The deception, p.3
The Deception, page 3
“Ax! Look at the radar. They’ve spotted us!”
“Yes. I assumed the carrier’s surveillance systems are sophisticated enough to spot an air-force-owned F-16D in its airspace.”
A split second of silence. Then …
No choice.
I blocked out the voices of my friends.
Took the plane to maximum speed and concentrated on overtaking the carrier.
And staying ahead of the air force jets I assumed would reappear momentarily.
I was being asked to take an enormous risk.
Rachel and I — carrying Prince Jake and the others — could not simply eject.
Because we could not chance being seen and captured in these human morphs. Morphs identical to the two pilots found back at the Air National Guard locker room.
We had to go down with the plane.
But how to “drop” the plane with us on board and survive?
A nosedive would kill us instantaneously.
Okay. The plane had to hit on its belly. In effect, I had to perform a controlled crash landing.
The drag undoubtedly would tear the aircraft apart.
But Rachel and I would have some chance of surviving. And with us, our friends.
We were several miles ahead of the carrier when I began to cut back our speed.
“Ax, why are you slowing down?!”
“If the plane hits the water at top speed, we will be dead within seconds. If it hits with the engines stalled …”
“We’ll be dead within seconds!”
I braced myself. The impact would be brutal.
I am the servant of the people …
The noise … horrifying …
I am the servant of my prince …
And then …
I am the servant of honor …
We were down!
The bubble immediately shattered. The jet broke apart.
Cold ocean water roared into the cockpit, swamping Rachel and me.
Blinding me to anything but my own terrible fear.
Desperately, I tried to demorph within the pilot’s now-useless pressure suit.
And in my panic, with the powerful rush of water slamming into me, while trying with freezing fingers to unleash myself from belts and harnesses meant to save my life …
I began to suffocate!
Andalites do not enjoy confined spaces. Neither do humans when it seems the confinement is about to kill them.
If only my tail would appear, if only the blade would sprout and slice me out of this binding garment….
I thrashed. Gasped for air. Swallowed salty water.
Slowly — too slowly! — began to demorph in the cold, dark ocean …
Riiip! Slaaash!
Yes!
I was free!
I was Andalite.
I kicked my way to the surface. Scanned madly for my friends amid the wreckage of the jet.
They had been on Joseph Felitti’s body. On Michele Leary’s body. Where were they now?!
Rachel! Already on her way to seagull.
Clasped under her still-human arm, Tobias was almost fully hawk.
From a few yards away …
“Ax! Nice work. I see Marco.”
“Ax-man! The ride of the century!”
“Jake, I’m to your left.” Cassie.
We were all alive!
Another too-lucky event.
“Seagulls!” Jake called. “Before some guy up on the island spots us with a pair of binoculars. Then get to the carrier!”
We had landed, six seagulls, near a radar mast protruding from the island of the USS George Washington.
Below us, on the flight deck, approximately thirty planes were parked and tied down.
Marco strutted closer to Rachel. She strutted away.
If Marco were in his human form, he would have raised his eyebrows at Rachel.
This is how well I have come to know the meanings and uses of human physical gestures.
Clearly, her interest was piqued. Anything large and capable of aiding in destruction had to be of interest to Rachel.
Cassie had been silent until now.
I suspected this information did not impress Cassie as it impressed the rest of us.
Jake turned away from the wind.
I answered him anyway.
Marco directed our attention to a particular area of the flight deck.
Something was going on.
We watched as a perfectly orchestrated GW flight deck crew helped the helicopter land.
A few moments later, several naval officers emerged from the aircraft.
According to Jake, one of the men was an admiral.
According to Marco, the “big cheese.”
And then I saw someone among the admiral’s entourage who, in a perfect world, should not have been there. He was wearing a navy officer’s uniform like his colleagues.
But I recognized him all the same.
We watched as the captain, the admiral, and his entourage went belowdecks.
Chapman went with them.
I took off after the others. The wind made it somewhat difficult to swoop and glide in the usual effortless seagull manner.
But the men and women on deck had far more important matters with which to be concerned than a few screaming, cawing seagulls being buffeted by powerful ocean breezes.
So no one noticed as, one by one, we dropped down through a sort of chute and onto the deck immediately below. The gallery or 03 deck.
Once inside the carrier and no longer in the open sky, six seagulls attracted quite a bit of attention.
