her garage laboratory. But facing the public was easy for a teenager who'd coolly and professionally presented an oral pitch for her new microchip process - patent pending - to the boards of Microsoft, Apple, IBM, and Intel.

"I'm no genius at understanding how computers work," Robin confessed. "But I'm told that you have accomplished something in that garage lab of yours that no one else has been able to do anywhere else.

"Is that correct?"

Leena nodded and reached down to touch a control on her desk. A color monitor at the girl's side sprang to life. A technical schematic filled the screen.

"About seven years ago, researchers found a way to bond copper wire to microchips," Leena explained, pointing to the monitor.

"Before that, aluminum wire had to be used, which was much less efficient. Bonding copper wire made the microchips much faster and more powerful, as you know."

The teenager leaned forward and touched the control again. The schematic on the monitor changed, illustrating her new process.

"What I've done is found a relatively easy and inexpensive way to bond two or more chips together with a thin layer of copper. Kind of like a copper sandwich."

"And what does this accomplish?" Robin Halliday asked from her New York studio. Leena smiled.

"This process can make microchips a hundred times more powerful and faster than ever before. With microchips like that, a personal computer could be designed to fit into your pocket!"

Leena's eyes were bright with enthusiasm, but suddenly she frowned. "If it's done right," she added.

"Still having some difficulties?" Robin asked with genuine sympathy in her voice.

Leena nodded. "There are a few bugs to be worked out in the production stage ... but I'm working on it," she added quickly with a guarded smile.

"Is it true that your father was a computer genius, too?" Robin asked pertly.

Leena's face clouded. "Yes," she muttered. "He ... he taught me a lot ..."

"I understand that he passed away recently," Robin probed.

Leena nodded, her pretty face etched with sadness. "Yes," she whispered softly.

"Well, I'm sure he would have been proud of you!" Robin chirped. "Congratulations on earning a berth aboard the
Destiny Explorer
with your fellow winners ... and best of luck in perfecting your invention."

Leena was smiling uncertainly as her picture faded from the screen.

***

"From sunny California we'll jump to tropical Florida," Robin announced, smiling into camera one. "That's where we'll talk to our next winner."

Ned Landson felt an annoying itch under his brightly colored wetsuit. But just as he was about to scratch it, the director cued him that he was about to go on television ... live.

Ned tried to reach the itch, but the director stopped him with a gesture.
I wished I'd worn my old, familiar black wetsuit
, he thought. But unfortunately, Ned
had
to wear the wetsuit that itched him so. It was part of the product endorsement deal he'd signed last week. Winning the contest had made Ned Landson famous. He intended to cash in on that fame, for as long as it lasted.

With his beach-boy good looks, Ned had easily clinched a lucrative deal with a deep-sea sporting goods company - a deal that included television commercials, print ads, even billboards. Ned smiled at the thought.

"Get ready," the director commanded.

Ned looked into the lens and waited. The youth stood on a wooden dock in the Florida Keys, his sandy hair blowing in the tropical breeze. His teeth were shiny white against his deep tan.

With the trendy wetsuit, the tan, the handsome, sun-bronzed features, and the even teeth, the look was perfect. Ned Landson was almost a cliche. His smile widened when he heard Robin Halliday's voice over his earphones.

"Welcome to
Teen Beat
, Ned Landson," she greeted him.

"Thanks," Ned replied, his left hand inching toward the persistent itch in his rubber suit.

"I'm told that you actually discovered a group of previously unknown ocean species in the Florida Keys. Is that correct?"

Ned Landson nodded.

"Actually, Robin, I discovered a whole range of animals, from a new species of tiny fish to several microscopic marine plankton, which oceanographers had previously overlooked."

"Wow!" Robin marveled. "How did other scientists miss discovering them before you came along?"

"Well," Ned replied, his left hand finally scratching the offending itch, "the species of fish I discovered was almost identical to a previously recorded species - but only on the outside. Inside, the species are very different."

Robin nodded. "And where did you find these fish?"

"In an area of the ocean known as the Bermuda Triangle," Ned answered blandly.

"You mean that spooky place where airplanes and ships supposedly vanish?" Robin replied.

Ned chuckled in reply.

"That's the place," he said. "But those stories about airplanes vanishing and stuff are just nonsense. My dad used to work on deep salvage operations, and now he's a deep-sea fisherman. We've both been into the Triangle hundreds of times. There's nothing there but swarms of sea life, blue skies, and waves of green.

"And it's all perfectly
normal
sea life," Ned added hastily.

"So
you
say!" Robin quipped. "And what are your plans for the Antarctic, aboard the
Destiny Explorer
?"

Ned thought about it for a moment. "I guess I'll get to study some of the Antarctic life firsthand ... But I doubt scientists have left very much undiscovered down there!"

Robin laughed, obviously charmed by her guest. "Thank you, Ned, and good luck. Now let's turn our attention to someone you may have read about in the newspapers.

"Michael Sullivan is a computer hacker from Queens, New York," Robin continued. "You might remember him from the news several months ago ... Michael was the young man who single-handedly exposed a band of cyber-hackers who were ripping off people on-line.

"Can you tell us about it, Michael?"

***

In Woodside, Queens, a remote cameraman and a director were crammed into a tiny run-down apartment in a seedy brownstone near the elevated Number Seven line subway station.

A young man with a shock of bright apple-red hair was sitting in an electronic wheelchair. The youth turned and faced the camera with a smile. His hair and freckles seemed to glow red on the television screen.

Michael Sullivan took a deep breath and sat back in his wheelchair. As he began to speak, the sound technician prayed that no trains would roll by outside the second-floor window.

"I've been a hacker since I was a little kid," Michael answered carefully. "But a little while back, I ordered a lot of stuff off the Internet for my mother. We got the stuff all right, but our credit card was billed twice for the electronic transaction."

