Spy Camp

by Stuart Gibbs

  “Well, let’s do it now,” Cyrus said. “Where to, Erica?”

  Erica gave him the address of the new location, which was on the outskirts of town. I had expected to find a rustic, peaceful setting, but as we got closer, we found mayhem instead. The roads were filled with bumper-to-bumper traffic. In every field we passed, hundreds of people were gathered. Half were dressed in standard tourist garb—T-shirts, shorts, and baseball caps, with cameras strung around their necks—while the others were dressed far more unusually. They appeared to be in the wrong century. The women wore hoopskirts and carried parasols, while most of the men were in military uniforms, either blue or gray.

  “What on earth is going on here?” Alexander asked.

  “It’s a Civil War battle reenactment,” I groaned.

  “The Battle of Second Winchester, to be specific,” Erica said. “It was one of the major battles of the Civil War. The celebrations start today and go all weekend.”

  “Very clever of SPYDER,” Cyrus said, not bothering to hide his admiration.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Look around you,” Cyrus said. “Total chaos. A thousand distractions for SPYDER to take advantage of. A hundred crowds for them to blend into . . .”

  “But then it’s easier for us to blend in too,” Erica said.

  Cyrus grinned at his granddaughter. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose it is.”

  He pulled into a field that had been turned into a temporary parking lot. A teenage boy in a commemorative “The South Will Rise Again” T-shirt stopped us. “It’s ten bucks to park,” he said. “Are y’all Yankees, Confederates, or impartial observers?”

  “Yankees, of course,” Cyrus said, and forked over the money. “Is there a sutler nearby?”

  “North end of the field,” the kid replied. “They’ll fix you up real good.”

  We parked and emerged into a surreal combination of modern and Civil War times. Men in authentic Civil War uniforms were waiting in line for state-of-the-art portable toilets. A pickup truck rumbled past, towing an actual cannon on a trailer. Out in the fields, soldiers were drilling the same way they would have in 1862, but they were surrounded by hordes of tourists eating take-out fast food and snapping photos with their smartphones. A regiment of cavalry practiced maneuvers in front of a brand-new suburban community, while a field hospital filled with men pretending that they’d been hurt in battle might have looked genuine if there hadn’t been a Dairy Queen behind it.

  “Where’s the farmhouse in question?” Cyrus asked.

  Erica pointed across the battlefield. On the far side, beyond a line of cannon, there was a two-story farmhouse straight out of a storybook. It had a white picket fence, a wraparound porch, and a large tree with a swing hanging from the branches.

  “Looks like that’s behind Union lines,” Cyrus said. “We’d better dress accordingly.”

  As promised, there was a sutler at the north end of the field. A sutler turned out to be a Civil War merchant—or at least, a merchant pretending to be from the Civil War. An entire store had been erected under a large tent, beneath which you could acquire everything necessary to make yourself look like an authentic soldier: uniforms, hats, muskets, knives, boots, haversacks, canteens, spyglasses, tinware, and even hardtack specifically made to taste exactly as terrible as it would have in the Civil War.

  A man in period merchant dress looked up from polishing a musket as we entered. He had a beard so bushy it looked as though he’d glued the tail of a squirrel to his chin. “Greetings, good citizens,” he said. “Can I be of some service today?”

  “I hope so,” Cyrus replied. “We’re longtime reenactors, but unfortunately, our house burned down this year and we lost all our gear. We’re in need of four full Union uniforms, from caps to boots, and we understand this is the place to come for the highest-quality merchandise.”

  A big smile blossomed beneath the merchant’s mustache. “That it is, good sir. I can get all of you outfitted in a jiffy, although”—he nodded toward Erica—“I can’t help but notice that one of you isn’t qualified for service in this man’s army.”

  Erica’s eyes narrowed. “You ever heard of Sarah Emma Edmonds? She disguised herself as a man and not only fought valiantly in the war, but also served as a spy for the Union.”

  “Of course I’ve heard of her,” the merchant said.

  “Well, I happen to be her great-great-great-granddaughter,” Erica told him. “And as such, I believe that gives me the right to fight as a man in whatever battle I choose.”

