by Stuart Gibbs
“Virginia VGG-228,” I said. “I guarantee that was it. Why?”
There was a long pause before Agent Hamilton answered. It sounded as though she might be discussing the situation with someone else. Finally, she got back on the phone. “I’m not at liberty to disclose that to you at this time.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not at liberty to disclose that, either.”
“But I’m the one who got the license plate—while I was chasing a known member of SPYDER—which has threatened my safety. Exactly how much more involved do I need to be before someone can tell me what’s going on?”
My protest seemed to get through to Agent Hamilton. “Give me a few minutes,” she said.
Before she could get back to me, however, my phone was yanked from my hand.
I wheeled around to find a strange man looming over me. He was probably the healthiest-looking person I’d ever seen, tall and muscular without an ounce of fat on him. This was extremely evident to me, as he was only wearing a loincloth—and he’d apparently made that himself. It was some sort of animal skin—beaver, maybe—and there was a hunting knife with a six-inch blade tucked into it. The man had piercing green eyes and a closely cropped beard. His skin was darkly tanned and he smelled like pine needles.
“You must be Agent Wallace,” I said.
“Call me ‘Woodchuck,’ ” he said. “Everyone else does.” Then, with a mighty heave, he flung my mobile phone into the lake.
“Hey!” I cried. “I needed that!”
“Nobody needs a mobile phone,” Woodchuck shot back. “They’re just shackles to civilization. All anyone really needs in this world is the bounty that nature provides. Jerky?” He held out a gnarled piece of dried meat. “It’s opossum. I made it myself.”
“You don’t understand . . . ,” I began.
“Oh, I do,” Woodchuck told me. “Now, you might be a little annoyed to be disconnected over the next few days, but by the end of the week, you’ll thank me for tossing that phone.”
“I was talking to CIA headquarters,” I said. “I was getting an update on the enemy group that’s been targeting me.”
Woodchuck blinked in surprise. “Oh,” he said. “You must be Ripley.”
I glanced back into the cabin to see if Zoe, Chip, and Warren were eavesdropping. They weren’t. Zoe was helping Warren move his things to his new bunk, and Chip was short-sheeting his brother’s bed. I looked back to Woodchuck. “I assume you’ve been briefed on my situation?”
“Yes. And rest assured, you’ll be just as safe here as you were back at school.”
“I wasn’t really that safe at school,” I said. “SPYDER could infiltrate the campus anytime they wanted.”
“Oh? Well, I guess you’ll be safer here, then. This facility is extremely well protected. Plus, you’ve got me looking out for you.” In less than a second, Woodchuck snapped the hunting knife from his loincloth and threw it. It embedded point-first in one of the wooden posts that supported the porch roof forty feet away.
“Not bad,” I said.
“Look closer,” Woodchuck told me.
I went to the end of the porch. As I got closer to the knife, I heard a faint angry buzzing. To my astonishment, the blade had pinned a mosquito to the post by its wings. “Holy cow.”
“Of course, it only does so much good for me to look after you.” Woodchuck came up behind me and yanked the knife free. “It’ll be far more convenient for you to look out for yourself. That’s what we’re going to teach you here this summer. How to survive anything: drowning, landslide, bear attack . . .”
“How about bad guys coming after me with guns?”
“Once you’ve gone a week in the wilderness surviving on nothing but your wits and peat moss, bad guys with guns will be a piece of cake.”
“Is that peat moss thing part of the standard class schedule out here?” I asked warily.
“Nope,” Woodchuck said. “Most of these poor kids don’t get the opportunity to learn a fraction of what I know about survival. But I’ve been given special orders to whip you into shape.”
“Lucky me,” I groaned. I certainly wanted to learn how to protect myself against SPYDER, but full-on survival training seemed a bit overzealous. Spending a week in the wilderness with Woodchuck didn’t sound like much more fun than being captured by the bad guys.
