Tree Root Cavern and the Cryptic Discovery

by D. B. Magee

  “Well, what you just attempted is certainly not legal,” Jamie said, staring menacingly into Mr. Smith’s glowering face. “And you’re right about this not being a homeland security matter. This is personal.”

  Mr. Smith glared out the door and scanned the immediate area. “So, where are your two cohorts, the dames with the fish names?” he growled.

  “They retired. They decided they’d had enough of chasing people like you. Don’t worry though — Falcon and Raptor, here, will take good care of you.” Jamie grabbed the handle to the door and as he slid it closed, Lisa got a look at the arm patch of one of the soldiers. “Okay now, kids, step back!” Jamie said, taking his seat next to the pilot.

  Lisa and Ryan moved back. William and Stacy, having kept their distance from the beginning, were already clear of the helicopter’s blades.

  Looking at the pilot, Jamie rotated a finger in the air. Seconds later the engine whined to life and the blades began to rotate. “Remember,” he said, raising his voice over the increasing noise, “if you ever need me, just call. Good luck on your mission.” He gave a quick wave and shut his door. The rotors chuffed wildly, causing the dry foliage to flatten out and wave wildly.

  The kids covered their faces and moved even farther away from the stirring dust and debris as the chopper lifted off. In mere seconds, the monochrome whirlybird was simply a small dark speck against the bright yellow backdrop of the sun.

  “I don’t believe it!” Lisa squealed, on their return to the house. “Jamie is Ghost.”

  The kids tromped along a section of dusty, dirt-bike track that was mostly free of overgrowth. William and Stacy were in the lead, discussing the recent turn of events, with Lisa and Ryan following a number of yards behind.

  Ryan, strolling along next to Lisa, pulled a dried reed from the ground. “I think you’ve been spending too much time in the spirit world,” he scoffed, the long stem sticking out the corner of his mouth. “Ya can’t even tell the difference between spirits and real people, anymore.”

  Lisa glared at Ryan. “I didn’t say Jamie is a ghost,” she said sternly. “I said Jamie is Ghost. You know — the head of Pyramid.”

  “Ha!” Ryan gibed. “Now, I think you’ve been reading too much of Jamie’s journal. You’re letting your imagination run away with ya — as Granny would say.”

  “I am not!” Lisa snapped. “I heard that thug call him Ghost, and I saw an arm patch on one of the soldiers. It said Homeland Security, and it even had an image of a pyramid in the center of it.”

  “Are you sure about all of this?” Ryan asked thoughtfully, his brows knitted close together and his eyes fixed searchingly on Lisa’s insistent gaze.

  “I am absolutely — one hundred percent — positive!” Lisa said firmly.

  “Yee! Haw!” Ryan suddenly exploded. “This means Granny is friends with a real-life secret spy. I wonder why she never told me — probably top-secret and all that. Do you think his life is as exciting as James Bond?”

  With Ryan ranting away, Lisa walked along silently. Something Ryan had said about his granny knowing a spy had caused her subconscious to kick into overdrive. Her mind raced as it attempted to connect pieces of information, like a super computer putting together a complex jigsaw puzzle.

  Jamie is Ghost, head of Pyramid. She thought back to Jamie’s journal: Pyramid is shown as a three-person team — Ghost, shark, and eel. Her mind quickly recalled the comment made by Mr. Smith: His two cohorts are “dames” with fish names, retired. So, Eel and Shark must be women, who no longer work with him. Recalling the conversation with Jamie in the house, she thought: Granny and Nana have both known Jamie for a long time. Her mind reeled back to when Ryan had first arrived, to her first meeting with Granny, to the snake bracelet she wore. What if that wasn’t a snake? What if it was an — eel? Consciously now, she thought back to when she was a little girl, to the few times she had seen her Nana’s fish bracelet. Suddenly it hit her. What if that wasn’t a fish, but a . . . She stopped abruptly and turned to Ryan. “Our grandmothers are spies!”

  Ryan coughed out his reed in surprise. “Now wouldn’t that be something; both our grannies being spies with Jamie.”

