“No can do,” came the reply. “This place is crawling with security. Give me a second to put on my night-vision goggles. . . . Wait, I see you. Make a twenty-degree correction to port.”
It wasn’t easy to navigate blind, but with Cara’s detailed directions, Hamilton managed to pilot the small craft to the island’s craggy coast. The newcomers splashed ashore, grateful to be on dry land.
“I’d kiss the ground, but I don’t think I’d have the strength to straighten up again,” groaned Dan.
“Shhh,” Cara cautioned. “My dad brought in every serum-juiced piece of hired muscle on the payroll.”
“Exactly how many goons are we talking about?” Ian asked. “We Lucians like to know exactly what we’re up against.”
“There must be at least a hundred of them.”
A hush fell as the Cahills absorbed these hideous odds. Not only were they behind enemy lines, but they were horribly outnumbered.
“No way to beat them in a fair fight,” Hamilton observed. “Or even an unfair one.”
“Your father made one strategic error, though,” Ian mused. “He put all his eggs in one basket. The sum total of his assets is on Pierce Landing. That makes him vulnerable.”
“If Amy and Jake can deliver the payload, yo,” added Jonah nervously.
“They’d better,” Dan breathed, “or we’re going to be left hanging like prime rib in a shark tank.”
The five deflated the Zodiac and buried it completely under rocks and bushes. With the sun rising on clambake day, there must be no sign that Pierce Landing had any uninvited guests. Staying low, the group followed Cara over the dark terrain. Keeping them away from any patrols or security cameras, she brought them to a remote equipment shed well concealed by trees. In the moonlight, they could make out the hulking silhouette of the main house half a mile away.
She produced a key and opened the hut door. “You should be safe here. There are four sets of coveralls — the same kind the maintenance staff wears. Also hats and sunglasses to hide your faces. Once the crowds start to arrive, I’ll come back and sneak you into the stage area. That’s where the big announcement will be made.”
They entered the small structure, which was piled high with gardening equipment.
“Not a ton of space for a big guy,” Hamilton noted, settling his broad beam on a stack of fertilizer bags. He pulled a folded tarp off a wheelbarrow. “Jackpot!”
A full picnic had been laid out on a clean cloth, complete with sandwiches, chips, energy bars, and drinks.
“I figured you’d need to keep your strength up,” Cara supplied.
“That’s very thoughtful, Cara,” Ian said wanly. “The only thing missing would be the perfect cup of tea to go with it.”
She reached inside a watering can and pulled out a tall silver thermos. “Earl Grey, milk, two lumps.”
Ian Kabra had found the girl of his dreams. He would not let her get away — if he survived the next twelve hours.
Mr. and Mrs. Floyd Penobscot of Saco, Maine, had never before won anything in their lives. That was why they were amazed when the notification came from the Jelly of the Month Club that their names had been selected for the grand prize in the annual Jam-stakes — a week-long Caribbean cruise, all expenses paid.
One puzzling note — neither husband nor wife could recall having entered the annual Jam-stakes. But the couple wasn’t going to argue with a free vacation, airfare included. Arm in arm, they boarded the plane, filled with anticipation of the adventure to come.
As soon as Flight 5537 took off from Portland, a notification from the airline pinged on Atticus Rosenbloom’s cell phone. “The Penobscots are on their way,” he reported. “This is a real thing, right? I mean, we didn’t just send those poor people all the way to Florida only to find out there’s no cruise.”
The comment drew a short chuckle from Amy, and that was really saying something. She could not have imagined herself capable of any kind of laughter in her current state — shivering one moment, sweating the next, seeing things that weren’t there, her field of vision a Technicolor lightning storm. And always those tremors.
“Don’t worry,” she soothed Atticus, “the cruise is real even if the contest wasn’t. I booked them a first-class cabin, panoramic terrace, dinner at the captain’s table. The Penobscots are going in style.”
