The Falcon's Feather

by Trudi Trueit

  As they dived, Cruz and Emmett bumped fists. The mission couldn’t have gone any better. Pairing up with their partners once again, Team Cousteau swept the seafloor. They scanned for any fishing gear that may have floated away while they were cutting the whales free. Cruz and Bryndis didn’t spot anything. Neither did anyone else.

  “Looks good.” Cruz heard Monsieur Legrand’s voice in his helmet. “Time to head back to Ridley.”

  Swimming beside Bryndis, Cruz couldn’t wait to get back to the ship. His adrenaline was pumping. He was excited to tell Aunt Marisol, Lani, and his dad everything that had happened. He’d talked to whales! Plus, Fanchon would want to know how the UCC had done. Cruz couldn’t wait to tell her how well it had performed—

  Cruz’s viewer was blinking. He slowed his kicks so he could read the words that had appeared beneath the right light: AIR PURIFICATION MALFUNCTION.

  “Bryndis, I may have a problem,” said Cruz, deliberately keeping his voice steady.

  In seconds, she was at his right shoulder. “What’s up?”

  “I’m getting a warning light on my rebreathing system.”

  “You’re breaking up…say again?”

  More words were flashing on his viewer: WATER SEAL BREACH. His visor was beginning to steam up. Hearing only static, Cruz put a hand out for Bryndis. She wasn’t there. His neck felt wet. He dropped his eyes. His helmet was filling with water! Cruz told himself not to panic. His training kicking in, Cruz went through the checklist of everything he needed to do: remove his helmet, grab the emergency regulator on his belt, put it to his mouth, and turn the valve. That would give him enough air to make it to the surface.

  Cruz reached for the first of four latches that attached his helmet to his wet suit. He easily unsnapped three of the clamps, but the last one wouldn’t pop. He tasted cool salt water. Lifting his chin, Cruz used both hands to try to pry up the latch. It refused to budge. Cruz felt light-headed. Inside the helmet, it was like a greenhouse in summer. He could no longer see anything. Everything was happening so quickly. He could feel his energy draining. Cruz drew one last, deep breath into his lungs. The flashing lights and warnings stopped. Everything went black. His helmet was dead.

  Cruz knew that in a matter of seconds, he would be, too.

  CRUZ TIPPED his neck back to keep his head above the water rising inside his helmet. Had something grabbed his arm? He couldn’t be sure. His limbs were going numb. His brain, too. Like the mixed-up pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, thoughts cluttered his brain. He couldn’t pick one out. Random sensations ping-ponged around his head. The minty scent of Dad’s aftershave. Being squished in one of Aunt Marisol’s hugs. Emmett’s glasses. Lani’s smile.

  He started to choke. Water had gone up his nose. Cruz knew he couldn’t hold on much longer. His brain slowed. His arms and legs were lead. His chin dipped below the water line. Cruz exhaled the last bit of air left in his lungs, listening to his breath become bubbles. Bubbles. Funny. He never expected that to be the last sound he ever heard.

  Cruz’s head was lighter suddenly. His hair felt strange, as if it was floating away from his skull. Something was being shoved into his mouth. He tasted rubber, felt a breeze go across his tongue. Breeze? Air. Air.

  A voice within him cried, BREATHE!

  And he did. Cruz felt his shriveled lungs expand. He exhaled, then inhaled. Was this real? He wasn’t sure. He just kept breathing. Feeling the fog in his head begin to thin, Cruz opened his eyes. The salt water stung, forcing him to partially close them again, but he was able to make out the blurry shapes of Monsieur Legrand and Bryndis. His instructor was pointing up. Cruz realized he was moving upward—no, being moved upward. Cruz turned his head slightly and saw that Emmett had a hold of his left arm. Dugan was on his right. Bryndis was directly in front, one hand holding the regulator now in his mouth. Cruz could feel a firm grip on his waist. Sailor. With each breath, he gained energy. As the feeling returned to his legs, Cruz began to kick.

