“Head south,” said Tommy. “Right, Uncle Richie?”
“Indeed. For, you see, just yesterday, Charlotte Badger offered Squinty Eye Joe employment on her current expedition. She even showed him the two remaining black opals, offering them as a guarantee of payment should they not find the treasure she was seeking.”
“Were they our opals?” I blurted.
“That they were, Bick. Charlotte Badger, it seems, is a bit of a boaster and braggart. ‘These here are called the Pride of Australis and the Black Galaxy,’ she told Mr. Joe. ‘Rarest missing gemstones in all the land. They’re worth three times more than the loot we scored on our last big job.’ Mr. Joe also told me that she keeps the two opals secured to her belt in a pair of velvet pouches. One blue. The other green.”
“But Squinty Eye Joe turned her down?” I asked.
Uncle Richie nodded. “It was such short notice. Plus, he didn’t want to miss his weekly card game. I am also given to understand that Mr. Joe once had a very serious altercation with Ms. Badger’s loyal lackey—the fellow known as Banjo. Something to do with knives. Mr. Joe has a rather long and nasty-looking scar that follows the curve of his arched eyebrow. He looks constantly surprised.”
“Huh,” said Tommy. “I’m still wondering why they call him Squinty Eye. The way you describe him, Bug Eye sounds like a better nickname…”
“Be that as it may,” said Uncle Richie, pulling out a napkin with a map scribbled on it in splotchy blue ink. “We now know where Ms. Badger is headed.”
“To dig up Lasseter’s Gold, right?” I asked.
“No. That’s just what she wants us to think.”
“Well,” said Beck, “she wins, because we’ve been thinking it for like five days now.”
“Too true,” said Uncle Richie. “However, her real quest is the Bonito Treasure!”
“That means ‘the good treasure’ in Spanish, right?” said Tommy.
Storm shook her head and silently mouthed, No.
Uncle Richie waved his napkin map. “This map will guide us to the treasure of another pirate. Benito ‘Bloody Sword’ Bonito!”
CHAPTER 18
Early the next morning, we packed up what little gear we’d brought with us and hopped into a taxi so we could speed off to Her Majesty’s Long Bay Prison to tell Mom and Dad our plans.
On the ride, Storm, who really had memorized a lot of new Australian pirate stuff, gave us a quick, top-line info dump on Benito “Bloody Sword” Bonito.
“Remember all that treasure we found on Cocos Island, before we flew to Peru to find the Lost City of Paititi?”
“The great treasure of Lima!” said Tommy. “That golden corn cob staff was awesome.”
Beck and I glanced at each other warily. We were remembering the hammerhead sharks that swim in the waters surrounding Cocos Island. One of them almost ate us for lunch.
“Well,” Storm continued, “Benito ‘Bloody Sword’ Bonito was a pirate captain terrorizing Spanish galleons up and down the coastline of South America, plundering gold, silver, and jewels and then stashing all that loot up on Cocos.”
Beck raised her hand. “What does an island off the coast of Costa Rica have to do with Australia? It’s thousands of miles away!”
“Nine thousand, four hundred and seven, to be precise,” replied Storm.
“So why do we care about a pirate burying treasure back in the Americas?” I asked. “Even though ‘Bloody Sword’ is a pretty cool middle name.”
“Because, Bickford, on his last attempt to reach the island, Bonito was intercepted and diverted by a British man-o’-war.”
“A man-o’-war is an awesome battleship,” said Tommy, turning around from his perch in the front seat, next to the cabbie. “It’s a frigate with cannons and junk!” Then he made several mouth-noise explosions. “Ka-boom! Ka-pow!”
The driver had to wipe spittle off the side of his face.
“Do go on, Storm,” said Uncle Richie, who was squeezed into the backseat with me, Beck, and Storm.
“The British ship chased him off course and Bonito headed West…”
“All the way to Australia!” added Uncle Richie. “Where Bloody Sword buried his treasure.”
The cabbie looked up into the rearview mirror.
“Any idea where this pirate bloke’s treasure might be, mate?” he asked Uncle Richie.
