The Chicago centre dived, hoping to take Sarah’s skates out from under her. But Sarah was ready. She dropped the puck again, just as the Blackhawks centre tackled her and took her down.
The referee’s hand went up – but the whistle couldn’t go until a Chicago player touched the puck.
Sam picked it up in full flight.
Dmitri rapped his stick on the side of the net.
The Chicago goalie tried to play both Dmitri and Sam at the same time.
Sam shot, a hard slapper, that blew past the goalie on the blocker side, high and in off the elbow where the post meets the crossbar.
A moment, barely, before the horn blew to end regulation play.
Screech Owls 5, Young Blackhawks 4.
The players on the ice were first to mob Sam. Then the rest of the Owls and Muck arrived, slipping and falling along the ice.
“What a play!” Sarah was screaming.
“Awesome!” shouted Dmitri. “Great shot, Sam!”
“I set it all up,” whined Nish. “And I won’t even get credit for an assist.”
Block him out, Travis told himself. Just block him out.
16
It was the last day of the year. From the way the snow was still falling – huge flakes that built into drifts, the side streets of New York now impassable – it felt like it might be the last day of forever. The dawn of a new Ice Age.
The New Year’s Eve celebrations had not been cancelled. They had become, instead, a bigger story than usual – the people of New York City gathering at Times Square as a kind of declaration of solidarity against the elements. It could snow all it wanted; the storm was not going to stop the countdown to midnight.
They were now predicting a record number of people in Times Square. And the occasion had become an international news story; there might be as many as two billion people tuning in from around the world – the largest television audience since the first moon landing back in 1969!
“How appropriate,” Nish announced with delight. “Both times they’ll be tuning in to see a moon.”
Not only was Nish still going to proceed with his outrageous plan, but Data and Fahd had become almost as caught up in the scheme themselves.
Data had swept the Internet for information on how to hack into a broadcast line. Travis was amazed at how much information was readily available through chat lines and Web sites. Data had been able to verify that a live, on-location broadcast like this would be done through the phone lines. They already had Data’s laptop computer. They had the file containing Nish’s moon. They had a telephone line at the hotel and, if they really needed it, a connection to Fahd’s cellphone that would allow them to do it all from Times Square itself.
But they still needed more technical information. It was one thing to know the broadcaster, Data told them, but quite another to get to the video boards that would be controlling the broadcast. It would take them hours, if it could be done at all, to hack through the broadcaster’s telephone system to reach the right location to begin their work. Considering the blocks and passwords that were likely involved, the task was next to impossible.
Data, however, had found a contact in Germany who kept e-mailing new ideas for them to try, and within an hour of computer time they had their answers.
“We can get the number for the direct phone line off the broadcast truck,” Data explained. “Each truck has the number listed on the outside. We need to get the number for the main truck, then we’re just one password away from the control board – and passwords tend to be obvious. We can worry about that later – right now we need the number from that truck.”
“Let’s go!” Andy shouted.
Travis might be team captain, but he was certainly not in charge here. The idea of Nish mooning the entire world had captured everyone’s imagination. All he could do was go along for the ride – and be there if he was needed.
They told Mr. Dillinger they were just slipping over to Times Square to see what the preparations were like. There were six of them altogether – Fahd, Nish, Andy, Derek, Jesse, and Travis. Mr. Dillinger told them to be careful, to stick together, and not to get in anyone’s way. They promised, and set out through the drifting snow.
The stage was almost ready when they got there. This was where the host would be doing the countdown. A huge ball was going to fall down a spiral high on one of the towers precisely at midnight, and the whole ceremony would be flashed live on the big screen above the square at the same time it was broadcast across the world.
The broadcast trucks were parked up a side street just away from the stage area, but there was crowd-control fencing blocking the way, and security everywhere.
“How are we going to get it?” Andy asked.
“We’ll never get past that cop,” said Fahd.
“We can talk to him,” Jesse said. “He looks bored anyway.”
“What about?” Fahd asked.
“Nothin’,” said Derek. “Just ask him some stupid questions – keep him busy while one of us slips through.”
“Who’ll ask him questions?” Fahd wondered.
All five of the other Owls were staring at him. They needed stupid questions. They needed someone who could ask questions all day long if necessary. And there was only one Owl for that job: Fahd.
“Okay,” Fahd said. “And who’s going to get the number?”
“It’ll need to be someone who won’t be noticed,” Andy said. “Someone smaller.”
Now they all turned and stared at Travis. If it required someone small, there was only one Owl for that job.
Travis nodded okay. He didn’t think he could speak.
Fahd performed brilliantly. The policeman seemed to enjoy talking to kids. He was fascinated that they had come here from Canada, and he wanted to know if any of them knew a cousin he had up there somewhere.
“In Victoria, I think,” he said. “Something to do with a queen, anyway. He’s got a wheat farm or something.”
“Regina,” Fahd offered. “You must mean Regina. It’s in Saskatchewan.”