  By the time they reached the surface, Cruz’s mind and body were starting to work in tandem. Several minutes later, he made the okay sign to let Dugan, Emmett, and Sailor know they could release him. The trio did, however, they stayed close. He knew they were watching to make sure he was able to tread water on his own. Cruz kept the regulator in his mouth so he didn’t accidentally swallow water. The team kept their dive helmets on, most likely an order from Monsieur Legrand to keep them from gulping water and to ensure they stayed in touch. It was weird, though. He was with his team yet separated from them. Cruz could only communicate using hand signals. The bay was quiet, the only sound waves sloshing against wet suits.

  Bryndis was fiddling with something on her dive belt. Cruz felt a jerk on his waist and realized he was tethered to her! Running his hand down the hose connected to his mouthpiece, Cruz discovered he was also using her emergency regulator. Bryndis probably didn’t want to gamble with his air supply, so she had reached for her own instead. The team’s quick thinking had most certainly saved his life. That, and unfastening that fourth, stubborn latch on his helmet.

  His helmet! Cruz’s eyes darted from Monsieur Legrand to Bryndis to Emmett to Dugan, trying to see if anyone bobbing in the water was holding his headgear, though he knew it was pointless. To ensure his safety, they would have let the helmet go. It was no doubt now resting at the bottom of the Bay of Fundy. Cruz let his head tip back until he felt water in his ears. Fanchon’s prototype UCC—gone!

  And yet…

  He was here. He was alive. Cruz looked up at the lacy cirrus clouds whitewashing the sky a pale blue. He remembered how, at Academy orientation, Dr. Hightower had told the explorers not to take their CAVE training lightly, that the skills they learned in the simulator would prepare them for the dangers that awaited in the real world. Not until this moment had Cruz truly considered what that meant. Staring up, his tired body rising and falling in the choppy surf, he had more than enough time to think about it. Cruz understood now that every member of Team Cousteau held every other member’s life in his or her hands. From now on, this is how it would be. It was a huge responsibility—and one that he would never again take for granted.

  Bryndis was tapping his shoulder. She pointed at him, then made the okay sign.

  Yes, he was all right. More than all right. Cruz was thankful. For his team. For his family. For everything. Of course, he couldn’t say that. Or anything, thanks to the regulator in his mouth. Attached to a girl he liked more than he was willing to admit, Cruz was relieved that all he had to do was nod.

  * * *

  “DEEP BREATH. SLOW EXHALE.”

  Cruz obeyed.

  “Once more, please.”

  Cruz felt the chill of the stethoscope move from the right side of his back to his left. “Dr. Eikenboom, there’s nothing wrong with—”

  “Quiet, please.”

  Cruz let out a long, frustrated sigh, which also fulfilled the doctor’s request. He felt perfectly fine. Okay, maybe not perfectly fine. A little food and a long nap was all he needed.

  “Your lungs are clear,” said the ship’s doctor.

  Cruz started to slide off the elevated bed.

  Dr. Eikenboom reached for his elbow. “Not so fast.”

  “But you just said my blood pressure was normal, my heart sounded good, and my lungs were clear.”

  A pair of white eyebrows knitted into one. “I’d like to keep you under observation for the rest of the day.”

  “Observation? You mean like a bug under a magnifier?”

  Wrapping his stethoscope around his neck, the doctor chuckled. “Something like that.”

  “But I don’t see why—”

  “Cruz.” Sitting opposite him, a scowling Aunt Marisol folded her arms.

  He didn’t need a translator for that. Cruz flopped back against the pillow. He wasn’t really mad at her. How could he be?

  When his team had ret
urned with Team Earhart in the rescue boat, his aunt was waiting at the port rail of Orion. One by one, the explorers and their instructors had gone up the ladder. As each member of Team Cousteau climbed aboard, Aunt Marisol draped a towel over his or her shoulders and said, “Great job, explorer. So proud.” When Cruz’s bare feet hit the deck, she was there for him, too. Looking into frightened brown eyes, Cruz could tell she wanted to throw her arms around him. But she didn’t. Instead, she gently placed a towel around his shoulders. “Great job, explorer. So proud,” she said, the break in her voice the only evidence of her feelings.

  Uh-oh. Aunt Marisol was on her feet and unfolding a blanket. If Cruz didn’t act fast, she was going to have him tucked in before he could say the explorers’ motto: With all, cooperation. For all, respect. Above all, honor.

