The dazzling, repetitive flashing blinded the men. I was prepared, of course—I wore special contact lenses designed to neutralize the strobe effect. I knew the grenade lasted only about fifteen seconds, so I turned and ran down the darkest looking side shaft. Soon the shouting receded behind me, and I turned into a wider tunnel, knowing I was essentially invisible again.

  Invisible, perhaps—but not alone. Once again I heard quiet voices up ahead. I plugged an earbud into my wrist unit so Q.U.I.P. could speak directly into my ear without being heard. Then I whispered, “What’s up ahead?”

  Q.U.I.P. didn’t answer right away. After a few seconds he said, “One person is asking questions. They sound very technical, boss. Something about a gyroscopic guidance system and . . . wait. Wait. The other voice is a woman’s. I’m running the voice ID and, yes, son of a gun, it’s Agent Dawson.”

  “Agent Dawson is up ahead?” I whispered.

  “Correct,” said Q.U.I.P. “She’s . . . quietly agitated, is how I’d put it. She’s asking about the disturbances.” Another pause, then he added, “She’s leading a team to The Hotel now.”

  I backed up against the wall, spreading out the camouflage cloak, breathing as shallowly as I could. The quarters were tight, but I figured Dawson and crew would be in a hurry, not looking for ghosts.

  But nobody came.

  “Where are they?” I whispered.

  “Sounds like they went the opposite direction,” replied Q.U.I.P.

  “Deeper into the mines?”

  “No, my map shows several loops in this area,” said Q.U.I.P. “I count four redundant routes, running in and out of The Hotel. Safety reasons, no doubt.”

  “Got it,” I said. In case of a cave-in, loops provide alternate ways out.

  So either Dawson was waiting in ambush just around the corner ahead or she left via a back passage. Moving as quietly as I could, I crept forward.

  “I’m sensing a very low-level light just ahead,” reported Q.U.I.P.

  I rounded the jutting angle in the rock wall. There, sitting on an old stool, was a man huddled in a blanket. As I took a quick step toward him, I kicked a rock shard and sent it skittering down the shaft. The man spun to face me. I could see his face as clear as day in my infrared spotlight.

  “Hey, Dad,” I said, flipping up my mask and visor.

  “Tom?”

  The relief I felt was almost indescribable. “Gee, I bet you’re surprised to see me,” I said, grinning.

  “Yes and no,” he replied with an exhausted smile.

  “Can you walk? I’ve got a taxi waiting.”

  “Only if you’ve got an industrial laser cutter,” he answered wearily.

  He pulled back the blanket to reveal his right leg shackled to a thick metal ring jutting from a huge concrete block.

  “Hmmm, that looks tricky,” I said. “Fortunately, I’m your son, so I’ve learned to anticipate and prepare for logical possibilities.”

  I dug into my pouch again. This time I pulled out a small lock-pick gun. It was the same gadget I’d used recently to pick a crucial lock in Nepal. A small, greenish fluorescent lamp illuminated the little grotto, so I got on my knees and examined the lock.

  “What is it about bad guys and leg shackles?” I asked as I inserted the pick into the lock. “Don’t they know how useless they are?” Within seconds the lock clicked open, and I pulled apart the shackle.

  Dad reached down and rubbed his ankle for a few seconds.

  “Ah, much better,” he said.

  “Dad, who are these people?”

  He looked up at me, surprised. “Don’t you know?”

  “Well, the FBI is calling it a case of industrial espionage on steroids,” I said. “They think Randall Foger and FUG are behind it.”

  “Randall Foger? They really think that?” He shook his head, incredulous. “No, Tom, this is a TRB operation all the way.”

  “TRB? But then . . . why is FUG’s tunnel-digging mole sitting just down the hall?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It just arrived yesterday. I’m pretty sure they stole it. How, I don’t know.” He stood up. “The woman asked me a number of questions about calibration and so forth. I believe they plan to use it for something big today—but I don’t know what.”

  “Dad, that woman,” I said. “She’s an FBI agent.”

  Dad gaped. “What?”

  I nodded. “In fact, she’s the lead agent on your kidnapping case.”

  “Unbelievable,” said Dad. He was clearly shaken. “They told me she’s a new TRB convert, yet she’s calling all the shots here. I guess I know why now.”

  “According to Andy Foger, the FBI’s got the FUG labs all locked down and evacuated,” I said. “That’s probably how she got access to the Mole One.”

  I heard some rustling down the opposite shaft. “Better get going,” I said. “Can you walk?”

  Dad stood up. “I’m fine.”

  I led him back the way I’d come. It wasn’t far to the main room. But as we approached, we could hear a lot of commotion, including the rumbling of a large engine.

  “Wait here,” I said to Dad.

  Checking to make sure my Chameleon Suit was activated, I moved slowly to the room opening and slid along the wall. There I saw several men preparing to close the main hatch of the Mole One.

  Inside, Francina Dawson barked out orders. Her Southern accent was as thick as molasses.

  “Ya’ll make sure that trailer is hitched right,” she said with irritation. “You people and your technology phobias will be the death of me, I swear.”

  Then she pulled the hatch shut. A few seconds later the Mole One rumbled off its platform on caterpillar tracks similar to those of the Mini-Worm. The massive machine rolled slowly across the room and up the main exit shaft. The small platoon of men followed, leaving The Hotel completely deserted.

  I hustled back to Dad.

  “They’re moving the Mole,” I said.

  “Did they say where?”

  “No,” I said. I grinned. “But we’ll know soon enough.”

  “How?”

  “Trust me.”

  Dad grinned back. “I always trust you, son.”

  Fifteen minutes later Dad was my copilot in the Mini-Worm as it tracked back through the tunnel we’d bored into Number Seven Shaft. Since we were crawling through a previously drilled route, passage was swift.

  “At this rate, we’ll be out in another five minutes,” I said. “This is a sweet machine, Dad.”

  “Thanks.” He gave me a fatherly look. “And thanks for coming after me.”

  I grinned. “It was a no-brainer decision.”

  “How are your mother and sister holding up?” he asked.

  “They’re okay. You can imagine, though. Mom was on the edge, but she hung in there for us, you know.”

  “Of course,” said Dad. “She’s amazing.”

  I adjusted the pitch of the nose slightly. “Sandy and I considered the possibility that it was really TRB behind the kidnapping,” I said. “But when they didn’t make their usual boastful claim of responsibility, I was confused.”

  Dad nodded. “Yes, The Road Back always makes a big PR show out of every radical stunt they pull.”

  “So why didn’t they this time?”

  Dad shrugged. “Clearly they have something else planned and don’t want to blow their cover,” he said. “Say, can we get word out yet?”

  “Not this deep underground,” I said. “I have Q.U.I.P. trying, though. When he makes cellular contact, I’ll put you on my phone—right to Mom, I hope.”

  Then, as if on cue, I saw a glimmer of light up ahead. In minutes the Mini-Worm’s nose jutted up into the air, showing nothing but blue summer sky above us through the acrylic front window. And then my cell phone rang.

  I looked at the number and flipped it open. “Andy, what’s up?” I said, then added: “Hey, I got my dad back!”

  “Swift, the goons left the mine, all of them,” said Andy Foger, sounding distressed. “And they have my dad’s driller! They drove into a huge honking truck.” There was a pause, and then he added, “I think they’re heading back toward Shopton with it. Are they whacked or what? Dude, I’m watching them drive down the hill toward town right now.”

  “Andy, where are you?” I asked.

  “Just down that side road from where I dropped you off.”

  “Well, drive back up,” I said. “We’re out of the mines. Let’s get the Worm on the trailer.” I hesitated, but then I thought I’d better spill the beans, since Andy’s family was so deeply involved too. “Listen, I think Dawson’s planning to use your Mole for something nasty.”

  “Great,” he said. “And we’ll get blamed.”

  “No way,” I said. “It’s TRB. They’re behind the whole thing, with that Dawson woman on their payroll, working the inside at the FBI.”

  “Okay, I can see you now,” said Andy, and hung up.

  Sure enough, the Speedster swung around just below us as the Mini-Worm bounced down the hill. It was kind of weird to see a Foger driving a Swift-designed vehicle. Andy backed the trailer to the edge of the road, then hopped out. But he couldn’t get its ramp manually extended. I waited a few minutes, then finally popped open the canopy to help. But the ramp was stuck in its slot.