Woodchuck patted me on the shoulder with a hand so calloused, it felt like a paw. “Settle in and get some rest. Your training starts first thing tomorrow.” He tucked the knife back into his loincloth, and then, rather than take the stairs down from the porch, he simply leapt off the railing, grabbed a tree branch, and swung down like a monkey.
“Wow,” Zoe said behind me. Her nose was pressed up against the screen door. “Woodchuck Wallace is going to personally oversee your survival training! You’re going to end up an even more awesome spy than you already are!”
Chip stood right behind her, looking a bit more suspicious. I wondered how much of my conversation they’d overheard. “Why do you get such special treatment? Even the best seniors here are lucky to swing two days of survival training from Woodchuck.”
“It’s not exactly a reward,” I said, trying to deflect the conversation. “You guys are gonna be sitting around the campfire making s’mores, and I’ll be in a cave, eating raw grasshoppers.”
“You don’t get to make many s’mores as a spy,” Chip said. “This is a reward. A lot of the professors at spy school don’t know squat, but Woodchuck’s the real deal. So how about answering the question this time: Why’s he gonna focus on you?”
Before I could come up with a way to weasel out of answering, Warren suddenly stepped between them, looking even more distrustful of me. “I’ve got a better question, Ripley. What’s all this about?” He held up a thick bound document. It seemed to be fifty pages long, with a separate single page clipped to the top.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked.
“It was in my footlocker,” Warren said. “The footlocker that was supposed to be yours. It was in this.” He held up a torn manila envelope on which FOR BEN RIPLEY: CLASSIFIED was written a dozen times.
“You opened my classified mail?” I asked.
“It seemed suspicious,” Warren said proudly. “And my instincts were right. It’s from Murray Hill.”
Zoe gasped in surprise.
“Let me see that!” Chip snatched the document from Warren. I tried to grab it from him, seeing as it was mine, but he turned away, and I managed to snag only the top page off it.
Chip quickly flipped through the document, his face screwed up in confusion. “What is this?” he asked. “It’s just a whole bunch of legal mumbo jumbo.”
Zoe had scampered up onto one of the top bunks to read over Chip’s shoulder. Now, her eyes went wide at what she saw. “It’s a contract,” she said. “Murray’s offering Ben a job.”
“No,” I said. There was no way to keep everything a secret anymore. “Not Murray. The evil organization he works for.”
Then I held up the single page from the top of the contract so they could see it. It was a note from Murray.
Hey, Ben!
Sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk the other day. I was hoping to give you a heads-up about this. I know all the legalese can give you a headache just to look at, so here’s the gist:
SPYDER is working on a very big project that requires the services of someone with your special skills. We could really use your help on this one, and we’re prepared to pay you well for it.
That said, while we want you to work with us, we really don’t want you working against us. So either you join us—or we kill you. That’s not an idle threat. As you’ve no doubt figured out, we can get into spy camp easily.
If you’re in, sign the contract and leave it in the hollow tree stump by the entry gate, and we’ll extract you. If you’re out, well . . . it was nice knowing you.
You have twenty-four hours to decide.
PROTECTION
&
nbsp; Happy Trails
June 13
1300 hours
I had no intentions of working for SPYDER, of course. However, since the alternative was death, I did find myself somewhat reluctant to reject their offer.
Murray wasn’t bluffing about the death thing. It was written right into the contract, under the heading “Termination Clause,” although SPYDER’s lawyers made even this sound boring: “If the party of the first part (Ripley) opts not to engage in business with the party of the second part (SPYDER), then SPYDER reserves the right to terminate the existence of Ripley in the manner in which they see fit.”
The rest of the contract was written in exactly the same mind-clouding way, filled with words like “heretofore,” “injunctive,” “irrevocable,” and “obfuscatory.” After I’d violated a dozen security protocols and explained to Zoe, Chip, and Warren exactly what SPYDER was, the four of us leafed through the contract, trying to make sense of the pages. There was a great deal about compensation packages, confidentiality agreements, warranties, and such—and a particularly unsettling list of penalties for breach of contract, such as: “In the event that Ripley is determined to merely be pretending to provide services for SPYDER while, in actuality, continuing to act in the capacity of a federal agent, then SPYDER shall retaliate in a manner such as, but not limited to, the following: removal of Ripley’s head by force from the rest of his body, extraction of Ripley’s cerebellum via his nasal passages, excessive bludgeoning, or defenestration.”
