by Jeff Miller
So if I’m here for the game . . . that must mean everybody else here is. . . . He peered down the line, wondering if Sam might have made the cut, but realized that he had no idea what his friend looked like.
“Now, before anyone else decides to make another run for the door, you need to know you’re not in trouble,” Jones began.
“Ten hours ago, the only operational plane of this kind departed on its very first mission, piloted by the only two people trained to fly it. They took off from an aircraft carrier in the western Pacific and went down far from the mission target, somewhere at sea.
“We’ve detected the plane’s distress signal, which sends off coordinates as well as an electromagnetic pulse to deactivate bogeys in the area, but unfortunately, it cut out the pilots’ communication in the process. We have reason to believe, though, that both pilots have survived, but they could be in grave danger. And of course, we cannot afford to let anyone else find the Chameleon. The invisibility technology must not fall into the wrong hands.”
Neil imagined the Chameleon floating on the surface of the ocean, like an invisible reptilian pool toy.
“The mission we’ve planned consists of a rescue and retrieval of the pilots and the aircraft,” Jones continued.
In front of Neil, the boy who’d tried to make a dash out of the hangar shot up his hand with a question.
The major turned his attention to him and glared. The boy, looking more confused by the second, slowly dropped his hand.
“The ideal plan of attack,” Jones explained, “would have been to send in another Chameleon with a trained military flight crew, since the only way to see an invisible Chameleon is in the cockpit of another. But while we have three more of these advanced aircraft, as I said, the only pilots with enough flight hours logged are now MIA.”
Is there good news with this? Neil wondered.
“However, it came to my attention this afternoon that the Chameleon’s flight simulator made it onto the internet.” The major began to pace. “So, even though you are all in direct violation of at least six codes dealing with classified military intel”—the major frowned—“whether I like it or not, it seems that civilians with video-game experience are the only people in the world with adequate training to fly these things. And you all represent the twelve best.”
Neil lifted his eyes and met the major’s stare.
“I’m here with a challenge to you all. Bring our men home.”
A loudspeaker overhead crackled to life. “Sir, permission to speak with you for a moment?”
The major nodded and headed toward the control room, leaving the motley group to absorb his words.
Neil exhaled and relaxed his shoulders and neck, taking a few steps toward the pristine fighter jet. He slid his hand up the front of the plane and felt the cool metal beneath his fingertips.
“It’s like something out of a movie, right?” said a voice behind him. Neil turned to see a fellow recruit, nearly a foot taller and maybe a year older. Shaggy brown hair poked out from under a baseball cap that said RECYCLING! in silver lettering.
“Hey, man, the name’s Biggs,” the boy said, holding out his hand. Neil noticed that his arm was covered with hemp bracelets and what looked like scratches from cats. He wore a faded blue T-shirt and fraying corduroys. He reminded Neil of the kids who met outside school every day to play hacky sack.
“Neil,” Neil said, shaking Biggs’s hand.
The two stood in silence for a moment, taking it all in, and then began to walk around the side of the jet, trailing their hands along its edges in amazement. The plane was shaped like a sleek Y, with a glass cockpit in the center and two turbine engines at its rear. Mesmerized by the jet, they almost collided with the lone girl Neil had seen earlier, who was circling the plane in the opposite direction. She was wearing denim pants and an orange plaid shirt over a white tee. Wisps of brown hair escaped her rubber-banded pigtails to frame her oval-shaped face.
“Hey, I’m Samantha,” she said in a scratchy voice that sounded weirdly familiar. She had big brown eyes and a smile that pulled up at the corners of her mouth.
“Biggs,” the other boy said.
Samantha looked over to Neil, but he just stood there blankly. Meeting strangers was one thing, but meeting strangers who were girls was entirely different. He prayed silently for another natural disaster to wipe out this awkward moment.
Flash flood! Tornado! Something, please!
“And this is Neil,” Biggs added, giving him a nudge. Neil managed a quick hello and then turned back to the fighter jet, his pulse racing.
“Hi, Neil.” Samantha squinted at him as though considering something.