“Sorry, good sir,” Uncle Richie answered with a sly grin. “I haven’t a clue.”
The taxi dropped us off at the prison.
“Visiting another pirate friend?” asked the cabbie as Uncle Richie paid for the ride.
“No,” I said. “Just our parents.”
As soon as the taxi pulled away, I spun around to face Uncle Richie. “You really do know where the treasure’s buried, right?”
He tapped the pocket on his safari vest where he’d placed the folded-over map napkin.
“Thanks to Squinty Eye Joe and his mates, I have a pretty good idea.”
We all leaned in so he could tell us more.
“Legend has it,” he whispered, “Bloody Sword Bonito’s treasure is hidden somewhere in the cliffs near the entrance to Port Phillip Bay in Victoria, Australia!”
“Cool!” Tommy whispered back. “But, uh, where’s that?”
“Southeast of the city of Melbourne.”
“Which is south of Sydney,” explained Storm.
“Indeed so. We’ll be going just about as south as one can in Australia without ending up in Tasmania.”
“Let’s go tell Mom and Dad,” I said. “And we better make it snappy. We only have five and three quarters days left to retrieve those opals!”
CHAPTER 19
“Ah, yes,” said Dad after we were all reunited in the prison’s visiting room. “The lost treasure of Benito Bonito. It’s been on our list for years.”
“Though not at the top,” added Mom. “It’s not as historically significant or as legendary as Lasseter’s Gold.”
“But,” I said, “that’s where Charlotte Badger is going.”
“And she has the two opals we need to spring you guys,” said Beck.
“There’s something else about our research into Bonito’s treasure,” said Dad. “But for the life of me, I can’t remember it…”
“Don’t worry, Dad,” said Storm. “Remembering stuff is my job in this family.”
“We have a pretty good sense of where Charlotte Badger is headed,” said Uncle Richie. “She’s such a towering giant of a woman, with extremely easy-to-identify distinguishing characteristics—such as her dreadlocked hair and blazing red bandana—she should be easy to track. We’ll just need to ask the right sort of people the right sort of questions. Easy peasy. Nothing to it.”
“I don’t know, Richie,” sighed Dad. “This could be a very dangerous expedition.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“Extremely dangerous,” echoed Mom, stroking her chin, because she doesn’t have a beard to be thoughtful with.
“Danger is my middle name,” said Tommy.
“No, it isn’t,” said Dad.
“It’s Aloysius,” said Mom. “Thomas Aloysius Kidd.”
“Whatever,” said Tommy. “We only have, like, five and three quarters days to grab the jewels off the pirate who framed you guys.”
“She keeps them tied to her belt in velvet pouches,” said Storm who, remember, remembers everything. “One is blue. The other green.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a weapon clipped to that belt as well,” said Dad.
“And then there are her crewmates,” said Mom. “Benji and Grock.”
(Storm did not get her photographic memory from Mom.)
“Um, you mean Banjo and Croc,” I said, gently correcting her.
“Exactly. Those two scurvy knaves will be armed and dangerous, too.”
“So,” said Dad, “if you five insist on carrying out this mission…”
“We do!” we all said together.
“Then,” Dad continued, �
��we must insist that you go visit a former colleague of ours. His name is Timbo Tyler.”
“He runs an expedition outfitting operation called Camp Billabong,” added Mom. “It’s not too far from Melbourne. The camp even has its own private landing strip. Timbo knows how to be prepared for any contingency. He’ll have all the equipment and gear you’ll need. He also knows how to keep a secret.”
I raised my hand because, don’t forget, Mom is also our main home school teacher.
“Yes, Bick?”
“Did, uh, Mr. Tyler work with you guys, you know—back in the day?”
“You mean when we worked for The Company?” said Dad.
“Yeah.”
“Roger that.”
I just nodded.
The Company is what Mom and Dad and everybody else who works there calls the CIA. The Central Intelligence Agency.
Did I forget to mention that our parents both used to be spies?
We all hugged and kissed and said our good-byes. They were speed hugs and kisses, though. That clock was still ticking.