  “Dr. Eikenboom?” gulped Cruz, sitting up. “If I promise to take it easy and come back if I don’t feel well, would you let me go then?”

  Glancing up from his tablet, the ship’s doctor twirled one end of a thick white mustache. “Tell you what. Let me go check the results of your body scan. If everything looks good, I’ll consider releasing you. For now, you can go and get into dry clothes.”

  Aunt Marisol and Dr. Eikenboom stepped out of the exam room to let him change. Cruz peeled off his wet suit and put on the sweatpants and sweatshirt his aunt had brought for him. When he heard a knock at the door, Cruz flung the privacy curtain aside.

  “How’s our whale whisperer doing?” Tripp Scarlatos was leaning against the doorframe.

  “Hey, Tripp. I’m fine. I keep telling everyone that.”

  “That’s good, ’cause I’d hate to lose my best copilot. I’d have been by sooner to check on you, but I had an errand to run.” He brought up his arm that had been behind the wall. “Forget something?”

  “My helmet!” cried Cruz. “I can’t believe you got it.”

  “Piece of cake. Ridley’s robotics can pick up almost anything.”

  “Thank goodness. I was dreading having to tell Fanchon I lost her prototype UCC. Do you think it still works?”

  “Can’t say, mate, but if anyone can fix it, it’d be Fanchon. I was on my way to the lab to take it to her and thought I’d pop in here to give ya the good news.”

  “Thanks!”

  “Anytime. Get some rest. I’ll see you later. Hooroo!” With a wave, the sub pilot was gone.

  Cruz was putting on his socks when his aunt and the doctor returned. “Well?” he asked.

  “Everything seems to check out okay,” said Dr. Eikenboom. “I’ll go ahead and release you, but I want you to take it easy. No running around the ship or doing any stunts like paragliding in the CAVE. And I want to see you back here if you start coughing or wheezing, have trouble thinking, or feel sick to your stomach.”

  “I promise.” His stomach gurgled, as if to agree. Cruz clutched his belly. “That wasn’t sickness, honest.”

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  Cruz twisted his lips.

  “I’ll have Chef send down some chicken soup,” interjected Aunt Marisol.

  Cruz hurried out of sick bay before either of them could change their mind.

  “I’ll check in on you later,” said Aunt Marisol, squeezing his arm as they parted at the base of the grand staircase. “Go back to your cabin and get some sleep.”

  “Okay.” But that was easier said than done. The moment Cruz entered the explorers’ passage, the news spread like a wildfire on a windy August day. His classmates began pouring out of their cabins. Cruz assured everyone, including Officer Wardicorn, who insisted on escorting him down the hall, that he was all right.

  “What was it like to talk to the whales?” asked Zane.

  “Incredible,” answered Cruz, squeezing between Seth Moller and Kwento.

  “What was it like to almost die?” called Ali.

  “Scary.”

  “We’re all glad you’re okay,” said Matteo, slapping Cruz on the back.

  “Just what happened down there anyway?” That was Dugan.

  “It was an accident,” said Cruz, tensing up.

  “You must have done something. Did you check your gear?”

  His mind spun. Maybe he had missed something. “I…think so.”

  “You think so.” Dugan snorted. “Don’t you know?”

  Taryn, who had stepped into the passage, was clapping. “Dr. Ishikawa just called down and said your team mission reports on Operation Cetacean Extrication are due tomorrow morning at the beginning of class.”

  There was a chorus of groans. With a wink to Cruz, Taryn began shooing everybody back into their rooms. Officer Wardicorn ushered Cruz to his cabin. “Sounds like I need to take scuba lessons,” he teased, tugging on the gold hoop in his ear. “Seriously, though, I’m glad the team is all right.”

  “Thanks.”

  Emmett was waiting in the doorway. He shut the door behind Cruz.

  “Home at last.” Cruz collapsed onto his bed.

  Emmett sat down across from him on his own bed. “So?”

  “As Sailor would say, I’m sweet as!”

  “What about your aunt? What did she say?”

  “She freaked out a little when I told her my helmet went dead—”

  “I meant about the note.”

