“Who is that?” said the president.
Both the chief of staff and the communications director shrugged.
An unseen piano began to play. The melody sounded familiar to the three men, but none of them could quite place it.
Then the young man began to sing:
“Spring was never waiting for us girl…”
The chief of staff snapped his fingers. “That’s ‘MacArthur Park,’” he said.
“The one about the cake?” said the president. “In the rain?”
“Yeah,” said the chief of staff.
The president, his eyes on the screen, said, “What was it he said? The Grdankl guy? That this is the last thing we’re going to see?”
“Yeah,” said the chief of staff.
“All right,” said the president. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow and upper lip. “We need to find out right now who this kid is, what the heck we supposedly did to him, and how to communicate with Mr. Tomato Nose. We are putting an end to this now.”
“Right,” said the chief of staff, grabbing a phone.
The president turned to the communications director. “And you,” he said, “need to find out how long this song is.”
THREE MINUTES AND TWENTY-SEVEN SECONDS. That was the precise length of the version of “MacArthur Park” that Prmkt was now broadcasting to the world from the utility room next to the Hubble Middle School gym.
Prmkt looked at his watch. The song had been going for thirty seconds. Just under three minutes to go. When the song ended, he would start the final sequence.
Some kind of commotion had erupted in the gym; Prmkt could hear muffled shouts through the utility-room door. He thought about checking to see what it was, but decided he should focus on the task at hand.
He glanced at his watch again. Just over two minutes left.
Prmkt flexed his fingers over the keyboard, getting ready.
“GAH YAFOO OUMA MOUF,” said Tamara.
“What?” whispered Toby.
“I said get your foot out of my mouth,” said Tamara, giving Toby’s sneaker a shove.
“Sorry!” said Toby, shifting position.
The two of them were crouched under one of the science-fair exhibit tables, hidden from view by the cloth that was draped over each of the tables. They’d been here for several minutes, listening to running feet tromp past and to the shouts of their pursuers, directed by Lance Swingle. They heard other voices, as well, coming from the crowd gathered around the TV set. People were reacting with alarm to something, but Toby and Tamara couldn’t tell what it was.
Toby pulled the drape aside and peeked out. He and Tamara were almost at the end of one of the rows of tables. At the far end, he saw Jason Niles and Coach Furman, one on each side, methodically going from table to table, lifting the drapes and looking underneath. Toby ducked back.
“They’re looking under the tables,” he said.
“What do we do?” said Tamara.
“I dunno,” said Toby. “Maybe we could crawl under the tables until we get to the ME projects—but I don’t even know which way that is.”
“Okay,” said Tamara. “So get out and look for them.”
“They’ll see me,” said Toby.
“Not if you’re invisible,” said Tamara.
“The iPhone!” said Toby, reaching down to turn it on. “I forgot!”
“Duh,” said Tamara.
“Uh-oh,” said Toby, looking at the phone’s screen.
“What?” said Tamara.
“The battery’s low.”
“Then you better get going,” said Tamara.
“What about you?” said Toby.
“Don’t yew worry ’bout me, podner,” said Tamara. “Ah’ll hold ’em off long as ah kin.”
“What accent is that supposed to be?” said Toby.
“Cowboy,” said Tamara.
“Needs work,” said Toby.
“I’ll practice in jail,” said Tamara. “Get going.”
“Okay,” said Toby. He reached for the drape, then said, “Seriously, what are you going to do?”
“I’ve got a bold and daring plan,” said Tamara.
“Which is?”
“I’m going to scream like a girl.”
Toby, despite the seriousness of the situation, smiled. He looked for a moment at Tamara—his oldest and, now that he thought about it, his closest friend—who had stuck with him right to the end of this basically insane effort. He realized this was probably the time to say something meaningful.
“What are you waiting for?” she said.
“I’m, uh…I just…”
“You’re not going to say something meaningful, are you?” she said.
“’Course not,” said Toby.
