“What, are you going granola on me, bro?” I teased. “Seriously, though, are you saying you think the protesters are our main suspects?”
“I’m not sure. They have the motive, but do they have the opportunity?”
“Good point.” I shot a longing glance through the big archway leading into the arcade. Most of the games were dark, but the place still looked amazing. “The ice thing almost had to be an inside job. Which leads us back to someone like Smith, or possibly McKenzie himself. But what about those anti-GX bloggers? Is there a connection there?”
“Who knows?” Frank rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Anyone with a computer could make up a screen name and write anything they want. For all we know McKenzie himself could be that Skater Hater guy.”
We continued to discuss the case as we wandered around, checking out some areas of the park we hadn’t seen yet. But we hadn’t reached any new conclusions by the time it got dark. The lights all stayed off—guess they were saving on the electric bill until opening night—so we had little choice but to head back to our cottage.
Inside, I made a beeline for the video game console. Meanwhile Frank pulled out his laptop and logged on.
“Anything new?” I asked as I scrolled through the impressive list of available games.
“Just the usual,” said Frank. “A few new posts here and there reminding people that Preview Daze starts tomorrow, and talking about writing protest letters to the celebrities involved, or . . . Hold on!”
I looked up from the TV screen. “What?”
“Check this out.”
I hurried over. The STOP GX! message board was up on the computer screen. “Is it something from that Skater Hater dude?”
“Nope. This one’s an anonymous posting—no screen name.” Frank pointed.
2nite’s the nite this protest is really going 2 take off, the message read. 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . BLAST!
“Whoa,” I said. “That sounds kind of, you know, specific.”
Frank nodded grimly. “Exactly what I thought,” he said. “There’s been tons of ranting and raving all over the Net. It’s possible this is just more of the same. But . . .”
“Maybe not,” I finished for him. “The poster seems to be saying that something’s going down tonight. We’d better check it out.”
“Agreed.” Frank logged off and stood up. “I’m thinking we should take a stroll over to that replica space shuttle.”
“I hear you.” The space shuttle had been my first thought too. I grabbed a flashlight from my bag. “What else could they mean by that three-two-one blastoff thing?”
“Actually, it didn’t say ‘blastoff,’” Frank reminded me. “It said ‘blast.’”
I realized he was right. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
He checked his watch. “I’m thinking it’s after ten p.m.,” he said. “If there’s a countdown to some kind of bomb tonight, we’d better get moving.”
We rushed back across the park. The beams of our flashlights lit our steps for most of the way. But as we neared the space shuttle attraction, a bright glow took over. It was lit up like a tree on Christmas morning. All the neon and bright spotlights gave plenty of light to read the message scrawled on the smooth white expanse of the shuttle’s side in three-foot-high red letters:
GX IS A REAL BLAST, SO GET READY 2 FLY 2 THE MOON!
Zero Gravity
“Come on!” Joe exclaimed. “We can’t let that bomb go off, or this whole place could go up!”
He gestured off to our left. Glancing that way, I gasped. He was right—only a narrow path separated the space shuttle attraction from several huge fuel tanks lined up along the edge of the drag-racing track. If they blew, the whole park could go sky-high!
I followed Joe as he raced toward the shuttle. Several steps led up to an arched entrance cut into its side. Inside, big glowing signs pointed the way to two separate attractions—the zero gravity room and the g-forces section.
“Should we split up?” I asked.
Joe nodded. “I’ll go this way,” he said, already rushing for the doorway leading into the g-forces area.
I sprinted the other way. Soon I was at the doorway leading into the zero gravity room.
Now, even Tyrone McKenzie couldn’t build a true zero gravity facility in an amusement park. That would be impossible, at least according to what I knew about the laws of physics. What GX called the zero gravity room was actually one of those vertical wind tunnels people use to practice skydiving. Basically, a huge fan blows air straight upward through a big tube. A person can step off a platform into this airstream and the force of the blowing air holds them aloft, allowing them to “fly”—and thus feel sort of weightless.