  “Note? Oh, you mean the one from London?”

  “Of course, the one from London.” Emmett’s glasses went from lavender circles to a pair of deep orange squares with flashing red sparks. “What other one would I mean?”

  “I told you I wasn’t going to tell anyone.”

  “Yeah, but I figured after what happened today…Oh, forget it.”

  Cruz turned, raising himself to one elbow. “Emmett, are you mad at me?” He wasn’t sure why he asked a question he already knew the answer to.

  “You could have died today,” spit his friend. “And you know as well as I do that what happened out there was no accident. We triple-checked our gear.”

  “Maybe, but remember what Monsieur Legrand says: No matter how well you plan, you should always plan for something to go wrong. It could have happened to any of us.”

  “But it didn’t. It happened to you. Just like the letter said.” A little vein in Emmett’s jaw started to throb. “I don’t like this, Cruz.”

  Truth was, Cruz didn’t like it, either. He hadn’t let himself think about the possibility that someone might have tampered with his dive gear. He sat up. “I don’t know if it was an accident or not, Emmett. The only thing I know for sure is that I’m here, thanks to you and Team Cousteau, and we’re headed to Svalbard. By this time next week, I’ll have the second cipher from the seed vault and we’ll be on our way to wherever the third clue in Mom’s journal leads. Let’s just focus on that, okay?”

  Emmett raised an eyebrow. “I still think—”

  “By the way, your right sleeve is red.”

  “Huh?” Emmett glanced down. “Oh my gosh! It is! It is red! I was thinking how I was so angry with you I could see red…and I must have triggered the Lumagine…Do you know what this means?”

  “You’re going to have to buy a new uniform?”

  “The iridocytes work!” cried Emmett. “Fanchon was right. She said I should try a different approach; instead of developing a transitional fabric, why not try camouflaging the material, you know, the way squids use reflective chromatophores to change colors?”

  “Squids?”

  Rushing to his desk, Emmett began mumbling to himself. “Okay, so now I know the platelets work, I’ve got to figure out the precise coating thickness…This is going to be tricky. Too little and nothing will happen. Too much and your clothes will explode…”

  “Night, Emmett,” whispered Cruz with a chuckle.

  Cruz thought about calling his dad, but he was tired. Besides, it was mid-morning in Kauai and his fat
her would be busy at the Goofy Foot. He figured he’d call early tomorrow, before classes started, when it would be late at night back home.

  Cruz stretched to grab the navy knitted throw neatly folded across the foot of his bed. He pulled the blanket up to his shoulders and turned onto his side. Letting his head sink into the pillow, he curled his hand around the single chunk of stone that fell from his neck. Cruz looked out the porthole beside his bed. The milky blue sky was gone. Dark clouds were gathering above the ship.

  A storm was coming.

  THORNE Prescott had just bitten into his ginger chicken sandwich when he felt the vibration. Sliding his phone out of his back pocket, he placed it on the table. Prescott’s eyes quickly surveyed the outdoor café. It was lunchtime. The place was packed. He scooted the phone closer to his plate and saw he had a text from Zebra. Finally!

  Prescott had been in Hanalei for four days. Two days ago, he’d slipped into the Coronados’ home above the Goofy Foot to search for Petra’s journal while Marco was in the shop. He had not found it nor anything to indicate Marco Coronado was in possession of it: no safe, no fire security box, not even the key to a bank vault. The place was clean. Prescott’s finger hovered above the screen. This was the text he had been waiting for, the one that would confirm Cruz Coronado was out of the picture. At last, he could put this whole ugly mess behind him—well, after he got rid of the kid’s father…

  Taking a swig of his iced tea, Prescott opened Zebra’s message: Mission failed. Call me.

  Prescott nearly spit out his tea. He shoved his wicker chair away from the table. It made an angry squeal. Pulling out his wallet, he tossed a 20-dollar bill on the pink hibiscus tablecloth and made a beeline for his hotel next door. Inside his room, Prescott made the call. “What the devil happened?”

  “I don’t know. We rigged his helmet and emergency regulator to fail.”

  Prescott rubbed the spot on the back of his head where he’d been clubbed back at the Academy. “That kid sure gets lucky a lot.”