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THE BIRDS ARE working." What the heck did that mean? And what did it have to do with my mom? As you know, I've been kidnapped myself, and let me tell you, "total bummer" doesn't begin to describe it. The thought of my mom going through what I had gone through was making me nuts.
The slide was followed by a grainy movie.
"This was filmed yesterday evening at nineteen hundred hours, at twenty-one degrees, thirty minutes north; one hundred fifty-seven degrees, forty minutes west," said Commander Crisp Pants.
"In the Pacific Ocean, off the coast of Hawaii," the admiral clarified for us civilians.
The movie started off with an aerial view, like from a plane, then focused lower and lower over the water. Lots of fuzzy action tightened up to reveal… major bird-o-rama. Hundreds, no, thousands of seabirds. Gulls, albatrosses, cormorants, and a bunch I didn't recognize. They hovered just a few feet above the water, covering it t
hickly, and they seemed to be—feeding or attacking in a frenzy or I had no idea what.
"It's like, free-shrimp day or something!" Gazzy said, awed.
"What are they doing?" I asked, impatient to get to the part about my mom.
"We don't know. But wait," said Commander Crisp Pants. The camera pulled back to reveal a small fishing boat, maybe a couple hundred yards away from the bird frenzy. We could see the crew, all watching the birds from on deck, gesturing and looking amazed. Some looked scared. I read the name on the side: Nani Moku.
All of a sudden, something from beneath the water smashed up through the fishing boat, capsizing it. The boat was literally broken in half. The crew flailed about in the water, trying to cling to debris. What was left of the boat sank within moments. We saw some of the fishermen trying to save their comrades, saw one guy realize his friend was dead in the water.
"Was that a whale, Commander?" the admiral asked.
"Unknown. It could have been a whale or a submarine. We've gone over this footage a hundred times with no success. But now, look at this."
The film ended, and a greenish, dim, very grainy picture flashed up on the screen. I almost yelled: it was my mom. She was looking straight ahead, her brown eyes scared but defiant. It looked like her arms were tied behind her back. Next to her, someone wearing a ski mask held up a New York Times to show yesterday's date. I'd love to know how they got their hands on that.
My stomach tightened. Fang's knee bumped mine under the table, the equivalent of a reassuring hug. Normally that would be all I needed to chill. But right then it hit me: this was not "normally." Nudge was gone. I hadn't even realized how much I depended on her sympathy in tough times.
"The camera focused tightly on Dr. Martinez, as you can see," said Commander Crisp Pants. "You can hardly make out any background. Except—" He nodded to the technician, and the picture zoomed in until it was hardly recognizable. The big white blob in one corner was part of my mom's elbow. The commander moved a red laser pointer over the blurred picture. "Except here. To us, this looks like a window frame." He moved over an unrecognizable lightish thing. "Or, more accurately, a porthole. And now look back here."
He moved the laser pointer, and I saw Total's head whipping back and forth. I made a mental note to never let Gazzy or Iggy get hold of a laser pointer.
Through the thick, wavy porthole glass, there was another jellylike blob. The commander ran his laser along a slightly darker blob. "Please enhance the sharpness by three hundred percent," he told the technician.
The next second, the conference room went still and silent. Though still way blurry, we could now make out that the darker blobs on the lighter blob through the blobby window were words. They were words on a piece of wood: Nani Moku.
The commander stood up, and the room lights were turned on. "We believe this picture was taken on a submarine," he announced. "We think the submarine was in the area, and probably capsized that boat, though we're not certain. But that's a piece of wreckage from that fishing boat, and it's under water. So they must be holding Dr. Martinez under water. And since we know that boat was capsized in the Pacific Ocean, off the coast of Hawaii, we believe that Dr. Martinez is somewhere around there."
I was ready to leap up and fly to Hawaii. From San Diego, it would take me about six or seven hours, I figured.
"What does 'The birds are working' mean?" the admiral asked.
The commander looked at her. "Again, unknown. But there was an audio clip with the bird film, and when we sped up the sound by five hundred percent, that was the phrase we heard."
"Max, sit down," said John Abate quietly.
I looked at him, halfway out of my chair.
"We have a plan," he went on. "We need your help. And that plan does not involve you charging off on your own."
"I do not charge off!" I insisted yet again.
"Maximum 'Charging Off' Ride," Total muttered under his breath.
I gritted my teeth and slowly sat back down. "You have one minute to tell me your plan. Make it good."
30
HERE ARE ALL the flies in my ointment:
