Godzilla At World's End Part 3

"I don't see much prosperity these days," Endicott retorted. "Just a lot of overtaxed people trying to get by.... And you'll have peace only so long as one of those monsters doesn't show up to make trouble again."

"Don't worry about monsters," the young man insisted. "The navy and the coast guard are keeping tabs on G.o.dzilla's activities. Kaijuologists conjecture that Varan is probably dead, King Ghidorah has been kicked off the planet, and Rodan is nesting somewhere in the North Pole."

"That still doesn't explain the lack of prosperity," Endicott remarked, but the young man ignored him.

"So what is your answer?" the man demanded, the arrogance returning to his voice.

Mycroft E. Endicott met the young man's stare with a stare of his own - a stare that soon withered the other man's.

"My answer is this," Endicott said, sitting up straight. "The United States of America is still a free country, with a Bill of Rights that guarantees freedom of speech.

"To put it plainly, that means that the show in question airs tomorrow - as is - whether the president likes it or not."

"If that is your final decision ..." the young man said, an annoying squint accompanying his dramatic look of profound disappointment.

"It is," Endicott replied coolly.

The younger man nodded and rose from his chair. He picked up the briefcase at his feet and, without another word, walked to the door. But when his hand touched the doork.n.o.b, he paused and turned to the older man again.

"The prosperity will come," the young man stated imperiously. "The president you are so quick to criticize has just worked out a deal with South America that will double the amount of oil the country can import - and will more than make up for losses from the Middle East oil producers."

The young man nodded with self-importance before continuing. "As long as the oil flows, the Rebuild America project will go on."

The man turned the doork.n.o.b, then paused again and smiled haughtily. "And we're not going to let any monsters stop us this time, Mr. Endicott!"

Sat.u.r.day, November 11, 2000, 8:37 P.M.

INN's Maxwell Hulse Memorial Hangar.

Hulse Science Complex.

Lakehurst, New Jersey.

There was no way that Sh.e.l.ly Townsend could hear the private phone ring over the ear-shattering whine of the uns.h.i.+elded turbofan engine. The machine was mounted on a huge metal framework in one corner of the enormous hangar. Its deafening howl filled the cavernous building. Fortunately, Sh.e.l.ly did notice the light blinking on the telephone at her father's side. She tapped his shoulder and pointed to the device.

Her father wiped his hands on his white lab coat and cursed. Sh.e.l.ly couldn't hear him, either, but she could read lips well enough to understand what he said.

Simon Townsend rose from the chair, his eyes fixed on the throbbing engine. Despite the ma.s.sive amount of thrust it expended, the turbofan was still bolted to its framework, not fifty feet away. The walls of the hangar shuddered from the sheer force being generated.

Finally, the man tore his eyes away from the engine and signaled his daughter, raising his right hand and flas.h.i.+ng four fingers.

"Four more minutes," the man mouthed.

Sh.e.l.ly nodded, and the aeronautical engineer disappeared into the soundproof booth to answer the call of his sponsor.

The teenager glanced at the control board in front of her, then at the engine itself. So far the engine test looked good, but Sh.e.l.ly knew that something could go wrong at any moment.

She also knew from experience that engine number six was quirky. It had failed a number of times during in-flight testing, and it overheated for the third time yesterday, for no apparent reason.

That incident had prompted this last-minute engine test, which involved removing the engine from the airs.h.i.+p, mounting it on the frame, and running it until it overheated again. The maintenance crew grumbled, of course, but thanks to the seemingly bottomless pit of wealth coming from the Independent News Network, everybody would get overtime pay.

Everybody but Sh.e.l.ly Townsend and her father.

They were working because they believed in their work, not because they wanted the money.

With less than a minute to go, the temperature gauge on Sh.e.l.ly's control board began to creep up. Not too much, but enough to force her to keep an eye on the flas.h.i.+ng digital display.

With less than thirty seconds to go, the engine temperature began climbing again - at least it did according to the turbofan's internal sensors. Sh.e.l.ly checked the fuel readout. There was plenty of gas left in the engine. She reached out and readjusted the timer, extending the engine test another five minutes. Then she settled down to watch the temperature control.