Back in Studio B, Robin nodded, hoping against hope that her audience was still with her and following this young man's explanation.

"It took a couple of months for the on-line store to credit us for the double billing," Michael continued. "When a customer service representative told my mom that she didn't know how it happened, I decided to hack into the files and look into the double billing myself."

"Wow," Robin gasped, trying to sound enthusiastic. "What did you discover?"

"I found out that double billing was happening all over the Net, with a whole bunch of different mail order companies. It was obvious to me then that pirates were electronically pulling the second transaction into their own on-line site and downloading the credit into their own account."

"So they were stealing the money!" Robin exclaimed.

"Not technically," Michael corrected her. "After a couple of weeks, the thieves would slip back into the system, take the money out of their account, and electronically transfer it back to the credit card company they cheated."

"What did
that
accomplish?" Robin asked, obviously puzzled.

"They kept the money in a bank account long enough to collect a month's interest on it."

"Gee, that sounds pretty complicated," Robin continued.

"Not really," Michael replied. "They were using the Net to grab illegal loans, essentially. After a month they returned the money but kept the interest they'd accrued - and on thousands of transactions a day, that was a
lot
of interest. More than a million dollars a year!"

Robin laughed. "Now you knew what was going on. So, what did you do next?"

"I hacked into the pirates' system, downloaded their records, and turned them over to the New York State Attorney General," Michael replied proudly.

"And made the headlines, too," Robin interjected. Michael nodded and brushed the red hair off his forehead.

"So I guess Internet pirates should beware, as long as Michael Sullivan is there!"

"They should," Michael agreed, doing a victory circle in his wheelchair.

"Good luck on your trip to Antarctica, Michael," Robin concluded. Then she turned and looked into camera one.

"We're going to have to break for commercials now," Robin announced. "But when we get back, we'll have an intimate chat with the Irish band Such a Pretty Bird ...

"And don't forget that tomorrow we have a special Sunday edition of
Teen Beat
, where we take an uncompromising look at the ups and downs of the faltering Rebuild America program."

Robin smiled. It was an expression calculated to tantalize her viewers - a smile that seemed to hold both a secret and a promise.

"You won't want to miss
that
," she concluded.

Saturday, November 11, 2000, 8:17 P.M.
Independent News Network executive offices
92nd floor, World Trade Center Tower
New York, New York

As the prerecorded rough cut of the Sunday show ended, the elderly, balding man in an impeccably tailored Brooks Brothers suit leaned forward in his leather executive's chair and switched off the monitor. As soon as the screen went blank, a device silently lowered the monitor into its resting place within an elegant, highly polished walnut desk.

During the screening, the illumination in the office had been dimmed so low that the twinkling lights from the Manhattan skyline were clearly visible through the windows. Now the room grew steadily brighter. Out of the dark shadows in the corner of the room there appeared the silhouette of a second man.

With a sigh, Mycroft E. Endicott - the principal owner, CEO, and president of the Independent News Network - faced his young guest. The other man, seated in a soft leather chair, was also impeccably dressed. But unlike the older executive's placid, almost bored expression, this man's look was of indignation mingled with undisguised horror.

"You simply
must
see the administration's point of view in this matter, Mr. Endicott," the younger man said insistently. "You ... you can't air that show tomorrow. It would have a negative impact on your viewers. It would warp their perceptions of what the government is trying to accomplish."

As he spoke, the man held out his right hand, his thumb clenched by his fingers. His eyes were wide, as if he were trying hard to project honesty and sincerity.

"Can't you see that this program is
dangerous
and could have a demoralizing effect on the American people in this time of national emergency?" the younger man continued, using his clenched hand to punctuate his words.

"The truth has always been dangerous, son," the older man replied evenly.

"The
truth!
You call that the
truth?
It's quite clear to me, Mr. Endicott," the young man continued excitedly. "That show is a pack of lies and ill-conceived innuendo. Why, there are so many inaccuracies that I lost count ... which makes me wonder whether this special Sunday edition of
Teen Beat
is really up to the journalistic standards formerly adhered to by your Independent News Network."

The younger man paused, challenging the older man with his stare. But Mycroft E. Endicott remained silent.

"Do you really believe that this show you plan to air tomorrow is
fair
and
balanced?"
the younger man prompted. "Let me point out that your anchor for that program is quite young and -"

As the government man continued to speak, Mycroft E. Endicott observed his guest, who was "quite young" himself. Endicott noted that while the young man's voice and manner were brimming with calculated sincerity, they also carried more than a trace of arrogance - a trait that was typical of the current administration's White House staff.

As well as of the administration itself
, Mycroft E. Endicott realized, though he kept that particular observation to himself. Instead, he decided to calmly answer the man's charges.

"Yes," the older man replied. "Frankly, I
would
call tomorrow's episode of
Teen Beat
fair and balanced. Robin Halliday is young, but she's also one of my best broadcast journalists. I pay her a lot of money, and I have big plans for her future."

The executive sat forward in his chair, until he seemed to be leaning over his desk.

"But even if she were the lowliest copywriter in the backwaters of our meteorological division, it wouldn't matter one whit!"

Endicott's voice rose a decibel, and he spoke a little faster. As a seasoned businessman, he didn't want to tip his hand by showing his emotions. But he had taken a deep dislike to the young man sitting opposite him, and he couldn't help showing it.

"I want both you and your president to know one thing, son -
all
my news people are fair
and
balanced, and I defend their judgment one hundred percent!" Endicott concluded.

"But Ms. Halliday's segments on the Gary, Indiana, and Syracuse, New York, reconstruction projects are so negative, and so full of unsubstantiated rumor, scandalmongering, and misrepresentations, that it's almost slanderous!" the younger man challenged.