Terminal Compromise by Winn Schwartau (ebooks children's books free .txt) 📕

been tricked by the contractor’s test results and Scott discov-

ered the discrepencies.

When Gene-Tech covered up the accidental release of mutated

spores into the atmosphere from their genetic engineering labs,

Scott Mason was the one reporter who had established enough of a

reputation as both a fair reporter, and also one that understood

the technology. Thanks to Mason’s early diagnosis and the Times’

responsible publishing, a potentially cataclysmic genetic disas-

ter was averted.

The software problems with Star Wars and Brilliant Pebbles, the

payoffs that allowed defective X-Ray lasers to be shipped to the

testing ground outside of Las Vegas – Scott Mason was there. He

traced the Libyan chemical weapons plant back to West Germany

which triggered the subsequent destruction of the plant.

Scott’s outlook was simple. “It’s a matter of recognizing the

possibilities and then the probabilities. Therefore, if some-

thing is possible, someone, somewhere will do it. Guaranteed.

Since someone’s doing it, then it’s only a matter of catching him

in the act.”

“Besides,” he would tell anyone who would listen, “computers and

technology and electronics represent trillions of dollars annu-

ally. To believe that there isn’t interesting, human interest

and profound news to be found, is pure blindness. The fear of

the unknown, the ignorance of what happens on the other side of

the buttons we push, is an enemy wrapped in the shrouds of time,

well disguised and easily avoided.”

Scott successfully opened the wounds of ignorance and technical

apathy and made he and the Times the de facto standard in Scien-

tific Journalism.

His reputation as a expert in anything technical endeared him to

fellow Times’ reporters. Scott often became the technical back-

bone of articles that did not carry his name. But that was good.

The journalists’ barter system. Scott Mason was not considered a

competitor to the other reporters because of his areas of inter-

est and the skills he brought with him to the paper. And, he

didn’t flaunt his knowledge. To Scott’s way of thinking, techni-

cal fluency should be as required as are the ABC’s, so it was

with the dedication of a teacher and the experience of simplifi-

cation that Scott undertook it to openly help anyone who wanted

to learn. His efforts were deeply appreciated.

Mr. Henson?”

“Yes, Maggie?” Henson responded over the hands free phone on his

highly polished black marble desk. He never looked up from the

papers he was perusing.

“There’s a John Fullmaster for you.”

“Who?” he asked absent mindedly.

“Ah, John Fullmaster.”

“I don’t know a Fullman do I? Who is he?”

“That’s Fullmaster, sir, and he says its personal.”

Robert Henson, chairman and CEO of Perris, Miller and Stevenson

leaned back in the plush leather chair. A brief perplexed look

covered his face and then a sigh of resignation. “Very well,

tell him I’ll take it in a minute.”

As the young highly visible leader of one of the most successful

Wall Street investment banking firms during the merger mania of

the 1980’s, he had grown accustomed to cold calls from aggressive

young brokers who wanted a chance to pitch him on sure bets.

Most often he simply ignored the calls, or referred them to his

capable and copious staff. Upon occasion, though, he would amuse

himself with such calls by putting the caller through salesmen’s

hell; he would permit them to give their pitch, actually sound

interested, permit the naive to believe that their call to Robert

Henson would lead them to a pot of gold, then only to bring them

down as harshly as he could. It was the only seeming diversion

Robert Henson had from the daily grueling regimen of earning fat

fees in the most somber of Wall Street activities. He needed a

break anyway.

“Robert Henson. May I help you?” He said into the phone. It

was as much a command as a question. From the 46th. floor SW

corner office, Henson stared out over Lower New York Bay where

the Statue of Liberty reigned.

“Thank you for taking my call Mr. Henson.” The caller’s proper

Central London accent was engaging and conveyed assurance and

propriety. “I am calling in reference to the proposed merger you

are arranging between Second Boston Financial and Winston Ellis

Services. I don’t believe that the SEC will be impressed with

the falsified figures you have generated to drive up your fees.