“Whatever,” the cop said, and switched to a subject he liked better – himself. For a long time he talked about being a policeman in New York City, while the Owls listened and kicked up mounds of snow with the toes of their boots. But slowly Fahd got him onto the topic of the upcoming show.
Fahd played him perfectly. Flattered, the policeman began talking like a television executive. He used the star’s first name as if they were best of friends. He talked about rehearsals and make-up artists and how important his own job was.
“Where does the director sit?” Fahd asked.
“Well,” the cop said, “it’s not like the movies. There’s no director’s chair, and he doesn’t wear a French beret and shout through a bullhorn. In fact, there might be three or four directors. They work from that big truck back there.”
Fahd and the others craned their necks to see.
“Which one?” Fahd asked.
The policeman looked back as if to make sure himself. “The blue one. The one right dead below the portable satellite dish.”
Fahd looked quickly at Travis, who understood. Travis would need to get away now if he got the chance.
“Is that gun loaded?” Fahd asked, nodding at the policeman’s open holster.
The cop laughed. “’Course it’s loaded, son – you don’t think we fight bad guys with water pistols, now, do you?”
“Yeah, but,” Fahd said, “in Canada they have to load them first. And they’re all holstered up practically out of sight.”
“Canada ain’t New York City, kid,” the cop said, as if they hadn’t realized. “If I took the time to unbuckle and load up, I’d be shot a thousand times before I was ready.”
The policeman was off and running. He began to brag about the cases he’d solved and the drug dealers he’d arrested and the important people he’d guarded – never for a moment aware that a bunch of twelve-year-olds had just pulled the wool so far over his eyes he wa
s about to flunk the one assignment he had that day: keeping people out.
Travis slipped away and ducked under the nearest truck. He wriggled his way through to a narrow space between one truck with “MAKE-UP” on it and another with “MAIN FEED,” all the time keeping an eye out for security.
Someone had left deep tracks in the snow, and he kept to them, careful not to leave his own small footprints behind.
As Travis drew closer to his goal he heard a man cough. He leaped from the footprints and scrambled under the nearest truck, rolling in the snow.
Just in time! Two television-crew members rounded the far corner and walked down the same narrow space he’d been coming through.
Travis rolled out the other side of the truck, retraced his steps, and, when the men had gone – thank heavens for coughs! – he stepped back out into the tracks and hurried the rest of the way.
“DIRECTOR” a sign read on the blue vehicle’s side. The policeman had been right.
“MAIN CONTROL PANEL,” it read below. And beneath that was a number: 212-555-7449.
Travis stared hard at the number. How would he ever remember all that? He had nothing to write it down with. He couldn’t write it in the snow – what good would that do? He had to remember it.
The first part – 212 – was the area code. Even if he forgot that, he could easily look it up.
The second part was also a snap. 555 – he’d seen enough television shows to know that was always the number in these circumstances!
But 7449?
Easy – Travis Lindsay, Wayne Nishikawa, and Sarah Cuthbertson. Numbers 7, 44, and 9.
He raced back along the tracks through the snow, repeating the numbers out loud as he hurried to where the policeman was just winding up yet another story of a mob shootout.
17
“We have to do a dry run first,” Data said.
Fahd nodded. He understood. The others were not so sure. As soon as they were back in the hotel, Travis had carefully written down the numbers – mumbling as he did so, 2-1-2, 5-5-5, me-Nish-Sarah” – and though Fahd had looked at him a little oddly, he’d taken the slip of paper and handed it to Data.
“Whadya mean ‘a dry run’?” Nish practically shouted. “You think I’m gonna wet my pants at a time like this?”
The others ignored him and set about hooking up the system. They connected the computer to the phone line, used a double jack to connect the telephone itself, and Fahd and Data began calling up their program.
“What’s the number again?” Data asked.
Fahd spun the paper so Data could see as he typed it into the computer. There was a pause and then, quickly, a series of notes as the computer dialled.
No one dared take a breath while they waited.
There was a long, seemingly too long, hiss, then some loud clicks and buzzes, then silence.
“We’re in!” Data said in a voice somewhere between a whisper and a hiss.
The logo of the broadcaster came up first on Data’s screen, and then a small box, empty, with the cursor pulsating in the corner. “PASSWORD,” it said above the box.
“Now’s the tough part,” said Data.
Fahd held his hands over the keyboard, his fingers dancing in the air.
“What is it?” Fahd kept saying. “What is it? What is it?”
“Probably the director’s name,” said Andy.
“Nah,” said Data. “It would be a code word. Something they wouldn’t forget.”
“The date?” Jesse suggested.
“I like it,” Fahd said, and immediately typed in the date.
They waited a moment while the screen faded, then bounced back.
“PASSWORD FAILURE” the screen said. “PLEASE TRY AGAIN.”
“Be careful,” Data said. “Probably three mistakes and it closes down. There might even be an alert on it.”
“The name of the host?” Derek suggested.
“That might be it!” said Fahd. He typed the host’s name in and then pressed ENTER.
The screen faded and then reappeared.
“PASSWORD FAILURE. PLEASE TRY AGAIN.”
“Last chance,” Data muttered. He sounded ready for defeat.
