by Stuart Gibbs
“You could always just do what the bad guys asked,” Nate said.
“Yes, if you’re a wuss,” Chip said. “But suppose you didn’t want to sell out your country and do dirty work for the enemy?”
“Which of us are they targeting?” Jawa asked.
“What’s it matter?” Zoe said.
“Because the scenario is different depending on who the target is,” Jawa replied.
“Let’s say it’s Smokescreen,” Chip suggested, trying to make this sound like a spur-of-the-moment decision.
Jawa grinned at me. “Well, if it’s you, that’s easy. First thing you do is go ask Erica for help.”
Everyone else immediately chimed agreement. Even Chip. “That’s right,” Zoe said. “That’s exactly what you should do.”
I looked over at Erica, who still hadn’t moved. “Maybe,” I said.
“Oh, come on!” Zoe cried. “Ice Queen helped you out last time—and she certainly couldn’t resist the chance to be the hero again. Besides, she likes you.”
This last statement made my pulse race, though I did my best not to show it. Zoe couldn’t actually know anything about Erica, I told myself. She was just saying things to provoke a reaction from me. “She does not,” I said.
“Well, she likes you more than anyone else here,” Jawa said. “She actually put her arm around you once.”
“She put her arm around me once, too,” Nate said.
“That was in martial arts class and she was flipping you on your back,” Chip said. “Jawa’s talking about touching someone willingly.”
Zoe turned back to me. “You really ought to bring Ice Queen in,” she said. “If your life is in danger, you can’t just sit back and hope the administration here is going to protect you. They didn’t exactly do a great job of that last time you were in trouble.”
“No,” I admitted. “They didn’t.”
“Zoe’s right,” Warren chimed in. “You have to protect yourself any way you can. My life hasn’t been threatened, and I’m totally on edge. I can’t imagine what you must be going through . . .” He clammed up as Zoe and I simultaneously booted him in the shins, reminding him that this scenario was only supposed to be imaginary. “I mean, I’m on edge in theory,” he said quickly, glancing at Jawa and Nate.
Nate hadn’t picked up on it. But Jawa had. “What’s going on here?” he asked.
Before Zoe, Warren, Chip, or I could figure out how to respond, however, there was a gunshot right behind me.
I leapt in surprise. So did Zoe and Chip. Warren screamed in terror and dove under the table.
Now, I heard laughter right behind me.
I spun around to find Claire Hutchins standing there with a popped paper bag and devilish grin. “My, my,” she taunted, peeking under the table at Warren. “You really are on edge. You Yanks are certainly a twitchy lot.”
“That wasn’t funny!” Zoe said.
“Not to you, perhaps,” Claire replied. “But to everyone else, it was.” She waved a hand toward the rest of the mess hall. Her fellow MI-6 students were laughing hysterically at us—and so were quite a lot of our fellow Americans.
“Let’s see how funny you think it is when I punch your face in,” Zoe said, leaping out of her chair. She might have actually tried to do what she’d threatened, but Chip caught her and held her back.
Claire didn’t even flinch. “Oh, come now,” she said, watching Zoe with amusement. “I’m just having a bit of a lark. No harm done, right?” She headed back to her table, where several of her friends high-fived her.
“She is terrible,” Zoe said, staring bullets at Claire. “I know we’re supposed to be on the same side and all, but I’ve got half a mind to start the American Revolution over again.”
“Let it go,” Chip said. “No point making a big scene.”
“You’re only saying that because she’s a girl,” Zoe griped. “If one of those British guys had done that, you’d have already kicked his teeth down his throat.”
Warren emerged from under the table, steaming. “I’ll bet, if anyone here’s working for SPYDER, it’s one of them,” he muttered under his breath. “We don’t really know those guys at all, do we?”
I realized this was a good point, even though Warren was the one who had made it. I looked after Claire and the Brits . . .
And saw something strange through the screened windows of the mess hall. Someone wearing a tuxedo had just parachuted onto the main lawn. I didn’t have a clear look at the person’s face because the parachute instantly collapsed over him, but it wasn’t hard for me to guess his identity. I could think of only one person who would make such a grand entrance—let alone jump out of a plane in formal wear: Alexander Hale.
It didn’t take long for everyone else to notice his arrival as well. Within two seconds, everyone in the mess hall was crowded around the windows.
Well, almost everyone. I glanced over at Erica. Her nose was still aimed at her book, although it seemed that her eyes had narrowed angrily.
Out on the lawn, the tuxedoed man emerged from beneath his parachute, revealing that it was, indeed, Alexander Hale. There was a gasp of excitement from almost everyone in the room. Even Chip, who usually prided himself on having a cool reserve, seemed starstruck. Meanwhile, Zoe was completely smitten. Her eyes, which were already huge, widened to the point where they looked as big as dinner plates.
Alexander abandoned his chute on the lawn and trotted up the steps to the mess hall. His tuxedo was somewhat ruffled—as one might expect, given that its owner had recently jumped out of a plane—although his silver hair remained perfectly coiffed. He must have used an entire tube of sculpting gel on it. Alexander burst through the screen door as dramatically as possible, scanning the room until his steel blue eyes fell on me. “Benjamin!” he cried. “Just the man I’m here to see!”
Everyone’s gaze shifted toward me. Even Claire and the MI-6 gang now had respect in their eyes. Most of my fellow students would have walked across fire to simply get a smile from the CIA’s most revered spy. The fact that he’d parachuted into spy camp just to see me made me cool by proxy.
A few months before, I would have been thrilled by the attention, but since then, I’d learned that Alexander Hale wasn’t as great as he led everyone to believe he was. The man was a fraud, a middling spy at best, whose glorious reputation was built upon stealing the credit for other people’s work and exaggerating his own exploits. For example, although Erica and I had defeated Murray Hill and saved spy school from SPYDER the previous winter with only the slightest bit of help from Alexander, Alexander had filed a report in which he was the hero. Virtually everyone at the CIA bought it hook, line, and sinker. Unaware of this, I’d told the truth during my debriefing, only to be met with scorn by people who thought I was the one trying to steal the credit from the great Alexander Hale.
I was extremely upset to learn what Alexander had done, but Erica had advised me to not press the issue. Alexander’s reputation at the CIA was bulletproof. Any attempt to undermine it would only make me look bad. Thus, Alexander’s incompetence was the rare bit of information that hadn’t leaked to the student body. Only Erica and I knew the truth, which was why every wannabe spy in the mess hall now stared at Alexander like he was the president, a rock star, and the Super Bowl MVP all rolled into one.
Alexander swept across the room to my side. “Thank goodness you’re all right,” he said. “I hear you’ve received a death threat from our old friends at you-know-where.”
I glanced at my fellow students, quite sure that Alexander shouldn’t be saying this in front of them. “It was more like a contract for a job,” I said quietly.
“Really?” Alexander asked. “Well, in the wrong hands, even paper can be deadly. Once, when I was in Bangladesh, my enemies tried to kill me by placing a powerful neurotoxin on a dinner menu. If I hadn’t trained myself to smell neurotoxins, I’d be dead right now.”
Everyone within earshot suddenly looked very impressed. Meanwhile, I found myself w
ondering if Alexander Hale had ever actually been to Bangladesh.
“Maybe we should discuss this somewhere more private,” I said.
Alexander looked slightly embarrassed. “I was just about to suggest that myself,” he said. “Good to see you’re as nimble of mind as I.” He took me by the arm and steered me into the kitchen. The chefs looked up in surprise—and then that changed to awe when they saw Alexander. One of them dropped what looked suspiciously like a skinned raccoon into a stew pot.
“Could all of you make yourselves scarce for a few minutes?” Alexander asked. “Agent Ripley and I have something of great importance to discuss.”
The chefs looked at me, wondering who on earth I was to merit a one-on-one with Alexander Hale, then nodded obediently and scurried out the door.
Alexander quickly began poking about the kitchen, examining the stove, the refrigerator, the pantry.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Checking for bugs.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place. This is cockroach heaven.” Even as I said this, a horde of them was making off with a loaf of bread.