The roar of the huge fans was audible before I reached the door. Whoever had turned on the lights must have turned on everything else at the same time. I thought about looking for the controls and turning off the fans. After all, it would be a lot easier to search the tunnel that way.
But I wasn’t sure how much time we had. So I did the only thing I could do—I opened the door and stepped through it.
Trust me. Flying isn’t as easy as the birds make it look. At first I found myself sort of cutting through the wind, immediately falling several yards down toward the floor. Worse yet, a quick glance downward showed that the safety netting had been pulled away and left crumpled at the edge of the hard concrete ring around the giant fan blades!
“Whoa!” I yelped, my words instantly carried away by the whooshing wind all around me. None of our ATAC training had prepared me for this!
However, my training had taught me to keep my cool—and to control my body. Spreading out my arms like wings, I soon figured out how to manipulate the air currents to keep myself stable. Before long I could stay in one place or move around by tumbling or swimming through the air. It was pretty awesome!
But I wasn’t there to have fun, and I didn’t let myself forget it. Easing down as close as I could to the fan, I grabbed the netting and yanked it up, peering into its folds to see if anything was hidden there.
As soon as I was satisfied that there was no bomb in the net, I floated and tumbled upward through the blowing air. I examined the walls carefully all the way to the top. It didn’t take long. They were padded but smooth. Nothing hidden there.
I glanced down, uneasily wondering if there was any chance the bomb was hidden down inside the enormous fan. If it was, I figured there was no way I’d be able to find it from here. So I maneuvered over to the doorway, grabbing the threshold and pulling myself back onto the platform.
It felt weird to be out of that rushing air tube. My legs were a little wobbly as I hurried back across the lobby to see if Joe had found anything.
When I reached the door to the g-forces room, I saw that someone had turned it on as well. Looking through the viewing window, I saw that Joe was plastered against the rapidly spinning wall, the g-forces holding him in place halfway between the padded floor and ceiling. He was crawling like a spider, reaching out for something a couple of yards ahead. . . .
“The bomb!” I gasped. I’d just spotted a shoebox-size black thing with wires sticking out all over it.
How long would it take him to reach it? How long did we have? I didn’t know the answer to either question. And I wasn’t about to sit around pondering them either. If I could find the controls to turn off the spinning room, Joe could get to that bomb a lot faster. Racing across the viewing area to a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, I yanked at the doorknob.
No dice. It was locked.
Another glance toward the viewing window showed Joe still inching toward the bomb. He was only a few feet away now. But what could he do when he reached it? It would take him ages to inch his way back over to the door. Not to mention how risky it would be for him to try to get through it while the ride was moving—especially holding a live bomb!
No way. I couldn’t let my brother take that kind of chance. I had to figure out a way to stop the ride’s sp
inning.
“Aha!” I shouted as I glanced around. Right there in the viewing area was a fire alarm—complete with one of those axes encased in glass!
I leaped over and smashed through the glass with my elbow. Ignoring the sudden wail of the alarm, I grabbed the ax and raced back to the employees-only door.
It took only a couple of swings to bust through the door’s cheap plywood. So much for NASA standards! I yanked the door open.
Another quick glance over my shoulder showed me that Joe had grabbed the bomb. It was tucked under one arm as he slowly made his way back across the wall.
I watched him for a moment, hoping he didn’t accidentally set it off. Then I dove into the control room behind the busted-up door.
Luckily, McKenzie seemed to assume his employees would be total morons. Everything was super clearly marked, including a big red button that read EMERGENCY CUTOFF.
I punched the button. There was a squeal of machinery as the ride suddenly screeched to a stop.
“Oof!”
I winced as I heard my brother hit the floor hard. Oops. What if the sudden stop and fall jostled the bomb into going off? Bracing myself, I waited for the explosion.
Instead I heard the sound of the ride’s door banging open. I rushed back out into the viewing room just in time to see my brother emerge, white-faced, with the bomb still tucked under one arm.
“Ten seconds!” he shouted, racing for the outside door.