We hailed another cab and headed out to the airfield where Tommy had organized the private jet rental.
“Do you need a map?” asked the lady behind the counter.
“No, thank you,” said Uncle Richie. “We’re flying, not driving.”
“Right. My bad. I used to work for a car rental company.”
“Bully for you!” said Uncle Richie.
We all hustled out of the small terminal building and onto the tarmac.
“So, Tommy, how are your flying lessons progressing?” asked Uncle Richie.
“Not bad. I do most of them on a flight simulator game I have on my Xbox.”
“Excellent. Perhaps I’ll give you the stick once we’re airborne.”
“Cool.”
Giving Tailspin Tommy the stick meant that Uncle Richie was going to let him fly the plane.
I was afraid it might also mean we were all about to die.
Don’t forget, we’ve flown with Tommy in the captain’s seat before. Back on our All-American Adventure. I can still remember how the vomit tasted at the back of my mouth.
CHAPTER 20
“Take the stick, Tommy,” said Uncle Richie after we’d been airborne for about thirty minutes. “I need to consult this chart. See if I can locate Camp Billabong’s landing strip.”
“Is that it?” said Tommy, leaning forward to point out the windshield at something. When he did that, his stomach pushed against the control wheel, which actually looked more like padded bicycle handlebars. Pushing the wheel forward sent the plane whining into a nosedive.
Yes, Tommy’s lessons hadn’t taught him anything useful. He was still the worst pilot to ever try to fly.
“Pull up on the yoke, Thomas, if you don’t mind,” said Uncle Richie, kind of calmly, especially considering the fact that the ground was rushing up to greet us.
“Got it,” grunted Tommy, pulling on the control wheel with all his might.
He started tapping his toe. He does that sometimes when he’s hoisting heavy weights and barbells. In the jet, however, he was tapping his foot on a rudder pedal.
“Oh, my,” said Uncle Richie as the plane pulled into a vertical 360-degree tumble. We were hanging out, upside down. I could see the ground. Then the sky. Then the ground again.
Good thing the seat belt sign was still illuminated.
Too bad the cup of soda I’d just poured wasn’t wearing one. It splashed and spewed ice cubes down at the ceiling.
“Y-y-ou w-w-want t-t-to t-t-take o-o-over, U-U-Uncle R-R-Richie?” stammered Tommy as the G-forces of the climbs and dives made his cheeks wobble and flop.
“N-n-no n-n-need,” shouted Uncle Richie. “You’ve got this, Thomas.”
“Activating air brakes!” Tommy cried.
“I wouldn’t—”
Tommy yanked a lever.
“—do that,” said Uncle Richie as we twirled into a series of sideways rolls. “Air brakes will increase the speed of the roll.”
It felt like we were inside a washing machine during the spin cycle. Somewhere my underpants might need to be if we ever landed.
“Fascinating, Thomas,” said Uncle Richie, as we climbed up into a steep arc and spun around to, once again, aim for the ground. “You just executed a perfect double hammerhead maneuver!”
“Really?”
“You’re going to be a great pilot, Tommy!”
“And the rest of us are all gonna be dead!” Beck shouted from the cabin, where her soda can was glued sideways to the window.
“There it is!” shouted Uncle Richie. “Up ahead on the right. The left. Okay, the right again. It’s the Camp Billabong landing strip. Well done, Thomas! This location is so remote, I don’t think we could’ve found it if you hadn’t initiated so many unorthodox barrel rolls, loop-de-loops, tail slides, inverted spins, and whatever those other moves were that you improvised. You’ve done your job, lad, and done it well. I’ll line us up for landing.”
I almost relaxed.
But then I saw the kangaroo herd stampeding across the dirt and gravel runway.
After that, all anybody could see was a cloud of reddish dust.
“Hang on, children,” boomed Uncle Richie. “I think I’m lined up for the runway. Or it could be a clump of coolabah trees. Either way, I suspect it’s going to be a bumpy landing.”
Ya think? I wanted to say.
But I didn’t.