Sammy turned the key in the ignition, and the big rented cube van coughed back to life. Sammy, Amy, and the Rosenblooms had spent the last two hours parked on the shoulder of County Road 5 waiting for word that the prizewinners were on their way. The truck crunched onto the pavement and drove the last few miles to the Penobscot property outside Saco. There was a neat wood-frame house set well back from the road, but the main feature was a small airstrip. The sign by the front mailbox read PENOBSCOT AGRICULTURAL AVIATION. Underneath that was a single word that explained it all: CROP DUSTING.
Sammy guided the truck up the long drive, past the house, and out to the airstrip. A white-painted Quonset hut sat next to the tarmac, sheltering a faded single-engine biplane with a fat body and the name Roslyn painted on the side.
“Whoa!” Atticus exclaimed. “Didn’t the Red Baron refuse to fly one of these because it was too old?”
“All it has to do is get high enough off the ground to spray crops, Att,” Jake told his brother. “We don’t need a stealth bomber.”
“Pierce Landing is less than thirty miles from the coast,” Amy added. “A crop-dusting business services customers who are farther away than that.”
Amy kicked away the blocks, and the four of them were able to roll the Grumman aircraft out of the hangar. The crop duster itself was extremely light; most of its weight came from fuel and the contents of its huge spray tanks. These were normally filled with pesticides. For today’s mission, however, the Cahills had a different cargo in mind.
Sammy raised the truck’s rear door to reveal an enormous stainless steel container. He unrolled the connected hose and inserted the nozzle into the plane’s payload tank. A switch on the container started the pumping action. A clattering noise and the sloshing of liquid had them shouting to be heard.
“Did you know it was going to be this loud?” Jake complained. “I really don’t feel like explaining to some nosy neighbor why we’re pumping seven hundred gallons of antidote into a crop duster!”
Amy shrugged. “You know the cover story. We’re helping Sammy, who’s flying the plane for the Penobscots while they’re away.”
“This’ll take at least an hour,” Sammy informed them. “So we’d better get used to it.”
Atticus was worried. “This antidote is different than the one Nellie gave Fiske, isn’t it?”
Sammy shook his head. “The chemical composition is identical. The only difference is it’ll be coming out as a spray instead of an injection. It has to blanket the entire island so that everybody there breathes in enough of the particles to get the full effect. It’s the only way we can dose Pierce and all his goons at the same time.”
It sounded so reasonable when Sammy said it, but they understood that an awful lot of things would have to go right for this plan to have any chance of success: the aerosolized antidote had to work; the wind couldn’t be too strong; the inexperienced pilot had to bring the crop duster in low and at exactly the right moment; Pierce and his people had to be outdoors where the airborne particles would reach them; Dan, Ian, Hamilton, and Jonah had to avoid being detected; Cara could not change sides again and betray them to her father. And the whole operation depended on Amy, who had been on the serum for a week.
Her life — and the success of the mission — were hanging by the same thread.
Chapter 24
In the hours that followed sunrise, the population of the tiny island doubled seven times over.
Private jets and helicopters circled the airstrip, awaiting clearance to land. Floatplanes set
down on the sparkling water all around Pierce Landing. Their pilots had to be careful, because the ocean teemed with boats ranging from tiny dories and sloops to the luxury yachts of the super-rich. A huge ferry rented from the state of Massachusetts carried more than fifteen hundred ardent Piercers determined to be there in person to see the first-ever Patriotist candidate make his big announcement.
A village of satellite dishes sprouted like mushrooms on the rolling, manicured lawns. The jockeying for the best vantage point to film the day’s events was intense. Already, a major network anchor had to be led to the first-aid tent with a bloody nose. The BBC jostled with the Germans, and nobody wanted to be close to the bloggers, who were considered too opinionated. An orbiting communications satellite had been rented exclusively to carry video from Pierce Landing.