  “I’m not joking,” Lisa said to a dubious Ryan. “Do you remember that Pyramid drawing in the journal that shows Ghost at the top position and Eel and Shark as other agents?”

  Ryan nodded.

  “Well your granny wears a bracelet with an image of what I originally thought was a snake, but I’m sure now is an eel.”

  Ryan snorted and shook his head. “That doesn’t mean anything . . .”

  Lisa quickly continued, “No, but get this, my nana wears an identical bracelet, except that its image is of a — shark.”

  Exiled

  Three days later

  “Thanks for the lift, Lieutenant,” Jamie shouted to the US Navy Seal team leader standing with him near the bulkhead of the loud, in-flight, military C-130 cargo plane. Sitting in web seats along one side of the aircraft’s fuselage was a platoon of Navy SEALs on their way to a top-secret training mission somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

  “My pleasure, Commander,” the team leader hollered back over the four noisy turboprop engines. He pointed to the two unconscious thugs lying in one of the two Zodiac inflatable raiding crafts in the center of the large, open cargo bay. “What’s their story?”

  “Sorry, Lieutenant, ‘need-to-know’.”

  “Yes, sir,” the team leader said, fully understanding the meaning and importance of that special security classification.

  Just then the aircraft bucked hard under turbulence. Mr. Smith’s eyes popped open, and to his vexation he found himself bound and being jostled about so severely that it was nearly impossible to sit up in the bouncing rubber craft. After multiple attempts, he finally struggled to an upright position. As he did, he noticed the cargo bay ramp slowly opening. The soldiers in their special ops wet water gear watched him without expression.

  “Where are you taking us?” Mr. Smith demanded, his pleading eyes glancing searchingly at the hardened faces staring silently back at him.

  “Home,” he heard from behind.

  He spun around, as best he could amongst all the gear in the watercraft, and saw Jamie sitting in a single webbed seat against the forward bulkhead, legs crossed at the ankles, smoking a cigar.

  Mr. Smith glowered. “My home is the United States now, Ghost!”

  “Not anymore,” Jamie replied.

  Mr. Smith started to object, when suddenly a yellow light on the bulkhead lit up. An audible indicator sounded at the same time.

  Jamie glanced at the light and then nodded to the team leader.

  “You four,” the team leader said, pointing to the four Seals closest to the exit ramp. “Prepare two for deployment.”

  The four soldiers immediately stood and approached the Zodiacs.

  “Out of the boat!” a soldier ordered, and with his help and the assistance of one other soldier, Mr. Smith stumbled out of the dinghy as obligingly as he could, thinking that the two men needed to prepare their watercraft for deployment.

  The other two soldiers aroused Bubba, who was still out cold, and escorted him out of the dinghy.

  In the next instant, in a whirlwind of activity, the prisoners’ hands were freed, parachutes were strapped to their backs, static lines attached to an overhead cable, and they were escorted onto the now opened loading ramp.

  “Hold!” The loadmaster said, presenting a closed fist.

  Bubba and Mr. Smith were stopped and held in position at the hinged edge of the ramp. The team leader pointed to the handles atop the reserve chutes attached to their chests and shouted over the thundering engines: “This is your emergency ripcord — should you need it. After you jump, count to ten and look up. If your main chute isn’t open, pull this.”

  “Huh? What?” Bubba mumbled, still groggy from the sedative.

  Mr. Smith glared past the team leader to Jamie. “What’s the meaning of this, Gho
st?” he shouted.

  Jamie didn’t answer — he simply stared out a small window in the fuselage, his hands cupped behind his back. His stubby stogie hung from his lips, and a thin trail of smoke from the end of the cigar swirled upward.

  Bubba sleepily crumpled to the floor under the weight of the parachute, and sat bent over, trying to clear his head.

  Mr. Smith peered out the back of the aircraft past the open ramp. The whole panoramic view was devoid of everything except the dark blue ocean below and the light blue sky above. “Where is my country?” he demanded. “I refuse to be dropped out the middle of the sea in nothing more than a rubber dinghy,” he protested.

  Jamie, still looking out the window, now saw what he had been waiting for. He turned and faced Mr. Smith. “I’m afraid, Musrat, that you are sadly disillusioned. Those inflatables are not for you.”