Luckily for Neil, Jones chose that exact moment to reappear, saving him from any more uncomfortable silences. Now standing on either side of the major were two strong-looking soldiers.
“Cadets, I just had a discussion with my ranking officers”—he nodded to the muscular men—“and we’ve since received intelligence giving us a more precise location of the pilots, so we’re going to move quickly. We will mobilize a rescue mission in no more than ten hours, and one of you will serve as pilot, with three others to assist in flight. Your training begins at oh-four-hundred hours.”
Neil looked down at his watch. It was midnight. He’d been gone from Tommy’s sleepover for only three hours maybe, but it felt like a whole day. He wondered if anybody was looking for him.
“The training will consist of a flight simulation and something we like to call the Decider,” Jones explained. “Based on the results, the top three of you will be selected to staff an aircraft, which will be led by a specialized soldier. The rest of you will be sent home.
“That said, we do not have the right to hold you against your will, so if you want to leave, now is your chance. I’ll have Captain Wells here escort you out personally.”
Hesitantly, the boy who had tried to escape earlier raised his hand.
“Um . . . the only video game I’ve ever played involves digitally raising livestock. Am . . . am I in the right place?” he stammered. The major nodded to Wells, who led the kid out of the hangar, which left only eleven standing there.
For an instant Neil considered leaving, too. But what did he have to return to? An overbearing mom, broken headgear, a weekend of Tommy Scott, and physical intimidation by his little sister?
He’d rather take his chances with the Air Force.
THE NEW RECRUITS SHUFFLED THROUGH QUIET CORRIDORS, led by Lopez, the second, and burlier, of Jones’s two soldiers. He had chocolate-colored skin, buzzed hair, and forearms that could probably crack lobster claws. Or heads.
Neil did his best to stay in line with the others. From what he could tell, the building was shaped like a giant hexagon. The group walked down a large hallway and came across turns at the exact same angle every fifty steps or so. At every corner were corridors leading in two different directions, like small veins branching out from an artery. Neil craned his neck, trying to look down each one, wondering what kind of secrets it held.
As Neil pushed on a heavy door to peer into a room labeled MISSILE TARGETING CHAMBER, he heard a quick whistle. It was Lopez, who had slowed to halt at the hallway intersection. “This is the men’s barracks,” he said, pointing to the door on his right. “Ladies’ is two doors down. Uniforms are on the bunks. Lights-out in fifteen minutes.” He opened the door to the men’s barracks, and the boys shuffled past. Neil looked back at Samantha, their eyes meeting for an instant before the door swung closed behind him.
The room was long, with six metal double-decker bunks lining the edges. Laid out on each bed was a camouflage uniform, accompanied by a pair of boots and a set of silvery dog tags.
“Whoa, look. They have our names on ’em,” said a kid as everyone fanned out to look for his assigned bunk.
Neil found his tags on the bottom bunk of a bed in the corner. He rubbed his fingers over his name, now etched into stainless steel, and smiled, full of surprising confidence. Hours a
go he would never have imagined himself wearing something this official, this cool. He looped the cold metal chain around his skinny neck. No matter what, he thought, he had to be the pilot chosen.
Even though the mattress looked thin and lumpy, Neil knew that he needed a few hours of sleep if he was going to have a chance of earning a spot the next day. With a yawn, he plopped down on the bed—only to feel the mattress slip out from beneath him.
“Oww!” Neil exclaimed as he hit the slats hard and bumped his head on the bed’s frame.
Trevor, the hothead who had threatened legal action earlier, hovered over him.
“Scram, nerd.” Trevor threw Neil’s uniform at his chest. “This bunk’s mine,”
“Uh, I think you’re up top,” Neil said, rubbing his head where he’d bumped it. He wasn’t sure what right Trevor had calling anyone a nerd. Trevor had the kind of pale skin that hadn’t seen the sun for so long that Neil could see the blue veins beneath it on the undersides of his forearms.
“Nah, my tags were on this one,” Trevor replied. He tossed his tags next to where Neil sat. “See?”
