“We want to look like two kids pretending to be radio dudes. You know: kidding around. So we’re going to jump from talking to each other across the interview desk to me at the controls. Kids playing around.”
“I got it.”
“And in the meantime—”
“You’re going to work your magic,” Finn said.
“You look terrified.”
“I am terrified,” Finn said. “We get kicked off the ship in the first hour we’re aboard, we’re not exactly making things better.”
“This stuff has to get tested while we’re still tied to shore.”
“Yeah, yeah. The hard link to our land-based server.” Finn had been told of the requirement twice.
“Yes. I need to establish a land-linked Ethernet handshake with our DHI server to assign a static IP address. It’s how the server works. Once I’ve got that address established, it can be reassigned to the wireless system on board. But it’s not easy. It’s not quick. And don’t forget your call to Wayne.”
Three times. “But it’s not a call.”
“Radio, whatever.”
“But why not just call me on my cell?”
“Wayne does stuff…his way.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” He didn’t like having to listen to Philby telling him about Wayne. It made him uneasy. Jealous, if he was being truthful.
“There’s got to be a reason,” Philby said. “Doesn’t matter.” He checked his watch. “Transmission’s in ten…nine minutes.”
“So shouldn’t we get in there?” Finn asked. “Get started?”
“Do you see a key anywhere?”
“No.”
“We need a key.”
For Finn the next minute was very long. Knowing nothing of what the Radio Studio looked like, he tried to rehearse the next few steps in his head. Tried to see himself and Philby in there so it wouldn’t seem so foreign when the time came.
They stood in front of the glass door etched RADIO STUDIO in smoky lettering. The studio interior was dark.
Finn caught movement to his left, down the stairs. A swish of reddish-black hair, olive skin. The flutter of footsteps racing away from them. Instinctively, he moved toward the activity.
Looking down at the next landing, he saw a colorful card the size of a credit card on the carpet.
A ship ID and room key.
Philby saw it too. He waved the key card.
“The old goat delivered!”
Finn didn’t appreciate Wayne being called an old goat. He was about to protest as Philby hurried past him and waved the key in front of the door. It unlocked.
Finn glanced back down the stairs, wondering who their ally was. “Let me see that card,” he said.
Philby pocketed it. “No time.”
They entered, quickly shutting the door behind them.
Finn slid into a seat in front of one of three microphones. Philby took the engineer’s chair.
“How do you even know what you’re doing?”
Philby shot him a look as if to say, Who says I do? He threw several switches, put on a set of headphones, pushed some buttons, then adjusted a tuner. He worked some faders on the soundboard in front of him and stabbed some buttons there as well. Finn also donned a pair of headphones; suddenly there was a deafening voice.
“This is Lou Mongello, calling for the Dream Radio Studio.”
Philby spoke to Finn. “Lou Mongello runs WDW Radio on the web. Wayne used his station as the go-between to make the contact with us. Less chance of being discovered. Basically it’s like this: Wayne will pretend to be interviewing you for Lou’s show.”
“Got it.” Why did Philby know all this stuff?
“You may need to ask him questions as well.”
“Sure.”
“This is the Studio,” Philby said into a microphone. “We’ve got you, Lou.”
“Ready for the interview?” Lou Mongello said.
“We’re ready on this end.”
“I’m busy today, so I’m going to turn this over to one of my reporters.”
“No problem,” said Philby. He covered up his microphone and spoke to Finn. “He’s putting Wayne on.”
Finn gave him the thumbs-up.
“This is Mr. Alcott,” Wayne said, using his daughter’s surname. “Mr. Lawrence?”
“I’m on,” Finn said. The interview was under way. Philby left the chair and got busy with other machinery. Finn watched Philby while speaking to Wayne.
The Radio Studio was aft-facing with a spectacular view of the back half of the ship and the Inland Waterway beyond.
“Welcome to the show, Mr. Lawrence. I understand you’re involved in archives at Disney’s Hollywood Studios?” Wayne’s warm voice said through the headphones.