  “What?” Mr. Smith exclaimed, a look of fear on his face. “You’re just going to drop us into the ocean?”

  Jamie smirks. “Look again.”

  Mr. Smith peered out the back of the aircraft once again. This time he saw the irregular shape of a craggy, forest-covered, tropical island coastline.

  A bell sounded and the yellow bulkhead light turned green.

  “GO!” the loadmaster shouted, pointing straight-armed out the back of the aircraft.

  Bubba was lifted to his feet, and both goons were shoved onto the level ramp.

  “Move!” ordered one of the soldiers, jabbing his rifle forward. As Bubba and Mr. Smith were forced back, the loadmaster hit a switch, causing the ramp to decline slowly.

  Mr. Smith’s feet began to slip on the sloping ramp. “Wait!” he shrieked. “We can make a deal.”

  The loadmaster jogged the switch causing the ramp to drop quickly a few inches. The thugs fell and tumbled out of the aircraft.

  Mr. Smith screamed through the whistling wind as he streaked earthward at a hundred and twenty miles per hour, “I’ll get you for this, I swearrrrr!”

  Curled up like a cannonball, Bubba was heard sobbing like a baby as gravity pulled him speedily downward.

  With their voices trailing off into the distance, their round canopies could be seen fluttering open. Two large crates were shoved off the plane after them. The gigantic freight chutes open almost instantly, sounding like gun shots.

  Bubba threw his arms over his head. “Don’t shoot!” he screamed.

  Moments later, the two men splashed down in the shallow waters along the coastline. Shaken, but now wide awake, they staggered to the other end of the beach, toward the parachute-enshrouded crates. Beyond the small, crescent-shaped, white sandy beach was a wild jungle-like forest, alive with all manner of strange animal and bird sounds.

  “I sure hope there’s something to eat in those crates,” Bubba groaned, holding his growling gut.

  “I hope there’s something we can use to get off this foul island,” Mr. Smith squawked.

  Motivated by the emptiness in his stomach, Bubba hastened to the nearest box. Pulling the parachute free, he read the single word painted on the wooden lid. “Boss, I was right,” he said. “This one is labeled Provisions. What do you think they left us — fruits, vegetables, meat?”

  Mr. Smith, exhausted from the heat and the weight of his water-soaked and sand-covered trousers, stopped and dropped to his knees. “Knowing Ghost,” he growled, “they’re probably military rations.”

  “Yuck!” Bubba grimaced, “anything but that.” Finding a rock, he smashed through the lid. Within the crate, half a dozen cardboard boxes were neatly stacked and labeled. He began reading off the labels aloud, while rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Tomatoes, watermelon, potatoes, onions, beets, lettuce . . . Whew’ee! I can make one heck of a salad with this stuff,” he boasted, his mouth watering as he pulled out and tore into the first box.

  Mr. Smith now lay sprawled out on the sand, parched and panting. “Break out one of those watermelons,” he said, his voice rasping.

  “Uh, Boss, we’ve got a slight problem here.”

  “I don’t care right now, just give me something wet.”

  Bubba carried the cardboard box over to Mr. Smith and dropped it in the sand next to him. Stamped in various places on the box was the word: Tomato.

  “Hurry up! Give me one.” Mr. Smith gropes at the top of the box causing it to tip over. His jaw dropped as bags and bags of tomato seeds spilled out in front of him. “Ghost!” he screamed, with fists pointed at the sky, “I — hate — you!”

  A Fellowship is Formed

  Everything looks good, Stacy thought, sitting at her computer and making a final inspection of the Spacebook website. Now all we have to do is wait to see if anyone will come.

  With the FG network finally operational and all of the notices sent to the various social networking sites to introduce their celestial portal, Stacy removed her headphones, turned off her computer, and headed to the attic to join the others. Upon entering, she saw a bustle of activity. Mr. Walborg was over by one of the windows, installing an air conditioner. William was escorting two deliverymen who carried the first of four futuristic-looking chase lounge chairs over to where Lisa was singlehandedly sweeping the floor for their placement.