Despite all the verbiage, there was no mention of what SPYDER was working on or what they actually wanted me to do for them.
“We need to take this to Woodchuck,” Zoe said. “Right now. You don’t just need survival training. You need your own security force ASAP.”
“Good idea,” I said. In fact, my gut instinct was to go to Erica with the contract, but there was no way I could do that without the others knowing, and Erica wanted to keep her involvement covert. Besides, I figured I could always find her later—although once Erica got wind of the contract, there was a good chance she’d come find me.
We found Woodchuck in front of the administration building, weaving himself a sun hat out of saw grass. He made no attempt to hide his surprise after I showed him the contract, and his eyes grew wider and wider as he leafed through it until I thought they might fall out of his head. “Whoa,” he said. “This is serious.”
“I know,” I said. “What should we do about it?”
“First of all, we beef up security around the camp,” Woodchuck replied. “Especially around your cabin. I’ll set up a few extra snares and such to keep out anyone from SPYDER. But beyond that, well . . . I have to admit, this is a bit out of my league.”
“Really?” I asked. “But you’re in charge here.”
“I teach survival skills,” Woodchuck replied. “Not counter-terrorism. I’ll do my best to ensure your safety here, but I’ll have to report this to my superiors to find out what to do next. For the meantime, you ought to be safe. SPYDER gave you twenty-four hours to think about this, so they probably won’t try anything until then.” Woodchuck glanced up at the sun to assess the time. “Looks like it’s just past one. Lunch is on in the mess hall. Go get yourself some food. I ought to have a response from the CIA by the time you’re done.”
“All right,” I said.
Woodchuck started into the admin cabin, then thought of something and turned back to Zoe, Chip, and Warren. “I shouldn’t have to tell you, but SPYDER’s existence is highly classified. No one else is to know. Ben shouldn’t have even shared this information with the three of you.”
“I didn’t,” I said. “This was SPYDER’s doing. They left the contract in the wrong footlocker.”
“Whatever the case, keep it quiet,” Woodchuck ordered. “Not so much as a word to anyone.”
We all nodded agreement and headed for the mess hall. Despite Woodchuck’s assurances that I’d be safe for the next twenty-four hours, I still couldn’t help feeling unsettled. Death threats have that effect on a person.
I wasn’t the only one. My friends were twitchy as well. Anytime there was a rustle in the trees, they wheeled toward it, expecting an attack. It was a relief to get into the mess, where we were surrounded by familiar faces.
The mess was surprisingly similar to the one at spy school. The students ate with the same groups of friends, the same hairnetted staff loaded up our plates, and the food appeared just as likely to send us to the hospital. The only difference was the décor: At Happy Trails, the walls were covered with the mounted heads of animals. There was a black bear, a moose, two wolves, an entire herd of deer, and a passel of assorted rodents. They had all obviously been put up long ago—each animal had a heavy coating of dust, and every set of antlers was thickly strung with spiderwebs—and yet, their presence in a dining area was still disconcerting. They all gazed down at everyone dolefully, as though upset that we were eating their descendants.
Erica was there, behaving the exact same way she did during meals at regular school. She was seated by herself, with her nose in a book, apparently unaware of anything going on around her. This was misleading, however. I’d never known of anyone as in tune with her surroundings as Erica. Even though she hadn’t so much as glanced in my direction, I was sure she knew I was there. In fact, knowing Erica, she probably somehow knew more about the contract from SPYDER than I did.
There was no chance to approach her, though. Zoe and Warren didn’t leave my side. And even Chip, who normally wouldn’t have been caught dead eating with first-year students, followed me to a table.