“Yes,” Finn said, trying to play along. “An interest of mine for some time now.”
“And you’ve visited the facility recently?”
“I have,” Finn said, recalling his description to Wayne about the confrontation with Maleficent and the two others. “I discovered a volume that was of particular interest to me. Of interest to many, I’m sure. A journal that dates back to the early days.”
“Are you aware there are many similar journals in the Disney Family Museum in San Francisco?”
Finn tried to make sense of the comment. “I…ah…I’ll have to get out there sometime. I’m based on the East Coast right now. Similar in what way?”
“As you know, the Imagineers have been scanning the contents of the library, and the journal you refer to detailed the creation of many of Walt Disney’s most beloved and most feared characters.”
“Yes, of course.” Wayne had told him as much on the train.
“This particular volume is among those not yet scanned…” Wayne paused, allowing it to sink in. “But there is a card catalog entry listing some of its contents, and it includes information about the enchantment of Chernabog.” He allowed the words to hang there.
Finn tried to translate what he was hearing. Chernabog was Disney’s most evil villain. The enchantment of Chernabog…the thought of that turned his stomach.
“The original entries about the beast’s origin. It is, without a doubt, the most important entry in the volume.” He was speaking somewhat obliquely for the sake of their conversation.
“Okay. Got it,” Finn said. “That is interesting.”
“Isn’t it, though? What’s your overall impression of the Disney library?” Wayne went on to ask a half dozen meaningless questions. Finn did his best to answer. The message had been received: the enchantment of Chernabog was all that mattered. Either Maleficent, the Evil Queen, or, less likely, Cruella had wanted that information badly enough to break into the library for it. That couldn’t be good.
Before ending the interview, Wayne passed along a place and time: Buena Vista Theatre balcony, eleven thirty p.m. Finn would be there.
“It’s not like Maleficent’s collecting a family history,” Finn said to Philby.
“Not hardly,” Philby said as he continued to work with a device about the size of a hardcover book.
“Is that the GPS?”
“Technically speaking it’s a location transmitter. We’ll use the studio’s connection to the dish to send our position back to Base. All other Internet traffic is monitored and filtered. They don’t mess with this line because for voice clarity it’s a direct connection to the transmission dish.”
“And so this box, by showing the Dream’s position, is supposed to help the Imagineers narrow down the location of the OTs’ DHI server?”
“It never stays in one place. It moves up and down the east coast of Florida. It’s likely a relay from one of the cruise ships. By transmitting our exact location, they can determine if it’s us or another of the ships.”
“Or not a ship at all,” Finn said.
“That too.”
“And this is supposed to take you how long?”
“I’m working as fast as I can.” He said it condescendingly, a
s if emphasizing that Finn was no use in such technical matters.
“The reason I ask,” Finn clarified, “is because if anyone’s on their way up, then according to you, they will be here in approximately…forty-five seconds.”
“Five minutes? That was fast.” Philby snapped an Ethernet cable into the box, flicked a switch, and illuminated a light on the device. “That’s it.”
“We’re gone,” Finn said.
He and Philby stepped up to the smoky glass door.
“Wait a second,” Philby said. He slipped off his running shoe, put the Radio Studio key card into his shoe, and put the shoe back on.
“Smart,” Finn said. If the boys were patted down by security, the only key card found on Philby would be his room card. Only a strip search would locate the real key, and Disney wasn’t about to strip search anyone, especially one of their VIP guests.
“I do my best.”
Finn cringed.
They stepped out onto the landing. Two things happened at once: the security guys arrived up the stairs, and a girl—a young Asian woman in the shorts and polo shirt of the ship’s crew—arrived to the far side of a glass door leading into the Outlook piano bar. She spotted the security guys and turned around, heading deeper into the bar. A swish of black hair.
“You there!” called out one of the security men to the boys.
“Who else?” Philby said, indicating it was only him and Finn standing there.