  The merchant turned bright red. “I’m terribly sorry to offend you, ma’am,” he said. “I had no idea you were the descendant of such an important figure. I’ll get you outfitted right away.” He scurried off to grab some clothes for us.

  I turned to Erica, surprised. “Are you really Sarah Edmonds’s descendant?”

  “No,” she said. “I only know about her from History of American Espionage. Although I did have quite a few ancestors who were spies for the Union.”

  “Of course you did,” I said.

  A half hour later, Cyrus handed over a wad of cash that had been stashed in his utility belt, and we left the sutler’s dressed from head to toe in authentic Civil War gear. I quickly discovered that, in the world of Civil War battle reenacting, “authentic” means “incredibly uncomfortable.” My uniform was poorly made, itchy, and ill-fitting. It was also dirty, smelly, full of holes, and nasty hot. Despite the summer sun beating down, I was wearing three layers—long johns, the regular uniform, and a heavy topcoat. I was also weighted down with a musket, a bayonet, a bandolier of ammunition, and a haversack stuffed with my old clothes and a few new supplies. Before I’d gotten halfway across the battlefield, I was dripping with sweat. “Did we have to be completely authentic?” I asked Erica. “I’m gonna die of dehydration.”

  “You don’t want to look like a farb out here,” Erica told me. “You’ll draw attention to yourself, and we don’t need attention.”

  I nodded and sighed. A “farb,” I’d learned from the sutler, was a reenactor who didn’t strive for authenticity—for example, someone who had the good sense to wear nice, comfortable cotton underwear beneath his uniform.

  In this spirit, Erica had hidden any trace of the fact that she was a woman, just as Sarah Edmonds had probably done. Her hair was tucked up under her blue cap, and she wore the same clothes that I did. I had originally worried that we’d stand out, given our ages, but it turned out that there were plenty of kids dressed for battle. Apparently, it was common for children to participate in the Civil War, and thus, lots of fathers had brought their sons along for a fun family weekend of simulated violence and bloodshed.

  As opposed to Erica’s family, who were bringing her along for a weekend of actual violence and bloodshed.

  We reached the Union brigade closest to the farmhouse where we suspected SPYDER was holed up. A soldier on post pointed his musket at us. “State your business,” he demanded.

  Cyrus gave him a sharp salute. “Cyrus Hale and family, looking to join your forces so that we may aid in ridding the Union of the Confederate scourge.”

  The Union soldier relaxed his guard and smiled. “The Thirty-Fourth Regiment under the Honorable General Robert Milroy appreciates your help. We took a terrible beating in this morning’s battle and could use some extra hands.” He pointed toward the “battlefield,” where dozens of men still lay in the summer sun, pretending to be dead or wounded, waiting for nurses, medics, and coroners to come collect them.

  “Where might we be of the best service?” Cyrus asked.

  “Well, we always need basic infantry,” the soldier said. “Though I don’t suppose any of you knows how to work a cannon? One of our usual cannoneers came down with dropsy this morning.”

  “Dropsy?” I asked. “Really?”

  “Well, no,” the soldier confided. “In truth, he got a bad case of irritable bowel syndrome, but ‘dropsy’ sounds more authentic.”

  �
�I know how to work a cannon,” Cyrus said with a smile.

  “You do?” the soldier asked excitedly.

  “You do?” Alexander echoed.

  “Of course,” Cyrus told them. “My grandfather taught me.”

  The soldier quickly brought us over to the cannons, where the news that Cyrus knew how to fire one was met with great excitement. After a brief quiz to establish that Cyrus truly knew what he was doing, the four of us were placed in charge of an actual working cannon. Cyrus was to serve as head cannoneer while the rest of us were in charge of loading and firing. There was no real ammunition—even the reenactors weren’t that committed to authenticity—but there were gunpowder charges, so that the cannons would boom and smoke just like the real things, along with cork cannonballs that could be fired at the enemy.