Don’t you agree.”

Henson bolted upright in his chair and glared into the phone.

“Who the hell is this?” he demanded.

“Merely a concerned citizen, sir.” The cheeky caller paused. “I

asked, sir, don’t you agree?”

“Listen,” Henson shouted into the phone. I don’t know who the

hell you are, nor what you want, but all filings made with the

SEC are public and available to anyone. Even the press whom I

assume you represent . . .”

“I am not with the press Mr. Henson,” the voice calmly interrupt-

ed. “All the same, I am sure that they would be quite interest-

ed in what I have to say. Or, more precisely, what I have to

show them.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Henson screamed.

“Specifically, you inflated the earnings of Winston Ellis over

40% by burying certain write downs and deferred losses. I be-

lieve you are familiar with the numbers. Didn’t you have them

altered yourself?”

Henson paled as the caller spoke to him matter of factly. His

eyes darted around his spacious and opulent office as though

someone might be listening. He shifted uneasily in his chair,

leaned into the phone and spoke quietly.

“I don’t know what you’re taking about.”

“I think you do, Mr. Henson.”

“What do you want?” Henson asked cautiously.

“Merely your acknowledgment, to me, right now, that the figures

were falsified, at your suggestion, and . . .”

“I admit nothing. Nothing.” Henson hung up the phone.

Shaken, he dialed the phone, twice. In his haste he misdialed

the first time. “Get me Brocker. Now. This is Henson.”

“Brocker,” the other end of the phone responded nonchalantly.

“Bill, Bob here. We got troubles.”

“Senator Rickfield? I think you better take this call.” Ken

Boyers was earnest in his suggestion. The aged Senator looked up

and recognized a certain urgency. The youthful 50 year old Ken

Boyers had been with Senator Merrill Rickfield since the mid

1960’s as an aide de campe, a permanent fixture in Rickfield’s

national success. Ken preferred the number two spot, to be the

man in the background rather the one in the public light. He

felt he could more effectively wield power without the constant

surveillance of the press. Only when events and deals were

completely orchestrated were they made public, and then Merrill

could take the credit. The arrangement suited them both.

Rickfield indicated that his secretary and the two junior aids

should leave the room. “What is it Ken?”

“Just take the call, listen carefully, and then we’ll talk.”

“Who is it, Ken. I don’t talk to every. . .”

“Merrill . . .pick up the phone.” It was an order. They had

worked together long enough to afford Ken the luxury of ordering

a U.S. Senator around.

“This is Senator Rickfield, may I help you?” The solicitous

campaign voice, smiling and inviting, disguised the puzzled look

he gave his senior aide. Within a few seconds the puzzlement

gave way to open mouthed silent shock and then, only moments

later to overt fear. He stared with disbelief at Ken Boyers.

Aghast, he gently put the phone back in its cradle.

“Ken,” Rickfield haltingly spoke. “Who the hell was that and how

in blazes did he know about the deal with Credite Suisse? Only

you, me and General Young knew.” He rose slowly rose and looked

accusingly at Ken.

“C’mon Merrill, I have as much to lose as you.”

“The hell you do.” He was growling. “I’m a respected United

States Senator. They can string me up from the highest yardarm

just like they did Nixon and I’m not playing to lose. Besides,

I’m the one the public knows while you’re invisible. It’s my ass

and you know it. Now, and I mean now, tell me what the hell is

going on? There were only three of us . . .”

“And the bank,” Ken quickly interjected to deflect the verbal

onslaught.

“Screw the bank. They use numbers. Numbers, Ken. That was the

plan. But this son of a bitch knew the numbers. Damn it, he

knew the numbers Ken!”

“Merrill, calm down.”

“Calm down? You have some nerve to tell me to calm down. Do you

know what would happen if anyone, and I mean anyone finds out

about . . .” Rickfield looked around and thought better of

finishing the sentence.

“Yes I know. As well as you do. Jesus Christ, I helped set the

whole