Finn waved. “Hey!” He looked down, making sure his red VIP lanyard and special Captain Mickey key card showed in the lanyard’s plastic sleeve.
The security guy knew his stuff. He appraised Finn’s credentials from a distance and altered his tone of voice from accusatory to cooperative.
“Welcome aboard!” the man said. “Anything we can help with?”
The other security guy approached the studio door and pulled, ensuring it was locked. He then unlocked it and went inside.
“I was scheduled for a radio interview,” Finn said. “I’m DHI. A guest—”
“A Kingdom Keeper. Yeah. I know,” interrupted the big man. “We’ve all been looking forward to this cruise.”
The men shook hands with both boys.
“If you need anything,” the security man offered, “it’s Steven.”
“Absolutely,” Finn said.
“I hope they give you time so as you can enjoy the cruise,” said the other.
“No doubt!” Finn said.
The security men indicated the stairs and followed the boys down.
* * *
At nearly the same moment, Maybeck, Willa, and Charlene, all in their staterooms with a parent (or in Maybeck’s case, his aunt), switched out their Captain Mickey room keys and red VIP lanyards for Cast Member identification cards and blue employee lanyards. Wayne had supplied the fake IDs. Maybeck and Charlene could easily pass as eighteen-year-olds, the minimum age requirement for Cast Members. Willa was borderline. Because of this she added a minor amount of makeup, giving herself the few years she needed.
Using a Dream brochure, Philby had tutored and quizzed all the Keepers about the physical layout of the ship, its decks, pools, hallways, restaurants, stairwells, elevators, theaters, staterooms, cafés, bars, and the spa. He’d built a virtual Dream simulator on his laptop—he would flash an animation of a particular hallway or atrium or balcony and ask a Keeper to name exactly where it was. He repeated the exercise with each kid until they had the drill perfected. There could be no second-guessing if trouble erupted; the Keepers had to be able to move quickly and confidently through the floating labyrinth.
Maybeck caught a glimpse of Willa descending below him on the mid-deck stairwell. He slowed, not wanting to arrive to Cast Member laundry at the same time she did. Everything they were about to do had been carefully planned and rehearsed. The Keepers were like a SWAT team, each performing specific duties to infiltrate the ship and ferret out the Overtakers, if present, all the while appearing to be five VIP kids enjoying a two-week cruise with passage through the Panama Canal.
Willa arrived at the Deck 1 landing of the ship’s central staircase and turned toward the double doors she knew to be the entrance to I-95—the administration offices and crew members’ central corridor on the port side of the Dream. She could not appear to hesitate. She strode to the doors, leaned into the sensor close enough for her card to read, and heard the latch free up. As instructed, she pulled open the left door, blessing Philby with each step.
The I-95 corridor was a surprise at first. It lacked the plush appointments of the guest areas of the ship. Instead it was an incredibly long stretch of pale gray vinyl flooring and hard, steel walls painted enamel white, with pipes and wires running overhead, all brightly lit. Here and there the walls were interrupted by a bulletin board or a safety poster. Doors—so many doors—leading off both sides, some marked by overhead exit signs, others carrying titles like Safety Officer, Human Resources, and Medical. Willa joined the other crew and Cast Members, her head slightly down in hopes no one would recognize her.
She turned left at the first overhead exit sign and descended a steep, ladderlike gleaming white stairway. She passed bigger pipes and valves and fire-fighting boxes and more safety posters. Now a floor below sea level, she turned toward the laundry. Fifth door on the right.
She turned into the open door and stopped at the counter where an Indian Cast Member wearing a head scarf manned a computer terminal.
“Yes?” the woman said.
“Sarah Sandler,” Willa said, using the name on her Cast Member ID.