Though she was only seventeen years old, Sh.e.l.ly Townsend knew the aircraft called the Destiny Explorer from stem to stern - almost as well as her father, the man who had designed and built it. Despite her lack of even a high school diploma - a situation that would be remedied in June - Sh.e.l.ly was as capable of carrying out this engine test as one of her father's top technicians.

And she was cheaper, too.

The techs were busy elsewhere, anyway, and Sh.e.l.ly was happy to help. Time was running out. With the official launch of the aircraft a week away, there were a hundred bugs to be found and eradicated. All the personnel at the huge hangar in Lakehurst were burning their candles at both ends.

Sh.e.l.ly noticed that the engine's temperature was increasing rapidly now. She checked a second set of heat sensors, placed in and around vital points of the engine for this test.

But all of those readouts were normal.

Her father was right. The engine was fine. The heat sensors inside it were not. They would have to be replaced - which meant that engine number six would have to be dismantled and rebuilt. Then it would have to be remounted on the Destiny Explorer.

Ten days' work ... by the book. But she was sure they could do it in five. Sh.e.l.ly knew that the people working on the Explorer were that good.

Well, she thought, sighing. At least it wasn't the engine itself. It would take weeks to build and test another one of those.

When the time clock hit fifteen minutes, engine number six automatically shut down. As the high-pitched whine slowly died, the noise seemed to echo through the vast structure. A few seconds later, the hangar fell completely silent. Sh.e.l.ly pulled off her ear protectors and shook out her hair when the door to the soundproof booth swung open.

Her father walked toward her. His helmet and ear protectors were off, and his steel-gray ponytail hung down his back.

"How did it go?" he asked, pointing at the engine.

Sh.e.l.ly brushed her own wheat-colored hair away from her face. "You were right, Dad," she replied. "The heat sensors inside the engine are defective, not the engine itself."

"Fine." Her father sighed. "That means only forty more hours of work for me, instead of a hundred ..."

Sh.e.l.ly could tell her father was agitated. But then, he usually was after a phone call from Mycroft E. Endicott.

"Trouble?" she probed gently.

Her father shook his head. "Mycroft Endicott is concerned that everything stay exactly on schedule. He heard about the engine test tonight and -"

"How did he hear about the engine test?" Sh.e.l.ly interrupted.

"Captain Dolan mentioned it," Simon Townsend replied. "Mycroft called him at home an hour ago and ... well, you know ..." The engineer's voice trailed off as he stared across the hangar at the ma.s.sive aircraft shrouded in shadow. Even when it was invisible, the Destiny Explorer was so large he could feel its presence.

And why not, she thought. He's been living with his vision of this airs.h.i.+p longer than any of us ...

Then Simon Townsend shrugged his narrow shoulders. "I guess the problem is that I wanted to do some good for the world. I tried to create a portable scientific-research platform that could bring all the benefits of the modern world to the most remote regions."

Sh.e.l.ly studied her father carefully. As he spoke, his eyes seemed to gaze into the future at something only he could see.

"Imagine bringing a fully equipped hospital and disease research laboratory to the middle of equatorial Africa in days, not months or even weeks. Imagine bringing a state-of-the-art laboratory to the scientist in the field."

Simon Townsend frowned and brushed his hands through his long hair, loosening the ponytail he'd worn since before Sh.e.l.ly was born. "Unfortunately, the man who paid to build my dream sees the whole project a little ... differently."

"What do you mean, Dad?" Sh.e.l.ly asked, knowing full well where this familiar conversation was leading.

"Mycroft Endicott doesn't care about scientific research or helping anybody. He wants to turn the maiden voyage of the Destiny Explorer into a giant publicity stunt," her father replied glumly. "He's got something to prove ... and he's got twenty million dollars and a whole lot of emotional baggage tied up in this s.h.i.+p."

"And you don't?" Sh.e.l.ly added slyly.

"Point taken, kiddo," her father replied. "I care about the Destiny Explorer and her mission. But I think that Mycroft Endicott is in this for the money, not for the good of humanity!"

"Are you so sure about him, Dad?" Sh.e.l.ly argued.

Her father sighed. "Mycroft E. Endicott was born rich and got richer. People that have everything think about nothing."

For a while Sh.e.l.ly remained silent, pondering her father's statement. But the more she thought about it, the more she believed that her father was wrong about Endicott's motives for building the Explorer.