Cowboy Up
“Ten seconds? Don’t do anything stupid!” I heard Frank yell after me.
But there was no time to stop and have a discussion about our options. I’d gotten a look at the countdown clock on the side of the bomb when the g-force ride had stopped. Just in time to see the countdown click from thirteen seconds to twelve. Assuming it had taken me a couple of seconds to leap to my feet and race out the door, that gave me barely enough time to get the bomb outside—and as far away as possible from those fuel tanks—before it went boom.
I was vaguely aware of the shrill wail of some kind of alarm drifting out behind me as I sprinted through the hallway into the space shuttle lobby. We’d left the outside door open. I cleared the steps outside in a single leap, landing hard on the path.
I’d already worked out what to do. Veering hard to the right, I raced toward the man-made lake at the base of Mount McKenzie. It was a good fifty yards away, but I was pretty sure I could make it. . . .
“Joe!” Frank shouted from somewhere behind me.
But I didn’t dare look back. Out of the corner of my eye, I could still see the counter clicking down. Four . . . three . . . two . . .
“Aaaaaaah!” I shouted, hurling the bomb away from me with all my might.
SPLASH! It landed in the water.
I turned away and flung myself to the ground. My cheekbone scraped painfully against the rough paved path. Throwing my arms up over the back of my head, I braced myself for the explosion.
Then I waited. And waited. A few more seconds passed. Waited. Nothing.
Finally I cautiously lowered my arms and sat up. Peering toward the lake, I saw its flat, smooth surface shimmering back at me, undisturbed. Had tossing the bomb in the water shorted it out or something?
I was climbing to my feet when Frank skidded to a stop beside me. “What happened?” he asked breathlessly. “It didn’t go off?”
“Guess not.” Somewhere nearby, I could hear shouts and running footsteps mixed in with the racket of the fire alarm. “Sounds like someone’s coming to the rescue.”
“Yeah. There’s probably an automatic alert that went off with the fire alarm.” Frank raised one hand to wave to the group of men now rushing around the corner of the nearest snack bar. “Let’s just hope the security team includes someone with some bomb expertise.”
As it turned out, it did. One of the security guys was an ex–bomb squadder. I showed him where I’d thrown the bomb. He made all the rest of us stand way back while he waded in and retrieved it.
Then came more waiting while he hunched over it and we all watched from a distance. Did I mention I hate waiting?
This time, though, the wait wasn’t very long. After about thirty seconds, the bomb squad guy stood up and waved us in.
“Is this some kind of joke?” he asked.
I blinked. “Huh?”
He waved a hand at the soggy black box. “This is no bomb,” he said with a frown. “It’s just a black metal box with some wires stuck to it. Along with a kitchen timer.”
Frank and I exchanged a surprised look. “It’s fake?” Frank asked.
I couldn’t help feeling sheepish. Fake!
“Oops,” I said with a weak laugh. “Um, well, I never claimed to be a bomb expert or anything. . . .”
The bomb guy was already bending over to pick up the dismantled fake bomb. But another dude, a tall guy with a crew cut who appeared to be in charge, was staring at us suspiciously. “Who exactly are you? And what are you doing out here after hours?”
Okay, Frank and I aren’t amateurs. We gave Crew Cut our cover story. We also managed to convince him that we were so psyched at being there that we’d sneaked out to explore the park at night. And that we then just happened to see the lit-up space shuttle and stumbled onto the bomb.
I wasn’t sure all of the guys totally believed it. Some of the night guards seemed a little sharper than that Wallace guy from the day shift. Crew Cut asked us a few more questions but finally dismissed us.
“Should we stay and poke around for clues?” I murmured to Frank as we walked away. Behind us, I could hear that Crew Cut was already on the phone to McKenzie.
“I don’t think so. These guys are already suspicious, and we don’t want to blow our cover.”
He had a point. We kept moving.
As we walked back across the darkened park, I couldn’t stop thinking about what had just happened. Who would plant a fake bomb?
“Somebody’s really messing with us,” I commented.