  Over the last few days a lot had happened. The kids explained everything to Lisa’s parents, who had been remarkably supportive. Mr. Walborg, with the help of Ryan and William, had already repaired the broken hatch in the pruning platform and installed an early warning system around the property, which the kids could monitor from any of the computers connected to the home network. He also configured the Frequency Glasses to accept constant power from the laptop, in order to prevent the FG network from going down due to depleted batteries. In addition, he’d installed a backup generator to supply power for the network, in case of electrical power failure. Lisa and Stacy all the while were cleaning out the attic, throwing away all garbage and consolidating everything else to one end of the room. Mrs. Walborg, having enough on her plate with running the household, declined to help with their project. “I can’t see why you kids would want your clubhouse up in that filthy old attic, anyway,” she had said.

  William pointed to Lisa as he and the delivery men approached. “She’s the one you’re looking for,” he said. “She’s in charge of furniture placement.”

  “Thank you, Sonny,” the lead deliveryman said to William. Then, addressing Lisa, he asked, “Where would you like this, miss?”

  “Could you set the four of them in a semicircular arrangement here in this corner?” Lisa asked, stepping out of the way. “This is going to be our lounge area,” she added cheerfully.

  “Sure thing,” the jolly, rotund fella replied. Then, together with his tall, lanky partner, he positioned the first chair in place and headed downstairs for the next one.

  Mr. Walborg followed the two men downstairs in order to switch the power back on to the attic.

  Not even waiting for the plastic cover to be removed, William plopped down in the chair with his hands behind his head. “This is going to be great!” he declared. “We’re going to be able to astral travel in style, now.”

  “I don’t get it,” Ryan said, positioning the ship’s wheel in its new home on one of the walls near the lounge area. “How’re we supposed to see the computer monitors if we’re lying down in those things?”

  “No more computer monitors for us,” William said, staring dreamily up at the ceiling. “Your granny sent over the new Hologoggles . . .”

  William proceeded to explain to Ryan the principles of augmented and virtual reality, where everything that used to be seen on a monitor and controlled with a mouse would now be seen floating in space before one’s eyes and controlled with aerial hand movements. Even the signals from the Frequency Glasses could be seen and heard through these. No more sitting up uncomfortably, while staring at a flashing computer screen.

  While the boys discussed new technology and leisurely astral travel, Lisa and Stacy discussed a matter of greater import.
/>   “I think we should call it Protectors of the Frequency Glasses Club,” Stacy contended.

  “That’s a pretty long name for a club,” Lisa argued, setting her broom aside. “Maybe we should shorten it to FG Protectors or FG Overseers. Or even, The Stewardship of the FGG.”

  Ryan, now schooled on holographic computer technology, sauntered over and joined in on the girls’ conversation. “What do ya think about The FG Guardians?” he proposed, thinking this sounded a might bit better than protectors or overseers.

  “In case you’ve all forgotten,” William said, strolling up behind Ryan, “this is supposed to be a private club. Shouldn’t we have that in the name?”

  Using a dustpan and Lisa’s broom, Stacy swept up the small pile of dirt that Lisa had left on the floor and dumped it in a nearby trash can for her. “It’s also supposed to be secret,” she said, returning. “We could call it The Secret FGG Club.”

  “Maybe something more clandestine,” Lisa advised, wiping her dirty hands on her baby-blue cover-all shorts, “like Secret Society instead of club?”

  “Yeah!” William agreed. “That makes us sound more like secret agents — like Jamie.”

  “With a slight modification,” Stacy suggested, “We could call it The Secret Society of the FGG.”

  “That’s it!” Lisa cried with a finger in the air. “That’s perfect.” Glancing around, she saw that her friends were all nodding in agreement.

  Within moments, their clubhouse was filled with chatter and the echoing of their newly adopted fellowship name.

  “What’s all the commotion?” Mr. Walborg asked, poking his head up through the stairwell.

  “Dad, we just came up with a name for our club,” Lisa said. “We’re calling it the Secret Society of the FGG.”

  Mr. Walborg continued up the stairway and entered the attic, a manila envelope in his hand. “FGG.?” he said curiously.

  “Yeah, that stands for Frequency Glasses Guardians,” Lisa explained.