The woman typed busily, ran a fingernail along the screen, then turned and disappeared into racks of vertical shelving, returning a minute later with some clothes on hangers. Willa thanked her, accepting the galley uniform—the clothes of a kitchen worker. She went down a hall and into a women’s locker room. She found a locker with a key, changed into the uniform, and locked her belongings away. She let out a deep sigh, letting go of the stress of the past few minutes. Now she’d be looking over her shoulder for Maybeck.
* * *
Humiliating. That was Maybeck’s first thought as he regarded himself in the locker room’s full-length mirror. He looked like a dishwasher. He thought of himself as an artist, so the new look—actually a baker’s outfit—was as disturbing as it was unfamiliar. He had to look at himself several times before he recognized himself. Then he sucked it up and followed the memorized route to reach the ship’s walk-in refrigerators. The area was sparkling clean—crates of juices, drinks, cereals, flour, oats, rice, pasta all stacked into towering structures twelve feet high and broken into aisles every twenty feet. The area was chaotic, as last-minute boarding and stocking of dry goods, fruits, vegetables, meats, and dairy products turned it into a hub of activity. The perfect time for a little spying. The only time all the giant walk-in refrigerators and freezers, each the size of a one-car garage, would be left unlocked and accessible. There were more than twelve such cold-storage units to search. For the sake of security, Maybeck and Willa would perform the task together—one inside, one standing watch outside.
Maleficent needed a cold environment. It wasn’t exactly a weakness, but it was a vulnerability. She wouldn’t melt like the Wicked Witch of the West if she warmed up, but her powers were greatly diminished—no more flaming fireballs, no more erecting corrals with just the flick of a wrist. The warmer her surroundings, the more “human” she became. When jailed, her cell had been kept at seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit, and she’d been little more than a green-skinned, jumpsuited woman with a superiority complex. If she were hiding on the Dream, the refrigerators and freezers seemed a natural place to search.
The refrigerators were more like vaults; large, dimly lit spaces stacked tightly with crates of food. The first one Maybeck entered was devoted to fish, and the smell caused him to nearly vomit. The cold cut through him like a knife. A single tube light emitted a bluish hue, turning the frozen fillets and shrimp a sickly color. Knowing the green fai
ry’s deviousness, Maybeck heaved aside stacks of crates that might be disguising an interior space. He pulled and twisted a tower of ten plastic containers of halibut to where they opened like a door to more stacked crates. These too he wrestled to one corner, then peered into the very center of the island of multicolored containers. Solid. No hidden space at its center.
He worked the freezer’s perimeter, his teeth beginning to chatter, the tips of his fingers hurting along with his ears. Too cold? he wondered. Could Maleficent survive in such a frozen space? Then another thought gripped him: did he put anything past her?
Willa’s coughing brought him back. With no time to return the heavy towers of crates to their original positions, he instead snagged a crate of halibut and struggled to carry it into the aisle. As he planted it on the concrete floor, a crew member entered, wheeling white crates.
“Cod,” the man said.
“Got it,” Maybeck said.
The crew member worked the hand truck to dislodge the crates and then left. Maybeck heaved the stacks back into place, shoved the cod into the corner, and left the freezer.
He shook his head at Willa, letting her know he’d found nothing.
“If you think about it,” he said quietly, “she’d never be hanging around when it’s this busy down here.”
“Yes,” she said. “I have thought about it. So have Philby and Finn. But this is also the best time for us—for you and me. It’s busy. No one knows exactly who belongs and who doesn’t. Maybe all we’re looking for is evidence.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
“I’ll take the next one,” she said.
“The stacks are heavy,” Maybeck said.
“I’ll manage.”
“I’m just saying…”
“I know what you’re saying. And I’m saying I’ll be all right.”
“All right. Whatever. I was just trying to—”
“Yes? Well, don’t.”
“Pardon me for living.”
“Pardon me for being a girl, but I think I can manage.” Willa entered the next space—a refrigerator. Maybeck stood guard, checking his watch to make sure they wouldn’t be late to the Sail-Away Celebration. He coughed loudly as an older kitchen worker approached pushing a hand truck laden with bricks of butter.
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