I was too busy saying my prayers.
CHAPTER 21
Beck and I wobbled out of the plane, fell to our knees, and kissed the ground because we were so happy to be alive.
I said a silent prayer: “Never, ever let Tommy pilot a plane again. Please.”
Storm came over with a major yuck look on her face.
“Um, you guys do realize that some of those kangaroos stampeding across the runway probably pooped. Just saying.”
“Well done, Thomas,” said Uncle Richie, as he and Tommy came marching across the tarmac. “You’ll have your license in no time!”
“Thanks, Uncle Richie. I like aeronautics even better than regular nautics. You know, the kind on water.”
“Well, you definitely have a knack for it,” Uncle Richie told him.
Beck and I would beg to disagree. Unless by “knack” Uncle Richie meant the talent and ability to hurl passengers face-first into their barf bags.
“That must be the camp’s HQ,” said Uncle Richie, pointing to a small building with a slanted tin roof and a dusty, railed-in porch. Half a dozen kangaroos were hanging out in the scrubby lawn in front of the building. And, yes, one was pooping.
Suddenly, two kids, a boy and girl who looked to be about the same age as Beck and me, came running around the side of the cabin. They were flinging boomerangs at each other. The bad news was, when the boomerangs missed their targets because the kids both ducked, the whirling, blunt blades returned to their throwers and banged them in their bellies.
“Oof!” cried the girl when the boomerang walloped her in the gut. “You’re a dingaling.”
“So,” shouted the boy, taking hold of the boomerang and taking aim at the girl. “You’re a drongo and a droob!”
“At least I’m not a dingaling.”
“Drongo!”
“Ah, I wouldn’t use you for shark bait!”
“Because you’re lower than a snake’s belly!”
And then they tore off into the trees, flinging their boomerangs at each other again.
“Shall we hurry inside before the boomerang bombardment returns?” suggested Uncle Richie.
“Good idea,” said Tommy.
We all scurried past the kangaroos, up the three plank steps, and onto the covered porch.
“G’day, mates! ’Ow yer goin’?” A man in a black cowboy hat creaked open the rattly screen door and strode out onto the porch. His hat was circled by a band of sharp teeth and had an emu feather sticking out of it. He wore an open leather vest, more teeth on a ne
cklace, and lots of bronzed muscles. “You must be the Kidds.”
“Indeed, they are,” said Uncle Richie. “And I am their great uncle Richie.”
“Cooee, digger. Reckon, you have a mighty big impression of yourself, eh?”
“Actually,” said Storm, “he is technically correct. Richie ‘Poppie’ Luccio is our great uncle because he is our mother’s uncle.”
“Then I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, little sheila.”
“Um, her name is Storm,” said Tommy.
“Sheila is what Australians sometimes call females,” explained Storm.
“Even though it’s not your name? Weird.”
The man boomed a big laugh.
“Welcome to Oz, cobbers. The wonder down under. Where everything is a wee bit upside down!”
CHAPTER 22
“Allow me to introduce myself, bugalugs,” said the man. “I’m Timbo Tyler. Fair dinkum friend and former colleague of your parents.
“I knew your old crackers back in the day when we were all tin ears.”
“Does that mean you were a spy?” I asked.
“Too right.”
“Um, does that mean, ‘yes’?”
“Crikey. Are you working on a slang dictionary, boyo?”
“Sort of.”
“Then, yes,” said Timbo Tyler. “Let’s just say I was an associate of your parents back in our dark and clandestine days.”
Beck turned to me. “He was a spy.”
“I’m also a renowned crocodile wrestler,” said Mr. Tyler.
“Get out!” said Tommy, sounding impressed.
“How do you think I made this necklace and my hat band?”
He pointed to the string of teeth dangling across his chest.
“Arts and crafts at summer camp?” said Storm drily.
“Weren’t no summer camp where I snagged these souvenirs, luv. Not to boast, but the crocodile got the worst of it. When we were done with our barney, he had to go straight to the dentist.”
Treasure Hunters--The Plunder Down Under Page 5