Sh.e.l.ly had met Mr. Endicott only once, but her gut feelings told her that Mycroft E. Endicott was no ordinary businessman.

"Maybe you're not being fair, Dad," Sh.e.l.ly announced finally. "Maybe Endicott wants to do some good, too. Maybe he wants to show everyone in America that the future can still be bright, despite all the troubles in the world right now."

Sh.e.l.ly looked up and saw that her father was smiling down at her.

"You're so naive, kid," he quipped, smoothing his daughter's hair affectionately. "You're just like your mother," he said, watching her out of the corner of his eye. "She thought the best about everyone, too, and look what it got her."

"She found you, didn't she?" Sh.e.l.ly shot back with a laugh.

Her father laughed, too. "I was a loser in those days, Sh.e.l.ly - a crazy nut who wanted to build an airs.h.i.+p like no one else had ever envisioned, let alone ever tried to build." Simon Townsend shook his head, remembering those times.

"h.e.l.l," he chuckled, remembering back. "Everyone thought I was nuts - everyone except maybe Jack Dolan. Only a woman as good as your mother could have loved me in those days."

"Well, look at you now, Dad," Sh.e.l.ly replied. "Mom wasn't wrong. Look at all you've accomplished since you left Virgin Lights.h.i.+ps Company and went out on your own. You've created something incredible - a new wonder of the world - and it's the start of something good, too. You know it is."

Sh.e.l.ly paused.

"And I'll just bet that that's all Mr. Endicott wants to do," she concluded. "Create something good, I mean."

Simon Townsend was filled with pride, and his heart swelled with love for his daughter. He was suddenly sad, too, because his child so reminded him of her mother.

"I only wish that people were as good and kind as you think they are, Sh.e.l.ly," her father replied. "The world would certainly be a better place."

3.

THE HUNT.

Sunday, November 12, 2000, 11:05 A.M.

Bridge of the patrol s.h.i.+p Ordog.

50 north lat.i.tude, 150 east longitude.

Sea of Okhotsk.

The sea was gray. So were the waves, the horizon, the sky, and the patrol s.h.i.+p itself. All was a flat slate gray.

Captain Yuri Korsov's narrow eyes scanned the murky horizon through German-made binoculars, searching for other signs of humanity in the vast expanse of water north of the Sea of j.a.pan.

The flesh on the Russian captain's thin, skeletal face was weathered, and there were p.r.o.nounced wrinkles around Korsov's eyes from hours of peering at distant ocean horizons just like this one.

There was nothing out there. No s.h.i.+ps, military or commercial - though he didn't expect many of the latter. No sign of an airplane or helicopter, either. There was absolutely no sign of life at all.

Which was fine with Captain Yuri Korsov. He wanted this part of the world to himself for the hazardous work he had to perform on this day. If no one was around, there would be no awkward questions asked of him or his men.

Questions like, "Why was the Ordog here?" or "What was his business in this most inhospitable bit of the world?" Or, finally, "Why did the men of the Ordog need so many unorthodox and unusual weapons to hunt whales?"

These were all questions the captain of the Ordog couldn't answer ... not if he wanted to avoid an international incident. So it was best that Korsov's patrol craft steer clear of any other s.h.i.+ps - Russian or j.a.panese - that happened to be cruising near the coasts of the hotly disputed Kuril Islands.

It was just simpler that way. Simpler for him, for his men, and for his employers.

The captain pulled the collar of his wool coat up around his ears. Though it was almost midday, the air was still cold and damp, and there was little heat reaching the Ordog's enclosed bridge.

In truth, Korsov did not much mind the cold. It made him suddenly nostalgic. It was more like the weather he had experienced decades before, on his tours of duty in the North Atlantic as chief political officer aboard a Soviet Typhoon-cla.s.s nuclear submarine.

"Captain," First Mate Podynov announced, appearing unexpectedly at Korsov's elbow and interrupting his reminiscences.

"What is it?" Korsov demanded curtly.

"We have just activated the sonar," the man replied, ignoring his commander's glum mood. Captain Korsov lowered his binoculars and faced his second-in-command. As usual, the man was smiling. The dour Korsov did not trust men who smiled too much.

When Captain Korsov faced the first mate, he had to lower his eyes because Adrian Podynov was a short man. And a fat man, too. He was almost as wide as he was tall, in fact.

Korsov did not trust fat men, either.