Frank nodded. “We already know whoever’s doing this isn’t afraid to hurt people,” he pointed out. “Just because this bomb was fake doesn’t mean the next one will be.”
When we got back to our cottage, Frank hit the Internet again. He’d barely logged on before he let out a grunt of dismay.
“An e-mail just came through,” he said. “It’s from Skater Hater.”
“How’d he get your addy?” I exclaimed, rushing over for a look.
“Good question,” said Frank grimly.
The message was short and sweet: Just wait until next time!
“Okay, sounds like he knows what just happened,” I said. “So much for McKenzie’s theory that the anti-GX bloggers are just full of hot cyber-air.”
“Yeah.” Frank’s fingers were flying over the keyboard. “Let’s see if we can trace this e-mail. . . .”
But it was no use. The e-mail address didn’t lead anywhere or tell us anything about who had sent it—or from where. All we could do was forward it to ATAC HQ for more expert analysis.
“I’m sure they’ll have something for us in the morning if there’s anything to find.” Frank stretched and yawned, glancing at the digital clock on the big-screen TV. “We might as well hit the sack. I have a feeling tomorrow could be a very long day.”
• • •
“Check it out,” Frank said. “Isn’t that the lead singer of Mr. Nice Guyz? What’s his name again?”
“Dude, who cares about some boy bander?” I glanced briefly at the singer, who was surrounded by reporters, and then returned my attention to the rest of the crowd. “There’s the guy from the last Batman movie—and the star QB from this year’s Super Bowl. I wonder when Cody Zane will get here?”
We’d been hanging out near Galaxy X’s main gates since early that morning. That was when the media had started to pour in. I’d recognized several well-known reporters from the cable news channels, as well as a couple of famous faces from the big entertainment shows. So far it looked like McKenzie’s hop
e for free publicity was coming true—big-time!
“Looks like a lot of the celebs are heading into the arcade,” I said, watching as a hip-hop star, a couple of young actors, and the host of a popular late-night comedy show hurried through a flashing neon doorway nearby. “Should we go in and rub shoulders?”
“I don’t think so.” Frank’s eyes darted back and forth as he tried to take in everything at once. “We can keep a better eye on things from out here. After what happened last night, I don’t want to take any chances on missing something important.”
I sighed, suspecting he wasn’t only thinking about that fake bomb. He was still wigged out about that e-mail from Sk8rH8r. On the one hand, I saw his point. Nobody was supposed to know who we really were or why we were really there. How had this Sk8rH8r dude tracked down our e-mail?
On the other hand, it wasn’t that weird. Frank had posted a few things on a couple of the anti-GX blogs, digging for information. For all we knew, Sk8rH8r might have phished his addy from one of the sites and sent that message to everyone.
Just then Tyrone McKenzie strode into view. He was immediately mobbed by cameras and celebrities.
That made me think of another theory. “Hey, what are the chances this is all just some big publicity stunt?” I said to Frank.
“Huh?” Frank was watching McKenzie too.
I shrugged. “Think about it. McKenzie could be Skater Hater himself. He’d have your e-mail address. And you heard what he said yesterday about free publicity. What if he’s playing us? What if he’s behind everything himself? He certainly has the access, right?”
SUSPECT PROFILE
Name: Tyrone McKenzie
Hometown: New York City, additional homes in other cities.
Physical description: Age 47, 5’11”, 180 lbs., brown hair/eyes.
Occupation: Media mogul, theme park entrepreneur.
Suspicious behavior: Extreme interest in publicity; known for ruthlessness.
Suspected of: Sabotaging his own park.
Possible motives: Publicity, insurance problems, unknown others.
“If that’s the case, why in the world would McKenzie call in ATAC?” Frank sounded skeptical. “It’s one thing if his motive is insurance or something. Having us here gives him cover—makes it look like he’s really trying to solve the problem. But if he’s just after publicity, he’d be a fool to take the risk of us finding him out. And whatever other faults he might have, I think it’s safe to say that Tyrone McKenzie is no fool.”
Galaxy X Page 5