“Good,” she said. As she said it, she touched his hand for part of a second, and they both blushed.
“Okay,” said Toby. His finger hovered over the magic wand on the iPhone screen. He noticed the sunglasses icon next to it. Back before everything had gone horribly wrong, Sternabite had said to use the sunglasses icon to summon him. Probably too late now, Toby thought, but he touched the sunglasses anyway. Then he touched the wand, and he disappeared.
“See you,” he said, ducking out through the drape.
“Good luck,” said Tamara from under the table.
Toby stood up and looked around. Jason and Coach Furman were getting closer; they’d reach Tamara’s table in a minute. In the next aisle over, Swingle was looking under tables and directing his lackeys to do the same. Beyond them, at the end of the gym, Toby saw the crowd gathered around the TV; over the buzz of the crowd Toby heard a wavery voice singing about a cake in the rain.
Weird.
Toby trotted away from the searchers to the back of the gym. His plan was to do a methodical search for the ME kids’ projects. He went to the end row, rounded the corner, and…
“Micah!”
Micah spun to look but saw nobody.
“Toby?” he said.
“Yeah,” said Toby. He made himself visible as he trotted up to Micah, who was standing next to his project, which was between Tamara’s and Brad Pitt Wemplemeyer’s projects.
“Listen,” said Toby, “have you seen…”
“Fester’s okay,” said Micah, holding up his frog.
“Great,” said Toby. “Listen, have you…”
“I had him on a timer,” said Micah, pointing to his project. “He was going up and down, up and down, like, a foot. It must’ve been awful. I’m gonna turn it off.” He reached for the knob that controlled the power to the fusion reactor Sternabite had lent him. Toby grabbed his arm.
“Micah, listen,” said Toby. “I need to find the ME kids’ projects! Do you know where they are?”
“Yeah,” said Micah. “I was going to tell you as soon as I got Fester…”
“WHERE ARE THEY?” shouted Toby, grabbing Micah’s shirt.
“Right there!” said Micah, pointing at the tables to the right of his.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” said Toby, letting go of Micah’s shirt. He looked around for something he could use to trash the ME kids’ projects. His eyes fell on Tamara’s project, on the table to the left of Micah’s. It was labeled PACKAGING—THE DEADLY KILLER IN YOUR HOME. On the backboard were vivid photographs showing a shard of plastic packaging being used to decapitate a Rollerblade Barbie doll. Displayed on the table was the headless Barbie herself, wearing tiny pink Rollerblades with flint wheels that sparked when they were rolled. Alongside Rollerblade Barbie was her head, still looking blond and perky, next to the shard used to sever it. The shard, Toby decided, might be just the thing for slashing the electrical cables in the ME kids’ projects. He was about to grab it when Micah tugged at his arm.
“Uh, Toby…” said Micah.
“What?” snapped Toby.
“They see you,” said Micah.
“Who does?”
“THERE HE IS!” shouted Lance Swingle.
“Them,” said M
icah.
Toby looked toward the far end of the row. Swingle stood there, pointing at him; two burly lackeys were already running his way. Toby whirled and looked away. Jason and Coach Furman were coming. Toby was trapped in the middle of the row. He reached for the iPhone and stabbed the magic wand. He looked down and watched with relief as his legs disappeared.
And then they reappeared.
He looked at the phone. The screen was black.
The battery was dead.
“GET HIM!” screamed Swingle.
Swingle’s men had arrived; so had Jason and Coach Furman. Toby and Micah were surrounded. Swingle’s men moved in.
“Stay back!’ shouted Toby, reaching his right hand behind him. “I have a knife!”
One of Swingle’s men reached into his sport jacket. Toby felt around desperately on the table. Finally his hand closed on something. “I’m warning you!” he said. “If you come near me, I WILL cut you!” Then, with a dramatic flourish, he whipped his arm around and waved his weapon.
Unfortunately, it was the headless Rollerblade Barbie.