  Our cannon was one of ten arrayed along the western edge of the battlefield, aimed toward the Confederate forces on the east. The farmhouse SPYDER had commandeered was behind our lines, farther west of us, but the Union brigade we’d fallen in with was a large one and we were able to case the enemy compound without much fear of being noticed. We used our brand-new Civil War scopes, which actually worked quite well. They didn’t have the laser-guided digital focusing of the scopes we used in spy school, but I could still see everything in the distance quite clearly.

  The battlefield sloped gently, so that we were slightly uphill from the farmhouse. Thus, I could look straight through the second-story windows into what appeared to be the master bedroom. There was a gauzy window shade, but it was flapping in the breeze, and as it did, I caught sight of a person sitting in a chair in the telltale ramrod position of someone whose wrists are tied behind her back. There was a blindfold wrapped around her eyes.

  “I found Zoe,” I said.

  “Where?” all the Hales asked at once.

  “Second floor, southernmost room,” I replied, and they all swung their scopes that way.

  “Chip’s there too,” Erica reported. “And Jawa.”

  “Looks like they’ve got the whole gang,” Alexander said. “I count six hostages.”

  I did too. Claire, Hank, and Warren were also in the room, tied to chairs and blindfolded. They weren’t alone.

  “There’s guards in the room with them,” I reported. “Two men, both armed.”

  “Which means there’s probably a dozen more we can’t see,” Cyrus said. “I’m gonna go a bit closer, do some more invasive recon.”

  “All right!” Erica exclaimed excitedly, but Cyrus held up a hand, signaling her to stay put.

  “I said I’m gonna go,” he told her. “You’ve stuck your neck out plenty already today, little lady.”

  “Aw, Grandpa . . . ,” Erica began to protest.

  “No,” Cyrus said firmly. “First of all, it’s dangerous. Second, we need to keep a low profile here. An old coot wandering around the battlefield in uniform won’t attract much attention here today. An old coot wandering around with his granddaughter will.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Erica said. “They won’t see us.”

  “They will,” Cyrus told her. “These guys aren’t amateurs. So just park your keister right here until I get back.” Cyrus shifted his attention to Alexander. “Make sure she listens.”

  “You mean I’m not going either?” Alexander whined.

  “No. We can’t afford any screwups right now,” Cyrus told him. “And no one screws up like you do.”

  Alexander recoiled as though his father had slapped him.

  Cyrus took no notice of his son’s hurt feelings. He handed Erica his haversack. “There’s two walkie-talkies in there. I’ve got the third,” he said, then slipped into the crowd of Union soldiers and disappeared.

  Erica opened the rucksack and took out the walkie-talkies, amused by how out-of-date they were. “Radio communication,” she said with a smile. “I’m surprised he didn’t just give us a tin can on a string.”

  Alexander slumped against the cannon, looking miserable. I actually found myself feeling sorry for him. Yes, Alexander was a cad, a phony, and an opportunist, but I got the sense that he’d spent a great deal of his life trying to impress his father and had never received so much as a smile in return.

  Meanwhile, Erica seemed to be at the opposite end of the emotional spectrum. While a few hours with Cyrus had beaten Alexander down, Erica was as chipper as I’d ever seen her. She had resumed her surveillance of the enemy compound, whistling happily as she peered through her scope.

  “You don’t seem that upset he left you here,” I said.

  Erica shrugged. “I’m not thrilled about it, but Grandpa’s right about needing to keep a low profile. He’s always right when it comes to these things. He was probably the best spy the CIA ever had.”

  “Ever had?” I repeated. “He looks like he’s still working to me.”

  Erica shook her head. “No, he’s been retired for years. He still consults every once in a while, but he’s never agreed to be activated again until now.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Because he certainly seems to enjoy it.”

  “Oh, I know he does,” Erica said. “But he says that spying is a young man’s game.”

  “He looks fine to me,” I said. “He held his own against those guys at Apple Valley today.”

  Erica smiled. “He didn’t mean physically. He meant that the longer you stay in, the more enemies you make. And Grandpa racked up plenty of enemies over the years. Plus, you can only keep your identity a secret for so long. Eventually, it becomes too dangerous for you to stay active. In fact, it’s even dangerous to be inactive. Grandpa had to go underground years ago. I don’t even know where he lives.”

  I turned to her, stunned. “But you’re his granddaughter!”

