by Stuart Gibbs
I frowned at this, but then Hank said, “Well, we wouldn’t have to talk to Chester directly. It’s standard procedure to log all evidence analysis on the CIA central computer system. We simply need to access it.”
“Can you do it remotely?” Warren asked. “There’s a computer in the house.”
“It’s not that simple,” Jawa explained. “For security reasons, you can’t merely access the central system with any device. You can only use a device linked to the system. All our phones are, but SPYDER took them.”
“So we just need to call someone at the CIA and have them access the system for us,” Warren said.
Chip bopped him on the back of the head again. “Did you forget already? The CIA is crawling with double agents. We can’t trust anyone there.”
“I didn’t forget,” Warren snapped. “But you’re going to tell me that, in the entire CIA, we can’t trust one person?”
“Everyone is suspect,” Hank said. “If we get someone who’s a stooge for SPYDER, instead of giving us the right info, they’ll send us on a wild-goose chase.”
“Not everyone is suspect,” I said. “I know who to trust.”
Now, everyone’s gaze turned to me. “Who?” Zoe asked.
“It’s simple,” I told her. “If you want to figure out who’s definitely not working for SPYDER, you simply look for someone whose career SPYDER has ruined.”
Zoe’s eyes lit up with understanding. “Tina Cuevo.”
“Exactly,” I said.
FORENSIC GEOLOGY
Maynard Farm
Winchester, Virginia
June 15
1700 hours
I made the call from the farmhouse kitchen. Like I said, I never forget a phone number. It goes with the territory as a math prodigy.
Tina answered on the fourth ring. “Agent Cuevo.”
“Tina! It’s Ben Ripley.”
“Ben! How nice of you to call.”
“How’s Vancouver?”
“I’ve gotta admit, you were right. It’s not nearly as bad as I thought it’d be. The city’s beautiful, the agents are cool, and my internship is actually really exciting. I’ve only been here two days and I already got to go on my first bust.”
“Really?”
“Some psycho American rock star was trying to have a polar bear smuggled across the border. We saved the bear and got the smugglers to turn evidence in like ten minutes. It was awesome.”
“Sounds like fun, Tina.”
“It was. Plus, there’s a fantastic sushi place right around the corner from our office. I think I’m really gonna like it here.”
“That’s great. Listen, I was wondering if you could do me a small favor . . .”
“You mean you’re not just calling to wish me a happy first week on the job?”
“Well, no. Not exactly. You see, some things have happened with that whole SPYDER case I came to you with. A couple students ended up getting kidnapped . . .”
“Oh. Er . . . Well, the thing is, as much as I’d like to help, I’m in Canada, Ben. If you have a problem, you really ought to talk to Hank.”
“He was one of the students who got kidnapped.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry. We got him back. Him and everyone else. But now SPYDER has Erica Hale and her grandfather.”
“How did that happen . . . ?”
“It’s a long story and, unfortunately, I don’t have the time to explain it all right now. The short version is, the CIA is rife with moles, and you’re the only person I know I can trust.”
“Aw, Ben. That’s sweet of you.”
“Erica turned in some evidence a few days ago that might be a lead to where SPYDER’s hideout is. Our guess is that she gave it to Chester Snodgrass in forensic geology. Can you access the central system and see if Snodgrass posted his results?”
“Sure. I’m at my computer right now. Hold on.”
I heard the distant sound of Tina’s fingers typing rapidly.
My fellow spies, huddled in the living room, looked at me expectantly. “She’s working on it,” I told them.
“Tell her I said hi,” Warren said.
“Got it!” Tina told me.
“What’s it say?” I asked.
“Give me a few moments. It’s a long report. Wow. Who ever knew you could tell so much from one piece of grit? Let’s see. Spectroanalysis, radiocarbon dating, elemental assessment. Ah, here we go. It’s a piece of coal.”
“That’s it?” I asked. “I already knew it was coal.”
“Hold your horses. There’s more.” Tina hummed as she scanned through the report on the computer. “Seems like every vein of coal is different. Slight alterations in the various elements and such. So Snodgrass ran all these tests to try to determine the exact makeup. Looks like he got two matches. The bit of coal came from a seam in either Vladivostok, Russia . . .”
“Ugh,” I said.
“Or the Junction Mine, near Shepherdstown, West Virginia.”
I felt a shiver of excitement. “How far is that from Winchester, Virginia?”
“Hold on. Let me map it. Here we go. Only about thirty miles. Looks like it’s been abandoned for a few years now. And FYI, it’s only about an hour and a half from downtown Washington.”
“That sounds like the place. Do you have coordinates?”
Tina rattled off the exact latitude and longitude of the mine, and I committed them to memory.
“Thanks,” I told her. “You’ve been a huge help.”
“Just make sure the higher-ups back there know that. In case I ever change my mind about saving polar bears and want to come back.”
“Will do.” I hung up and turned to everyone else. “Sounds like SPYDER’s taken over an abandoned coal mine thirty miles from here.”
“Let’s go get them,” Alexander said.
Everyone else cheered excitedly.
Except Warren, who gave me a cold glare. “You didn’t tell Tina I said hi,” he said.
RECONNAISSANCE
Junction Mine
5.6 miles from Shepherdstown, West Virginia
June 15
2300 hours
In the rucksack Cyrus had left behind, there was a stash of emergency supplies. This included medication, tourniquets, flares, a Swiss army knife—and a great deal of cash. There was over five thousand U.S. dollars, as well as large wads of Canadian dollars, euros, Russian rubles, Mexican pesos, and six other currencies I couldn’t even recognize. Apparently, Cyrus was always prepared to leave the country at a moment’s notice. Alexander took three hundred dollars and rented a minivan.
Next, we went to Walmart.
Turns out, you can actually outfit an entire spy mission at your average superstore. Things that James Bond would have found incredible in his early movies, like night-vision binoculars, are now available over-the-counter. We picked up camouflage gear for everyone, walkie-talkies, backpacks, head-mounted flashlights, greasepaint, a few laser-sighted scopes, and a dozen rolls of duct tape. There were plenty of hunting rifles available too, although we couldn’t buy any without identification. So we stocked up on alternative weaponry instead: bows and arrows, hunting knives, pepper spray, and tomahawks. We also got plenty of bottled water and energy bars. Hank, who’d been studying advanced chemical weaponry, got some cleaning supplies. Then, just to be on the safe side, we picked up a few paintball guns too. At least they looked like the real thing. The cashier didn’t even blink an eye as we rang it all up. “Looks like you folks are out to have yourselves some fun tonight,” she said.
“You have no idea how much,” Chip told her.
It was several hours into the night by the time we finished our shopping. We loaded the van and set out to find the Junction Mine.
This was a little more difficult than we’d expected. As Tina had said, the town of Shepherdstown was only forty-five minutes north of Winchester, where the arm of West Virginia hooked over the top of Virginia. The mine was clearly marked on a roadmap we’d
bought at Walmart, but when we got to the right general area, we couldn’t find it. We drove up and down the nearest road three times, but there wasn’t anything even close to resembling a turnoff.
“Are you sure you memorized the right coordinates?” Claire asked me pointedly.
“Yes,” I said, although truthfully, I was wondering the same thing.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Claire said.
“Now, now,” Alexander interjected from the driver’s seat. “Let’s not be too tough on young Agent Ripley. The fact that we can’t find the mine is actually a good sign.”
“How?” Claire asked.
“Because it means someone has tried to conceal it,” Alexander replied. “And that means we’re probably on the right track.”
Everyone looked to Alexander, impressed. He smiled broadly, proud of his deduction. With a van full of acolytes hanging on his every word, Alexander’s confidence and bravado had come back in spades—and, in turn, he’d proved what I’d suggested on the porch: He had at least a little spy savvy.
He wasn’t the only one rising to the occasion. The others were all shining in their own special ways. Chip was rigging and arming the weapons. Zoe was outfitting each backpack with the proper supplies. Even Warren was being helpful: As our class camouflage specialist, he was doing everyone’s greasepaint.