“No, I mean ‘bugs’ as in listening devices . . .” Alexander trailed off as a realization came to him. “Ah. You were joking, weren’t you?”
“I was.”
Alexander forced a laugh. “Nicely done. A good spy should never lose his sense of humor, even in times of great danger.” He came back to me, his search for listening devices already forgotten. “Now then, Benjamin. How are you holding up, given this current SPYDER business?”
I gave Alexander the hardest stare I could muster. This was the first time I’d seen him since learning that he’d undermined me. “You parachuted in here just to ask me that?”
“No. My time is a bit more precious than that.” If Alexander felt the slightest bit guilty about what he’d done to me, he didn’t show it. “I’m here on direct orders from the highest level. I was told to come ASAP. Thus, my rather unorthodox attire.”
“What are you supposed to do?” I asked.
“I’ve been assigned as lead agent on this investigation. My objectives are to uncover what SPYDER’s nefarious plans are this time and to ensure your safety. Don’t worry, though. I won’t cramp your style. I’m quite the master of camouflage, you know. I once spent three days in a terrorist den disguised as a rock. You won’t even know I’m here. And more important, neither will SPYDER.”
“If SPYDER’s keeping an eye on the camp, then they already know you’re here,” I said. “You couldn’t have picked a flashier way of showing up than parachuting down in a tuxedo.”
Alexander swallowed. The tips of his ears turned red in embarrassment as he realized I was right, though he recovered quickly. “Intimidation, my young friend. I wanted them to see me. Now they know that if they want to get to you, they have to go through me. That’ll make them think twice about coming after you.”
I doubted that was true. SPYDER seemed to know more about the CIA than the CIA did. Which meant they probably knew Alexander was as dangerous as a wet napkin.
“Furthermore, it wasn’t like I had the time to change,” Alexander went on. “I was called directly in from another assignment. There was no time to spare where your safety was concerned. Now then, where is this contract SPYDER left you? I’d like to examine it.”
“Woodchuck took it,” I said.
“What for?” Alexander asked.
“I suppose he wanted to examine it too.” It occurred to me that I wasn’t actually sure what Woodchuck intended to do with the contract.
“Ah. Very good,” Alexander said. “I should probably reconnoiter with Woodchuck and find out what he’s learned. Then I can ditch my monkey suit and get into some more suitable attire for the surroundings. But don’t worry, I won’t be gone long.” He gave me a pat on the shoulder that was supposed to be reassuring.
“I’ll be okay without you,” I said. And I meant it.
“That’s the spirit!” Alexander started toward the door, then turned back. “Just out of interest, any idea who SPYDER’s inside man might be?”
“No,” I said. And even if I had, I knew better than to share anything I’d deduced with Alexander again.
“Ah, well, I’m sure we’ll roust the fiend out soon enough. You have my word.” With that, Alexander slipped out the door.
As I watched him try to figure out the way to Woodchuck’s cabin, I realized I felt even worse than I had after receiving the death threat. My situation was now dire enough that the CIA had sent in a high-level operative to protect me. Unfortunately, they’d sent the worst one possible.
PHYSICAL EDUCATION
Happy Trails
June 14
0500 hours
“Get up, Muskrats! Now, now, now!”
Hank Schacter’s yell would have been enough to shatter anyone’s REM sleep, but just to make sure that he ruined everyone’s morning, he was also banging a pair of metal trash can lids together.
My cabinmates responded in a variety of ways to the alarm. Some snapped to attention immediately, some leapt out of bed ready for an enemy attack, and others took a bit longer to figure out what was going on. Nate Mackey forgot he was in the top bunk, groggily rolled out of bed, and began his day by belly flopping six feet onto the floor.
I fell into the ready-for-attack group, but only because I’d spent most of the night wide-awake. Even though SPYDER claimed I had twenty-four hours, it wasn’t the most trustworthy organization; perhaps they’d given that time simply to get the CIA to drop its guard until then. If that was the case, I didn’t expect Alexander Hale to be much help. Despite his assurance that he’d stay close, I hadn’t seen him since dinnertime. I had gone to bed with a baseball bat under my sheets; it was one of the few weapons that I was completely qualified to use—and the only one I was sure I wouldn’t accidentally impale myself on or shoot myself with while I slept.