“Happy New Year,” said Nish miserably. He sounded as if his world had just come to an end.
Fahd turned around quickly. “What was that?”
“What was what?” Nish said, not following.
“What you just said.”
“Happy New Year?”
“That could be it!” Fahd said. “That’s probably it.”
“Type it in,” Data said.
Fahd’s fingers flew over the keys. He hit ENTER, and again the page on the screen vanished. This time, however, it did not come back right away saying they had failed. When the screen returned it said something different.
“NEW YEAR’S SPECIAL.”
Fahd pumped a fist over his head. “You did it, Nish! You’re a genius!”
“It took you till now to find that out?” Nish said. But he was red-cheeked and smiling, astonished at his own lucky guess.
Files began appearing on the screen.
“What’re those?” Andy asked.
“Should be everything,” Data said. “Even the commercial breaks. Everything that isn’t live is right here as a pre-recorded file, and all it takes is a double click to load it up onto the big screen.”
“How do I get my butt up there?” Nish asked. His voice was a bit whiney, as if he resented no longer being the centre of attention, the glory going, for the moment, to Data and Fahd, who had hacked their way into the broadcast.
“Simple,” explained Data. “I just insert your file into the list and double-click when we want it up. It overrides everything.”
“From here?” Nish asked.
“From here,” Data said.
“I get to moon the world and I don’t even have to leave my hotel room to do it?”
“You got it, Einstein.”
“Beauty,” Nish said. “Beauty.”
Just then there was a loud rap at the door.
Everyone froze.
18
For a long moment, no one dared move.
The sharp knock on the door seemed to echo through the room, though it had not been repeated.
“Who is it?” Fahd hissed. “Check it out!”
Andy, the tallest, crept silently to the door. He stood up straight and cautiously put his eye to the peep-hole.
He turned, smiling. “It’s Sarah and Sam.”
Fahd, who had already cut the connection and was in the process of turning off his computer, lifted his hand off the keys and relaxed. “Let them in,” he said.
Sarah and Sam burst into the room, filling it with new energy.
“Smells like a hockey dressing room in here,” Sam said. “Whatya been sweatin’ over, Rolex Boy?” She poked Nish in the gut. He buckled over, pretending she’d winded him.
“What’s going on?” Sarah asked. “Nish headed into the Guinness Book of World Records or what?”
“We’re in,” Fahd said. “He’s almost there.”
“The entire world’s gonna hurl!” Sam shouted.
“Very funny,” muttered Nish. “Very, very funny.”
“I want to know how you’re going to do it,” Sarah said to Data and Fahd.
They were delighted to explain. They walked Sarah and Sam through all the technical details and described, with due credit to Nish, how they’d cracked the password that took them straight into the computer controls of the broadcast truck.
“Nish’s butt is just a double click away from being seen around the world,” said Data. “He’s going to make history.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Sam. “I don’t even believe he mooned for you guys.”
“Did so!” Nish all but shouted.
“Prove it!” Sam challenged.
She had Nish in the palm of her hand. Less than a year on the Screech Owls and Sam could work Nish better than anyone, pla
ying him like a puppet on a string.
“Show them!” Nish commanded Data and Fahd.
“What?” Fahd asked. “The file?”
“My butt,” corrected Nish.
“Show us,” Sam said. “You’re going to show everybody later, anyway. Surely you can give two young women a sneak preview of the Eighth Wonder of the World!”
“C’mon,” said Sarah. “Give us a look so we’ll know what it is when it comes up on the screen.”
“Okay,” Data said.
Fahd went into the directory until he found the file marked “Moonshot,” then double-clicked on it. The machine whirred and hummed, stopped and started, whirred and hummed some more.
“It’s a big file,” Data explained.
“It’s a big butt,” Sam replied.
The screen flashed, then filled with a man’s face.
He was wearing a ski mask, pulled down tight over his face.
“What the hell?” Nish shouted.
“Wrong file,” Fahd said to Data.
“No,” Data said. “It’s the right file. Something’s wrong.”
The camera pulled out from the man in the ski mask. He was flanked by two other men, each dressed the same: long dark coat, gloves, ski mask over the face exposing only the eyes.
Each man was carrying an automatic rifle pointed directly at the camera.
The man in the middle began to speak. It was rough – computer data becoming sound – but it was clear and to the point.
“BE PREPARED TO DIE, NEW YORKERS!” the voice shouted slowly and deliberately. “AT MIDNIGHT WE KILL ANYONE STILL ON THE STREETS!”
The man turned his weapon and shot several rounds to the side of the camera. The shots sounded tinny over the small speakers of Data’s laptop, but to Travis they sounded like exploding bombs.
“BE PREPARED TO DIE!”
Travis felt a deep, sickening chill down his spine. They were terrorists. Terrorists threatening to gun down anyone attending the New Year’s Eve celebrations in Times Square.
“Who are they?” Sam asked, giggling slightly as if hoping it might be some elaborate practical joke.
Travis figured he knew. He had recognized the voice.
The Complete Screech Owls, Volume 4 Page 7