“I got room over here, Neil,” Biggs offered, pointing to his bottom bunk. “I like sleeping closer to the ceiling. It helps me center my chi.”
“Thanks.” Neil had no clue what he was talking about, but he shuffled over to Biggs and sat down on the mattress. Trevor was still watching him from across the room.
“Hey, man, so I was thinking,” Biggs said, hopping on one foot as he untied his shoes. “If we all got brought in here because we play Chameleon, does that make you ManofNeil?”
“Uh, yeah, actually,” Neil said, smiling. It felt odd to hear his screen name in real life. “Wait, does that mean that—”
“Dude, that’s awesome! I’m MrBiggShot! You’re, like, a legend, man,” Biggs gushed. “Although I thought maybe, you’d be, I don’t know . . . more jacked.” He laughed.
“Um, thanks, I guess.” Neil blushed at the compliment. “You’re really good, too. You beat me three times last weekend!”
“Thanks, man! I just can’t believe I’m meeting you, ya know, face-to-face.”
Biggs took a step on Neil’s bed and rolled onto his own, the frame wiggling beneath his shifting weight. As his legs swooped up, a small green notebook fell out of his pants pocket. “Hey, Biggs, you dropped this,” Neil said, bending down and handing the notebook up to his bunkmate. The word smells was scrawled onto the front in black ink.
“Oh, thanks, man. Can’t go anywhere without the smell journal.”
“Without . . . what?”
Biggs leaned over the railing, his head bobbing above Neil like a shaggy-haired puppet. “I’ve got this sweet idea for—brace yourself—smellable TV. There could be a box below your TV, or a thing you attach to your phone, that emits chemicals, so when something comes on, like flowers, you actually smell the flowers. Or if you’re watching baseball and a dude spills nachos all over himself trying to catch a ball, you smell the nachos, and the guy. Well, more so the nachos for now. I’m still working on dual smell-sations. But think of how awesome it would be if TV involved more than just two senses. It would be like going inside the TV!”
Neil raised his eyebrows. His bunkmate was either brilliant or insane. Possibly both.
“So I’ve got this bad boy with me at all times. Whenever I smell something that I want in there, I write it down and see if I can re-create it. It’s all about finding the right mix of chemicals. So far I’ve perfected over thirty smells,” Biggs said proudly, patting the notebook.
“Lights-out, recruits!” a soldier barked from the doorway, and the overhead fluorescent lights turned off with a click. The soldiers here reminded Neil of the drill sergeants on reality shows, the ones who screamed at runaway teenagers or overweight celebrities.
Neil pulled back the covers on his bunk and slid in. “Well, I’ll let you know if I smell anything good,” he whispered.
“Thanks, man. I’m working on bacon right now.” Biggs yawned, then rolled sideways with a massive squeak from the mattress. “I’m beat. Night, ManofNeil.”
“Night, MrBiggShot. See you in the morning.”
Neil closed his eyes and slowly traced his name on his dog tag with his thumb and forefinger, circling to a stop as he drifted into sleep.
The roar of the helicopter blades drowned out the roar of the crowd as Neil stepped from the chopper onto the football field. Squinting into the flashes of dozens of cameras, he looked around at the mass of people who’d come to welcome him home. He started toward the podium, where his parents and the mayor were waiting for him, his dozens of medals jangling with each step. They held a trophy that was the size of his family’s mantel, maybe even bigger. He would have been able to fit all of Janey’s awards into the sparkling cup.
As a slew of cheerleaders began to chant “N-E-I-L” and the band of twenty-seven electric guitars struck up a rock anthem, Neil waved to the crowd, soaking up the applause. A young child, her hair in platinum-blond pigtails, held a sign reading NEIL 4 PRESIDENT. A hush fell over everyone as he approached the podium’s microphone.
“No, my king! The cooked goose has been poisoned!”
“What?” Neil looked around puzzled and scanned the crowd, but the band was starting up again, twanging loudly. He turned his attention back to the podium, but it was gone.
Neil groggily blinked awake to the sound of Biggs’s mattress springs twanging against his weight. He turned to his right to see another recruit talking in his sleep. He was pudgy and was thrashing his stubby legs around in the rickety military-grade bunk.