I knew what was going on. It was the first time any of them had been privy to an active investigation. It’s hard to act normal when you’re in circumstances that aren’t normal at all. Despite our direct orders, I knew it was only a matter of time before one of them cracked and began talking. I would have bet money on Warren, but Zoe turned out to be the first to go.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Ben said SPYDER put the contract in the wrong footlocker, but they didn’t . . .”
“We’re not supposed to be talking about SPYDER!” Warren hissed. “We have direct orders!”
“Keep your pants on,” Chip said. “We’re not supposed to tell anyone about it. But the four of us already know.”
“This room is full of spies in training,” Warren said. “Who knows who might be eavesdropping on us? I don’t want to get booted out of school for violating a secrecy directive and revealing SPYDER’s existence.”
“So we won’t call it SPYDER,” Chip said. “If we call it something else, we can’t get in trouble for revealing it.”
“How about SPORK?” Zoe said, holding up her plastic utensil.
“Works for me,” Chip said.
Before Warren could protest, Zoe pressed on. “Anyhow, SPORK didn’t get the wrong locker. They got the right one; they just didn’t predict that you guys would switch bunks. Which means that whoever delivered that contract for SPORK must have been keeping a close eye on Muskrat Cabin.”
Warren suddenly grew more skittish than usual. “Maybe SPORK’s man is inside Muskrat Cabin,” he whispered.
“Hey, you’re in Muskrat Cabin,” Chip said. “Maybe it’s you.”
“What?” Warren gasped.
Chip leaned closer, pointing a finger at Warren. “In fact, we never actually saw you take the contract out of the footlocker. Maybe you just said you’d found it.”
“I did find it!” Warren swiveled toward Zoe, desperate to prove his innocence to her. “I swear! I’d never work for the enemy!”
Chip suddenly burst into laughter. “Relax, Chameleon. I’m just jerking your chain. As if SPORK would ever hire a whack-job like you.”
To Warren’s annoyance, Zoe laughed as well.
“Ha ha, very funny,” Warren steamed. “An enemy organization has infiltrated our school, Smokescreen’s life is being threatened, and it’s all just one big joke to you.”
“What’s this about
enemy organizations and Smokescreen?” Jawaharlal O’Shea slipped into the seat between Warren and me.
I winced. So much for keeping a lid on things. “It’s nothing. We were just imagining potential dangerous scenarios so we’d be prepared if they occurred.”
“My mistake,” Jawa said, although I was quite sure he didn’t buy it. Jawa was one of the best future spies at school. He was part Indian, Irish, Nicaraguan, Kenyan, Indonesian, and Chinese, with perhaps a dozen other ethnicities thrown in. He was an exceptionally diligent student, working so hard in part to prove that he hadn’t merely been accepted at spy school to fill several minority quotas at once. Jawa was incredibly smart and a great athlete, the captain of both the school chess and fencing teams.
Nate Mackey slipped into the seat across from him. Although Nate and Jawa were good friends, they were polar opposites in capability. Nate was one of the worst students at school, almost as bad as Murray Hill had been—only Murray had been bad on purpose. Lousiness came naturally to Nate. The only reason he’d been accepted at spy school was that he, like Erica, was a legacy. But while Erica came from a long line of spies renowned for their derring-do, Nate came from a short line of CIA accountants renowned for their cost-cutting. “What kind of scenario were you imagining?” he asked.
“It’s not important,” I said. “We were only goofing around. . . .”
“Hold on, Smokescreen,” Zoe said. “Why not let Brainiac and Potatohead play too? At least Brainiac might have some ideas on the subject.”
“Which one of us is Brainiac?” Nate asked.
“I’ll give you a hint,” Chip said. “It’s not you.”
“Let’s hear it,” Jawa said.
“What if one of us were being targeted by an enemy organization?” Zoe asked. “They want you to do something for them within twenty-four hours. And if you don’t, they’ll kill you.”
“What do they want you to do?” Jawa asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “We’re really more concerned with the ‘how do you not get killed’ part.”