“Whoops,” said Micah.
“Is that a doll, Hardbonger?” said Jason.
“No!” said Toby, quickly stuffing it into his back pocket.
The large man pulled his hand from his jacket; he was now pointing a large gun at Toby. “Raise your hands,” he said.
Toby raised his hands.
“You, too,” said the man to Micah.
“I have a frog in my hands,” said Micah.
“Then raise the frog, too,” said the man.
Micah raised his hands, and Fester.
“Now don’t move,” said the man with the gun.
“We’re not moving,” said Toby.
“I think I’m gonna wet my pants,” said Micah.
“Well, do it without moving,” said Toby.
THE PRESIDENT WATCHED as the floppy-haired young man on the TV screen headed into the home stretch of “MacArthur Park,” straining hard and failing to reach the high notes. The president turned to his two aides, both on the phone, both frantically taking notes.
“He’s finishing,” the president said. “Somebody tell me something.”
“Okay,” said the communications director, reading from his notes. “Here’s what we’ve got: this kid is from America’s Next Superstar, the TV show, five years ago.”
“Five years ago?” said the president.
“Right,” said the communications director. “The song ends”—he listened to a voice on the phone—“pretty soon.”
“I know the song,” said the president. “But who is this kid? Why do we care?”
“His name is Gmygmy,” said the chief of staff.
“What?” said the president.
“G-m-y-g-m-y,” said the chief of staff, looking at his notes. “Americans pronounce it basically like ‘Jimmy-Jimmy.’”
“But who is he?” asked the president.
“He’s the son of the president of Krpshtskan.”
“What?”
“He’s the oldest son of Grdankl the Strong,” said the chief of staff. “Five years ago, he came to the U.S. to compete on America’s Next Superstar. He got pretty far into the competition, but it seems people were voting for him mainly as a joke. But he didn’t know it. He bought into it. Thought he was going to win. When he got voted off the show he broke down on camera, cried like a baby, had a nervous breakdown right on TV. It was a huge scandal in Krpshtskan—son of the president and all. It’s a culture where a man never cries. Big loss of face for the family.”
The president looked at the TV screen. Gmygmy was finishing “MacArthur Park,” trying, with no success, to hit a final high note, sounding like a seriously injured cat. The camera flashed to the three judges, one of whom was plugging his ears with his fingers.
“So you’re telling me,” the president said, “that this lunatic Grdankl wants to destroy the United States because his son got voted off a TV show?”
“It looks that way, sir.”
“It gets great ratings,” said the director of communications. “My daughter and wife—”
“Shut up,” said the president.
“Yes, sir,” said the director of communications.
“Sir,” said the chief of staff, his ear pressed to the phone, “there’s something else.”
“What is it?” said the president.
The chief of staff listened over the phone for another few seconds, then said, “Grdankl the Strong has another son. Named…ah…Pr…P-something. I can’t pronounce it.”
“So?” said the president.
“He’s here.”
“Here?” said the president. “As in?”
“INS places him as being employed at a middle school in the Maryland suburbs. Which…” The chief of staff was listening to the phone again.
“Which what?” the president said impatiently.
“Which is in the same general area the FBI thinks the power-grid attack is coming from,” said the chief of staff. Again, he listened to the phone. His eyebrows arched. “Seriously?” he said.
“WHAT?” said the president.
“Seems the local cops up there just chased two suspect Krpsht nationals to the same middle school in…well…in a Wienermobile,” said the chief of staff.
“The police were driving a Wienermobile?” said the president, rubbing his hair.
“No, sir. The Krpshts were. Apparently they stole it from a supermarket in—”
“Never mind how they got it,” snapped the president. “Are they in custody?”
“Um, no, sir.”
“WHY THE HECK NOT?”
“The police car…crashed, sir. Wrecked.”
“I want EVERY AVAILABLE AGENT at that school NOW,” shouted the president.