  “When you’ve had a career like his,” Erica said, “there’s no such thing as being too careful.”

  I realized that, while I’d spent an awful lot of time thinking about life as a spy, I’d never spent any time thinking about life after being a spy before. It suddenly seemed awfully sad and lonely. My mind flitted back to the first conversation I’d had with Murray Hill, when he’d tried to recruit me to SPYDER, where he’d emphasized all the negative aspects of a life in espionage. Now there was another one. “How often do you get to see him?” I asked.

  “Oh, every month or so,” Erica said. “He drops in when he’s sure the coast is clear. Of course, I suspect he keeps tabs on me the rest of the time, though I’ve never caught him at it.”

  “Of course he keeps tabs on you,” Alexander said sullenly. “You’re his pride and joy. The perfect student that I never was.”

  Erica turned to her father. “That’s not true,” she said.

  “Yes, it is,” Alexander grumbled. “Nothing I did was ever good enough for him. I couldn’t disarm an enemy in two seconds. I couldn’t build a bomb out of household chemicals without blowing up the kitchen. Even now, I can’t be expected to help on a simple surveillance run. You heard him: I’ll just screw things up.” He turned away and sat down on a sack of gunpowder.

  Erica sighed sadly. Despite all the bad things she’d told me about her father, she seemed to feel sorry for him too.

  The ensuing silence was pretty uncomfortable. I tried to distract myself by scoping out the farmhouse again. Not much had changed, though. My classmates were in the same places they’d been the last time I checked, which made sense, since they were tied to the furniture. The same two men were still on guard in the bedroom. The only difference was that I could now see a third guard. He was downstairs, in what appeared to be the kitchen, looking out the window furtively.

  I wondered where Cyrus was.

  I scanned the crowd of Union soldiers, but couldn’t find him. As I searched, something began to nag at me. I had a sense that something we’d just discussed was important, although I wasn’t quite sure why. I felt like I was looking at a hazy picture that had barely begun to come into focus.

  I lowered my scope and turned back to Erica. “Has the CIA tri
ed to reactivate your grandfather before?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said. “He says they come to him all the time.”

  “So why did he agree this time?”

  “For a chance to actually confront SPYDER,” Alexander said. “Defeating them would pretty much cement his reputation as the greatest spy of all time.”

  As Alexander said this, however, I knew it was the wrong answer. I locked eyes with Erica. She’d realized it too.

  “No,” she said, growing concerned. “He reactivated because of me.”

  “I think so,” I agreed. “Like your father said, you’re Cyrus’s pride and joy. He knew you’d gotten involved in this, and he was worried about you.” The hazy picture was becoming clearer now.

  A bugle blared from the Confederate lines on the far side of the battlefield. A war whoop rose from the rebels, followed by an excited cheer from the spectators.

  “To arms!” yelled a bearded man on horseback. He wore a general’s uniform and waved a saber above his head. “Johnny Reb prepares to attack! Let us make these fields run red with his blood!”

  Now the Union soldiers whooped. The men around us leapt to their feet and shook their weapons in the air. After milling about in the hot sun for a few hours, everyone was excited to play war.

  Erica, Alexander, and I were the only ones focused the other direction. We were all staring at the farmhouse.

  Erica asked her father, “Did Grandpa know I was involved in this when the CIA approached him about activating?”

  Alexander frowned. “I’m sure he did.”

  I looked to Erica, worried. Everything was beginning to make sense. Like why SPYDER had been so blatant in their intentions with me.

  “This isn’t about me at all,” I said. “SPYDER never wanted me.”

  “They wanted Grandpa,” Erica said. “They knew you’d come to me for help, and that if I got involved, he’d get involved.”

  “No,” Alexander said. “They couldn’t be that far ahead of us.”

  “They’re always that far ahead of us,” I said. I suddenly felt hollow inside. In part, this was because, once again, SPYDER had completely fooled everyone—including me. But in part, I was also ashamed. There hadn’t been anything special about me. I had no incredible innate skill that made me invaluable to SPYDER’s plans. SPYDER had made it all up to mislead everyone involved. I was a patsy—and a fool.