“Crazy birds! Look out!”
A sailor ducked, covered his head with his arms.
The chase was on!
WHOOOSH!
My left wing brushed the side of the narrow, low-ceilinged corridors.
WHOOOSH!
I struggled to keep aloft. Pumped my wings hard through the artificial environment.
No fresh air. No thermals. No lift!
Down again!
Down a flight of stairs so steep it seemed more like a vertical ladder. No way to fly headfirst.
Feetfirst, wings awkwardly held aloft to resist smashing to the ground …
Misjudged the distance between my body and the rapidly approaching floor. Struggled back to my feet. Struggled back into the air. Almost didn’t make it …
Down to the third deck, two decks below the main hangar deck.
Sailors! Behind us, coming at us from all directions, smacking at the air, pounding down the ladders! Alarms shrieking!
“Come on! We’ve got to get them before they do something stupid like fly into the air-conditioning plant!”
“Or poop all over the place!”
This gave Rachel an idea.
“Ew! Ewewew!”
Fwooosh!
An open door! Maybe a place to land and demorph!
“Shut the door! Lock them in!”
Clearly the ship’s post office was not a safe place for seagulls.
We flapped past emergency diesel generators.
Past a bank of satellite phones.
Unfortunately, a number of personnel were using the phones.
Several of them screamed.
Finally …
Clumsily the six of us tore into the ship’s laundry. The room was very large and hot and steamy.
And, except for one sailor intent upon stuffing dirty clothing into a massive machine at one end of the room, empty.
Prince Jake did not have to tell us what to do.
We demorphed behind the industrial-size washing machines.
And then …
FWAP!
The sailor on laundry detail would never know what hit him.
Gently, Marco laid him on the floor under a long table and placed a folded sheet beneath his head.
It was decided I would morph the pilot again. A physically fit adult male was a convenient morph for our purposes.
And my own technical knowledge would also be useful.
The others would ride in my pocket as cockroaches. After I borrowed a uniform. The laundry room was obviously the perfect place for that.
“Ah, the glamorous life of a soldier,” Marco said, keeping an eye on the door.
I have become quite an expert on how to wear human clothing. Though I will never understand or like it.
Dressed and with the others in my pocket, I carefully opened the door and stepped back into the narrow corridor.
According to Jake, the aircraft carrier had a crew of close to six thousand. This made my presence less likely to be rapidly discovered — as long as I did nothing to attract attention.
However, the sheer size of the carrier and my relative unfamiliarity with its layout made the chances of my finding Chapman before an evil Yeerk plan unfolded less likely.
I walked. And walked.
The aircraft carrier is a very confusing place. There are many long, narrow, gray-tiled passageways that look identical.
And somewhat dangerous. Along the passageways, at seemingly regular intervals, are raised steel thresholds.
Jake informed me they are called “knee-knockers.”
And he warned me to be careful not to trip over them, as that would significantly increase the chance of my being discovered and captured.
I am proud to say I did not trip once.
Another strange thing. Most areas of the carrier admit no natural light. Both sky and sea seem far, far away.
For an Andalite, this is an unacceptable design feature. Especially for a craft on which a person must live for long periods of time.
I walked. Stepped aside to let superior personnel pass, kept my ears tuned to snippets of conversation.
And then … bingo. As Marco has been known to say.
“Admiral Carrington … the hangar deck …”
With Jake’s thought-speak directions, I made my way back to the huge hangar deck.
There, I silently joined the crowd of officers gathered around a parked fighter jet. Tried not to call attention to myself.
Hoped the carrier’s personnel would assume I was part of Admiral Carrington’s staff.
That the admiral’s staff would assume I answered directly to the captain of the carrier.
I spotted Chapman at the admiral’s side. Chapman. A leader in the Yeerk front organization, The Sharing. Assistant principal at my friends’ school. A school Tobias and now Marco no longer attended.
I slipped closer to the admiral. He spoke.
“Captain Plummer, why don’t we go to my quarters. There are a few matters I’d like to discuss with you and your senior personnel.”
He looked at Chapman and smiled. Turned back to the captain.
“My staff and I have brought back something special to share with you. You know how life in the middle of the ocean can get somewhat, uh, dull.”
“Except when the air force dumps one of their jets in your front yard.”