Alexander swung the van around and now motored slowly along the same stretch of road we’d taken before. “Everyone pay close attention to the shoulder,” he ordered. “Don’t expect to see any official signs. SPYDER has certainly removed them. Instead, look for any indication that the road has been concealed: unusually thick foliage in one spot, for example.”
We all pressed against the windows, peering into the dark. After a few minutes, Jawa shouted triumphantly. “There! Something’s not right.”
Alexander pulled over where he pointed, angling the headlights into the trees. At first, we seemed to be staring at a completely normal swath of forest, but then I began to notice what had grabbed Jawa’s attention. The branches didn’t look quite right. They were too close to the ground and too clumped together. Someone had clipped them from trees and expertly arranged them to conceal a gate.
Once I knew the gate was there, I could make out the dirt road heading into the woods behind it. It was almost impossible to see in the night, a slightly darker tunnel against the general darkness of the forest, but it was there.
“This must be the place,” Zoe said. “Let’s go.”
“No,” Claire cautioned. “If SPYDER is as clever as you say, they’re most likely monitoring the road. We should approach their base through the woods on foot instead. I suspect, under the cover of trees, we could do that with stealth.”
Even Zoe had to admit that Claire was right about this.
Alexander drove on to a suitable point a half mile down the road where there was a gap in the woods big enough to pull the van in and conceal it. Zoe handed out backpacks, Chip handed out weapons, and Warren applied the finishing touches to our camouflage. Then we slipped into the woods, moving as quickly and silently as possible.
We were in mountainous country once again. We’d parked high up, near a pass, so we were now heading downhill, although the slope was relatively gentle and easy to negotiate, even in the dark. After twenty minutes, we caught our first glimpse of the mine. It was still a ways below us through the trees. We all cased the grounds through our night-vision binoculars.
SPYDER was there.
After seeing way too many spy movies, I had some misguided expectations about what an evil organization’s secret hideout would look like. I didn’t necessarily think there would be a multimillion-dollar underground facility with thousands of anonymous minions in matching uniforms and a handy self-destruct button—but I did at least expect something impressive. A small army of minions, at least. Or a high-tech command center. Instead, SPYDER’s control center looked like a rundown trailer park.
The evil plans of the world’s most secretive enemy organization were being carried out in two mobile homes and a Winnebago. All three were arranged in a triangle in a wide, flat space near the entrance to the mine. It was hard to tell which might have been the most important, as none of them looked remotely impressive. The mobile homes were ancient, with peeling paint and cracked windows. The Winnebago looked at least ten years old.
I wasn’t the only one who was unimpressed. “That’s it?” Warren groused. “It doesn’t look like much.”
“Don’t be such a Fleming,” Chip shot back. “This is a temporary hideout, not their world headquarters.”
“Besides, the real center of operations is probably inside the mine,” Jawa said. “Look.” He pointed to a large portable generator chugging away. Power cables snaked from it into the entrance of the mine.
“Keep it down, you guys,” Zoe hissed. “There’s enemy agents on patrol down there.”
Sure enough, there were. Although there were only three—that I could see, at least. Each had a rifle slung across his back and at least one sidearm stuffed in a holster. Like the men who’d come after us at Apple Valley, they were casually dressed in shorts, T-shirts, and baseball caps. In fact, I was quite sure two of them had been at Apple Valley. Both had black eyes and broken noses: Cyrus Hale’s handiwork.
As for the mine itself, it wasn’t a modern coal mine, where the entire top of a mountain had been stripped off. Instead, it was so old-fashioned as to be almost quaint: a tunnel dug into the mountainside and propped up with wooden beams. Rusted iron tracks ran through it, upon which wheeled coal cars had once run. Until recently, there had been a chain-link gate blocking the entrance, but SPYDER had cut through the lock, and the gate now sprawled open.
“Any sign of Erica or Cyrus?” I asked.