Newspaper reporters and TV camerapeople swarmed around the VIP tent, where a Who’s Who of celebrities, politicians, business titans, royalty, elite athletes, and entertainers grew longer by the hour.
For a reporter, it was more than just a chance to crown the next political superstar, who would almost certainly go on to become the leader of the free world. Never before had so many of the planet’s rich, powerful, and famous gathered in the same place at the same time. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for interviews.
One reporter’s day’s work had begun before all the others. His news outlet was small — an online magazine specializing in arts and crafts. But Debi Ann Pierce had been eager to grant him an audience to discuss her homemade teddy bears.
“A teddy bear is so much more than a toy, an inanimate object.” The future first lady was in her glory, speaking about her very favorite subject. “It gives us companionship and affection. It gives us love.”
The reporter was recording her on his cell phone when the device was ripped from his hand. He looked up to see one of the island’s burly security men glaring down at him. “Nobody’s supposed to be in the main house.”
“I invited him,” Debi Ann spoke up. “It’s not a political interview; he’s interested in me and my work.”
The suited man was polite but adamant. “You must have forgotten, ma’am. No reporters in the mansion. That comes from the top.”
“I’m sure my husband didn’t mean me,” she insisted.
But her protests fell on deaf ears. The online magazine would have to get by with half a teddy bear interview. As the man was escorted out of the house, Debi Ann went looking for her husband.
She found him alone in the study, rehearsing his speech in front of a mirror.
“Rutherford, why did you stop my interview?”
Pierce’s eyes never left his own reflection. “Rules are rules, Debi Ann.”
“I thought you said you’re the one who makes the rules. That interview made me feel good about myself and my teddy bears.”
He turned to face her, suppressing a tremor in his arm. “Did it ever occur to you that I don’t want the American people to find out that their next first lady is a one-woman Build-A-Bear Workshop?”
“All first ladies have their special projects,” she argued.
“Sure,” he retorted sarcastically. “Nutrition. Literacy. Not sewing up a battalion of lopsided, cross-eyed fuzz balls. If Martha Washington had tried something like this, George would have bitten her with his wooden teeth! Why couldn’t I have a wife more like —”
She stared at him. “Like Martha Washington?” The guilty look in his eye gave him away. “You’re still thinking about Hope Cahill!”
He didn’t deny it. Lies came easily to J. Rutherford Pierce, but not today, the most important day of his life.
“Maybe I was thinking,” he said stiffly, his jaw clenched, “of Letitia Tyler.” He brushed past her and disappeared down the hall.
Debi Ann was bewildered. Why Letitia Tyler?
All at once, she remembered her presidential history. Letitia Christian Tyler died in 1842, while her husband, John Tyler, was still in office.
A frosty cold began in Debi Ann’s extremities and worked its way into her core. She might enter the White House on her triumphant husband’s arm, but she would leave in a funeral procession.
Her husband was planning to kill her.
The four boys could hear activity all around them — muffled conversation, motor noises, shouted instructions, distant boat horns, PA announcements.
It was driving Dan insane. “I can’t handle this,” he murmured. “For all we know, Galt and half the goon army have surrounded the shed and are about to kick in the door and kill us. But we can’t even peek outside for fear of giving ourselves away.”
The others shared his frustration. “Where’s your girlfriend, Kabra?” Hamilton demanded in an irritated whisper. “She said she was coming to get us.”
“She said she was coming, but not when,” Ian defended Cara. “We have to assume she’s waiting for the right time to sneak us out of here.”
“And what if Pierce bugs over a dandelion and sends someone for a weed-whacker?” Jonah challenged.
Ian rolled his eyes. “We can’t see what’s going on out there. Cara can. She’s the one in a position to assess the situation. Honestly, discussing strategy with non-Lucians can be exhausting.”