“We must alert the others, my liege,” the other boy continued, rolling over on his side and drifting back into silence.
Through the tiny, prison-sized window, Neil could see that it was still dark out. He looked down at his watch. Three a.m. He sat up, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and stretched his neck back and forth. The bunk bed was not particularly comfortable, but it sure beat sleeping on the floor of Tommy Scott’s basement. Neil figured Tommy and his gang would probably have permanent-markered his face by now.
Ha, Neil laughed to himself as he looked down at the dog tags around his neck. Tommy Scott will never get to do this. Neil tucked the tags back beneath his undershirt but didn’t lie back down. His T-shirt was sweaty, and his shaggy black hair clung to his forehead. A shower sounded like a good idea right now. And he didn’t think he could go back to sleep after that dream anyway.
The tan linoleum was cool under Neil’s bare feet as he tiptoed to the bathroom. Inside, he paused in front of the mirror to get a good look at himself. His brow furrowed. Something was out of place. Sure, he was a little skinny for an Air Force uniform, but it was more than that.
Then it hit him: the hair. He had never seen a soldier with any semblance of shaggy hair. Neil ran his hand through his thick mop and nodded at his reflection. The hair had to go.
Neil peered up at the slender metal shelf above the row of sinks where various grooming products were displayed. There was shaving cream but no razor. Neil scratched his head and spied a pair of scissors in the corner. That will do, he thought.
He grabbed a clump of hair and snipped away. Strands fell like ticker tape into the sink below. But Neil’s adrenaline rush dissipated quickly as he started to realize just how time-intensive cutting his hair so short would be. He’d managed to trim off only a few inches above his right ear when his arms grew heavy and tired. His three a.m. wake-up was beginning to wear on him. No pain, no gain, Neil thought grimly; he started to snip on the left side, too.
Just as he’d cut a few more shreds to even his progress, Biggs burst through the bathroom door, fully dressed.
“Neil, there you are, man. We all overslept. And I think I had a dream that Trevor changed your watch time. . . .” Biggs yawned. “Three minutes till we have to report to the mess hall, man,” he said quickly as other recruits poured into the bathroom to use the facilities. “It’s the second door on the right once you hang a r
icky outta here. Hurry!” Biggs went back out the doorway.
Neil quickly ran back to his bed and threw on the camouflage pants, gray shirt, and shoes in record speed. Then he raced down the hall to face the most important day of his life.
NEIL PUSHED THROUGH THE DOOR MARKED MESS HALL AND looked around for Biggs. The recruits this morning seemed even smaller than they had the night before, huddled together at a single table in a room that could easily accommodate hundreds. Neil ran to the buffet line, where a haphazard breakfast had been set out. He quickly chose a plain bagel, ripped it in half, and slathered a generous amount of cream cheese on each piece. He poured himself a glass of orange juice and slid into the spot across from Biggs.
It was only after he’d inhaled half his bagel that he looked up to see Biggs’s curious expression.
“Neil . . . ,” his bunkmate said slowly, “what happened to your hair?”
In his panic at possibly missing training, Neil had nearly forgotten all about his ill-fated haircut. He reached up nervously to the side of his head. Gulping, he grabbed a spoon to use as a makeshift mirror, but it only confirmed what he’d feared. His shaggy hair was now framed by two almost-bald patches, one of which was larger than the other, both slightly uneven.
“Nice hair,” Trevor said with a smirk from a few seats down.
“Nah, it’s not so bad. You’ve got this kind of . . . European thing going on. I can dig it.” Biggs paused, then burst out laughing.
“’Tis a noble hair trimming indeed,” said the boy next to Neil. It was the sleeptalker from before.
“Neil, this is Riley. Riley, my main man Neil,” Biggs introduced.
“My lords,” Riley said in an old-fashioned, most certainly fake British accent. He nodded, as if to pay respects.
“Riley does those Renaissance Faire things,” Biggs explained. “Cool, huh?”
At that moment, Jones strode into the room, flanked by Wells and Lopez.