“Not in trailer one,” Chip reported.
“Negatory on the Winnebago,” said Warren.
“No one’s in trailer two, either,” Hank said.
“How about Murray Hill?” I asked.
“No,” Chip said.
“Negatory on that,” Warren said.
“Would you drop the ‘negatory’ crap?” Hank demanded. “It makes you sound like a moron. Just say no, like a normal person.”
“Sorry,” Warren said.
“I don’t see Murray either,” Hank reported. “Jawa’s right. Everyone must be in the mine.”
“I agree,” Alexander said. “Let’s take the guards out.”
There was some brief dissent on how to do this. Hank thought we could take the guards out at long range. Claire had been the English archery champion in her age range for six years running and claimed she could knock the stem off an apple from across a football field. However, Alexander felt we had to take out all the guards at once. If you only got one, the others would notice and sound the alarm. That meant a coordinated man-to-man assault.
My man-to-man assault skills weren’t exactly my strongest suit. In fact, they were my weakest: I’d received a D in hand-to-hand combat. Luckily, my fellow spies-to-be had some expertise in this area. Hank, Chip, and Jawa were all among the better combatants in school. And Hank had some tricks up his sleeve.
He quickly mixed up a cocktail of cleaning supplies, then tore a five-dollar Walmart beach towel into rags and soaked them in the solution. “Just get behind your target and clap this over their nose and mouth,” he instructed.
“What is it?” Warren asked. He took an experimental sniff—and passed out cold.
“Knockout drops,” Hank sighed. “And as you can all see, they work fast. So everyone else, be careful around it.” He, Chip, and Jawa synchronized their watches and set off for the guards.
The next few minutes passed slowly as we waited for them to do their job. To pass the time, I kept the night-vision binoculars to my eyes, scanning the compound for more of the enemy. Except for the guards, I didn’t see anyone—although I did notice something odd tucked behind the Winnebago: a large metal case with Russian writing on the side.
“Can anyone
here read Russian?” I asked.
Everyone else raised their hand.
“Where?” asked Zoe.
“The metal case right beside the Winnebago,” I said.
“I see it,” Alexander said. “It says: EXTERIOR MONKEY MONITORING ORGANISM.”
“No,” Claire corrected. “It says SURFACE MISSILE CONTROL SYSTEM.”
“Oh,” Alexander said, trying to save face. “I must have been using the wrong dialect.”
“SPYDER has a missile?” Zoe gasped. “That can’t be good.”
I winced, upset with myself. “We should have known they’d have more.”
“More?” Claire asked. “What do you mean ‘more’?”
“They already fired one at us,” I said. “Two days ago.”
“And you didn’t think that was worth sharing?” Claire demanded.
“There’s been a lot of other stuff going on . . . ,” I began, but then trailed off in midthought, as something had occurred to me. Suddenly, I had an idea what SPYDER might have been plotting. “Alexander, earlier today, your father said that the global positioning system isn’t as accurate as everyone thinks. What did he mean by that?”
Alexander’s face suddenly flooded with concern. “Goodness me,” he said. “So that’s what they want with him.”
“What?” Zoe asked. “What’s going on here?”
“The global positioning system was developed by the Department of Defense in the 1970s,” Alexander explained. “My father was the CIA liaison to the project. The original purpose of GPS had nothing to do with giving everyone directions in their cars. It was for the military.”
“Missile guidance systems,” Claire said.
“Among other things,” Alexander told her. “My father knew all along that the military would never be able to keep GPS under tight wraps. Eventually, the public would be able to use it. Which meant anyone would be able to use it.”
“Like bad guys,” Zoe said.
“Correct,” Alexander agreed. “My father felt that this would be a security risk, so he convinced Defense to purposefully build errors into the system to protect certain locations that might be targeted by terrorists. For example, the coordinates that GPS gives you for the White House aren’t the actual coordinates for the White House. They’re close, but not exact. So, if any bad guys tried to fire a missile at it from a distance, they’d end up blowing up a Starbucks down the street. Not the president.”