The four were dressed in the blue coveralls and work boots of the island maintenance staff. Jonah added a small false mustache to help conceal his famous features. All understood that the operation that lay ahead would be unthinkably delicate. Anything less than pinpoint timing and execution would result in failure. The danger was so intense that they could almost pull chunks of it out of the air and grasp it in their hands — danger not just for them but for the entire world. If they couldn’t stop Pierce here and now, they’d never get another chance. He’d be an official presidential candidate, with Secret Service protection and a media swarm that amounted to an electronic eye on everything that happened within fifty yards of him. Barring a miracle, he’d win the election in a landslide, and then he’d have the entire US military at his command. His dream of global domination would be within reach.
The four exchanged nervous glances. They were Cahills — up to the challenge, willing to take the risks. But the sitting around was killing them.
“I’ve got to start touring again, yo,” Jonah muttered. “Fans chew you up and spit you out, but this saving the world gig is brutal.”
“It could be worse,” Dan reminded him in a harsh tone. “My sister is about to fly a plane using arms and legs that don’t always work and a brain that could check out at any minute.”
The group was silent as his words sank in.
There was a light knocking sound outside the shed. A shaft of brilliant sunlight assailed them as the door opened a crack. They heard Cara’s low voice: “It’s time.”
The boys emerged to find themselves in a very different place than the peaceful island they’d landed on that morning. Crowds surged all around them. It was like a vast carnival, only instead of booths and games, there were mobile units from TV networks — hundreds of them — a jungle of cables, booms, satellite dishes, and cameras. Reporters spoke urgently into microphones.
Cara had chosen the moment well. In all the comings and goings, no one paid any attention to the four newcomers. They disappeared immediately into a work force that blanketed Pierce Landing — hanging bunting, raising flags, and preparing for the balloon drop to follow the big announcement.
People surged in every direction, but the general movement was toward the beach. In freshly dug pits in the sand, wood was stacked for the bonfires, and giant cooking vessels awaited the main course. In the kitchen of the mansion, more than one hundred thousand clams were being prepared for steaming — the largest number in history, according to the Guinness Book of World Records.
The stage was a megalith of stars, stripes, and patriotic color. Hamilton nudged Jonah. “Think there’s enough red, white, and bl
ue around here?”
The speakers’ platform was framed by a magnificent lighting arc, draped with flowers, bunting, and the symbol of the Patriotist Party, a screaming eagle.
“Faces down!” Cara hissed suddenly.
They all studied their boots. Before Dan averted his eyes, he caught sight of Galt backslapping his way through a crowd of reporters. “Welcome to our island,” he told one. “Glad you could be here to help us make history,” he said to another.
“Like he’s going to be copresident,” Dan muttered when the coast was clear.
“He can’t help it,” Cara reluctantly defended her brother. “I know what it’s like to be Dad’s favorite, with the keys to the kingdom dangled in front of you. It’s hard to resist that kind of temptation.”
“You resisted,” Ian noted admiringly.
“I have a role model,” she told him. “This kid who stood up to his mother for the good of humanity. Impressive guy.”
Ian flushed, a slight smile tugging at him.
A plan was hatched. Jonah and Ian melted into the staff manning the tech center behind the stage. Dan and Hamilton climbed the framework of the massive lighting arc, joining a dozen other maintenance workers.
Dan found a metal strut that he could tighten, and loosen, and tighten again, in order to look busy. He gazed out over the throng. There had to be a gazillion people here. The seating in front of the stage was strictly for VIPs. The rest would have to find spots on the beach or on the grass. No one would miss anything. Giant video screens and loudspeakers loomed all over the island.
From his vantage point, he had no trouble locating Pierce’s many serum-enhanced goons. They were hard to miss, even in a huge crowd. Besides being big and ripped, they seemed to glow with an inner light — a kind of presence that could not be overlooked. And Cara was right — there were a lot of them. Easily a hundred, probably more.
Dan’s face darkened as he thought of his sister. She had the glow — and also the tremors and blackouts that went with it.
Flashpoint Page 13