After several hours of tensing in fear every time I heard so much as a cricket chirp, I’d finally managed to pass out from exhaustion around four thirty a.m. So when Hank Schacter barged into the cabin a mere thirty minutes later, I was hardly at my best. I came to, ready for battle, but my Louisville Slugger got tangled in the bedsheets. By the time I could extricate it, I realized I wasn’t under attack—although I still gave serious consideration to using it on Hank.
“Let’s move it, you maggots!” he shouted, clanging his garbage lids together. “This isn’t a resort! This is a training facility—and you lumps of lard are in need of some serious training! The last one of you to get dressed and get his rear out the door does an extra fifty push-ups!”
It didn’t take me long to suit up. I was already wearing my clothes. In case the enemy showed up during the night, I wanted to be wearing more than just my boxer shorts. I darted for the door well ahead of most of my cabinmates, many of whom were sleepily trying to figure out how to get their shirts on.
Hank grabbed my arm as I tried to duck past him. “I want fifty push-ups out of you.”
“But I’m not the last one out,” I protested.
“No one ever said life was fair,” Hank told me. “Besides, you look like you could use some beefing up.” He shoved me out the door, then addressed the cabin. “I intend to win this year’s Color War, Muskrats. But to stand a chance at that, I obviously have to whip you losers into shape. So this morning, we will be doing five miles over rough terrain. Anyone complains and I’ll make it longer.”
I dropped to the porch and started doing push-ups. Jawa dropped in beside me.
“Why are you doing push-ups?” I asked him. “Hank didn’t tell you to.”
“A little extra upper-body strength never hurt anyone,” Jawa replied. The exertion wasn’t even making him breathe hard. “Besides, I want to win Color War as badly as Hank does.”
“What do we compete in? Tug-of-war, dodgeball, that kind of stuff?”
Jawa looked at me askance. “At other camps, maybe. But here, Color War is an a
ctual war. A full-on simulated battle. Whatever cabin wins gets straight A’s for the summer.”
“And the losers?”
“Humiliation. And extra homework next semester.”
The rest of the cabin filed out the door past us, except poor Nate Mackey, who was still floundering about, trying to get his pants on.
“Fifty push-ups!” Hank barked at him, then wheeled on the rest of us. “Everyone else does jumping jacks until he finishes them all!”
One of the Muskrats groaned.
Hank’s eyes narrowed. “Whoever did that just bought all of you an extra mile this morning.”
I heard another groan begin, though this quickly became the sound of the groaner getting punched in the stomach by someone who didn’t feel like adding on another mile.
Jawa finished his push-ups, leapt to his feet, and began doing jumping jacks. Everyone else followed his lead.
As I made the shift from push-ups to jumping jacks, I took a moment to case the grounds outside the cabin. I didn’t see any enemies lurking in the predawn light. Nor did I see Alexander. Either he really was good at camouflaging himself—or he was somewhere else entirely, probably sleeping. I would have bet all my money on the latter.
It took Nate Mackey ten minutes to do fifty push-ups. When he was done, he was red-faced and wheezing. Several of my fellow Muskrats looked winded as well.
“Let’s move out!” Hank ordered. He sprinted into the forest, and we all followed obediently. “We’ll start with the Challenge Trail around the woods, followed by Deadman’s Route up Mount Roosevelt. I expect everyone to cover all six miles in less than forty minutes. Whoever takes longer than that earns my unmitigated wrath for the rest of the day—and believe me, you do not want that.”
We skirted the lake, passing several other student cabins. Everyone in them was still sleeping peacefully.
“Just our luck,” Warren muttered. “We get stuck with the drill sergeant.”
“Keep your mouth shut unless you want to do seven miles,” Jawa told him.
Everyone took that as good advice. We all fell silent as we ran.