“Yes, sir. We’re on it. Everybody’s responding and converging on the school,” said the chief of staff. “FBI, Homeland, police, everybody we’ve got.”
The president looked at the screen. It showed a freeze-frame close-up of Gmygmy’s smiling, floppy-hair-framed face. From the speakers came an odd moaning noise, like a walrus giving birth. On the screen, below the smiling frozen image of Gmygmy, appeared the words REPUBLIC OF KRPSHTSKAN NATIONAL ANTHEM.
The president glared at the screen. “A TV show,” he said, spitting out the words. “I am going make those people so sorry they ever—”
“Sir,” said the chief of staff, his ear still to the phone.
“What?” said the president.
“The grid’s going down again.”
“Where?” said the president.
The chief of staff waved an arm.
“Everywhere,” he said.
PRMKT’S FINGERS DANCED on the keyboard, issuing command after command in rapid sequence. One by one, he was taking down the major regions of the North American power grid. Soon all of America—except for Hubble Middle School, which Prmkt would keep online—would lose its electricity. More than three hundred million people—already terrified—would be plunged into full-on panic, in the dark.
But that would be just the beginning. Because when the grid was down, and America was most vulnerable, Prmkt would issue his last sequence of commands. He would summon the full power of the science-fair projects he had net-worked, and then, in one lightning strike, he would unleash the final punishment, the attack from which the United States would never recover.
He would unleash the Pulse.
TOBY’S ARMS WERE GETTING TIRED. He and Micah had stood for several minutes with their hands up, watched closely by Swingle’s big bodyguard with the big gun. Behind this man stood Swingle with two more lackeys. A third lackey was just trotting up to meet them.
“The cops are here,” he told Swingle. “They’re rounding up the rest of them.”
“Good,” said Swingle, glaring at Toby.
“Listen,” said Toby. “You got us, okay? Can you tell the Hulk here to put down the gun?”
“Not a chance,” said Swingle.
“What are you afraid of?” said Toby. “The frog?”
“Listen, punk,” said Swingle, stepping forward. But before he could say any more, a commotion erupted to the right. Toby looked that way and saw Tamara being dragged toward them by Coach Furman and Jason Niles.
“Unhand me!” she was shouting. “I am a lady!”
“Unhand?” said Micah.
“Lady?” said Toby.
As Jason and Coach Furman dragged Tamara up from one direction, a large group appeared at the other end of the row of tables. The group was headed by The Hornet, who was followed by agents Turow, Iles, and Lefkon, who were followed by a dozen police officers, some with guns drawn. Toby saw why: they had captured Drmtsi and Vrsk, who were being hustled forward, along with…
Oh, no. Toby groaned as he saw, in the middle of the cluster, his mom and dad in their Star Wars costumes.
As The Hornet walked up, she gave Toby a glare that he could feel all the way down his back. Then she turned to Swingle and, gesturing to the three feds, said, “These are agents of the federal government. They’re going to take these students into custody.”
“Good,” said Swingle. “I want them prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Not only did they destroy my helicopter, but they nearly killed me!”
“This isn’t about your helicopter,” said Turow. “Or you.”
“By the way,” said Iles. “Your pilot? The one you left unconscious in the cockpit? Paramedics say he’s going to be okay. In case you were worried.”
Swingle reddened.
“Later on,” said Turow, “we’ll talk about why you were trying to take off against an FAA directive.”
Swingle started to say something, but Turow, ignoring him, turned to Toby.
“For a supposedly smart kid,” Turow said, “you are unbelievably stupid.”
“Please,” said Toby. “Listen. I—”
Turow held up his hand. “I’ll listen when you and the rest of the Wienermobile gang”—he waved at the prisoners—“are locked up again.”
“My parents had nothing to do with this,” said Toby.
Turow glanced at Roger and Fawn.
“Mr. and Mrs. Han Solo?” he said. “They’re your parents?”
Science Fair Page 24