  “Great,” I said.

  It took us another five minutes of yanking to get it out. Then I hopped back into the Mini-Worm and steered it up the ramp onto the trailer. The three of us strapped it down and hopped into the car.

  “I’ve got Mrs. Swift on the line,” said Q.U.I.P. suddenly.

  I smiled, flipped opened my cell phone, and handed it to Dad.

  “Mary?” he said.

  I heard my mom’s voice gush with happiness and relief in his ear. Dad assured her he was okay.

  “We’re coming home right now,” he said.

  As they talked a bit more, he quickly explained the situation and warned her about Agent Dawson’s betrayal. He listened a moment, nodding. He looked over at me and said, “Your mom says they’ve already got a new lead investigator on the case. And I’m supposed to tell you she’s working with Harlan Ames.”

  “Ha!” I said. “Good.”

  Then my wrist unit buzzed. I looked down.

  “Excuse me,” said Q.U.I.P. “I’m monitoring the GPS tag you placed on Mole One.”

  “Yeah?” I said. In the excitement of finding Dad, I’d forgotten about it. “Where’d they take it?”

  “Skylark Hollow,” said Q.U.I.P.

  I gripped the steering wheel. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dad!” I called.

  He was just saying good-bye to Mom. He flipped the phone shut and said, “What is it, Tom?”

  I pointed at the phone and said, “I think you need to call Harlan immediately.”

  “Why?”

  “According to our readings, TRB just hauled the Mole One to Skylark Hollow.”

  Dad gave me a look. “That’s at the base of the hill behind Swift Tower.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Dad, I think we’ve got about thirty minutes to evacuate our building!”

  Dad started punching numbers. I turned to Andy.

  “Dude, dial 9-1-1,” I said.

  10

  Mole Hole

  I’d never before driven the Speedster at high speed down mountain roads with a thousand-pound trailer load hitched to the back. So after a couple of dangerous, near-jackknifing turns, I slowed down until I reached the smooth county highway leading back to Shopton.

  “Pedal to the metal, dude!” cried Andy from the backseat.

  I glanced over at Dad.

  He nodded. “Go for it, son.”

  “We’ll have a police escort shortly,” called Andy. “I just talked to Captain Davis. He’s sending out cruisers to link up with us.”

  “Did you send them to Skylark Hollow, too?” I called.

  “Of course!” shouted Andy over the engine whine. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  I glanced back at him. “Should I really answer that?”

  Andy guffawed. His laugh sounded like a cross between a dying donkey and a stadium horn. He leaned forward from the backseat.

  “You know, I didn’t think you’d help me clear my dad’s name,” he said. “So I guess I owe you something.” He paused. “A cookie, maybe.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  I kicked in the accelerator as we pulled onto the county highway.

  The Swift Tower was on the opposite end of town, but I knew a way to bypass the downtown area and avoid city traffic. Skylark Hollow was an unincorporated, mostly undeveloped neighborhood next to the Shopton municipal golf course. It was a beautiful area, very woody and secluded, full of trails and culs-de-sac and an occasional mansion rising out of the trees.

  “There’s our escort!” called Dad, pointing up ahead.

  Two Shopton Police cruisers, lights flashing, sat one on either side of the road. As we whizzed past, they fell in behind us.

  Q.U.I.P. buzzed and beeped. I glanced at my wrist. Numbers were scrolling up the display screen.

  “Quit acting like a computer,” I said.

  “Can’t help it,” said Q.U.I.P. “It’s fun.”

  “Do you have something for us?”

  Q.U.I.P. sniffed. “Maybe,” he said. “Okay, yes. I’ve been monitoring the police band, and it appears they found the TRB caravan of vehicles on a hillside near Harvest House Inn. After surrounding the area, they moved in and apprehended eleven suspects—all white males, some armed, but no resistance offered.”

  “All white males?” I repeated.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” reported Q.U.I.P. “And the Mole One transport trailer was empty. Officers are currently following the tracks.”

  As I approached a red light at an intersection, one of the police cruisers suddenly sped ahead of us, siren blaring. It pulled carefully into the intersection, blocking cross traffic. The officer at the wheel thrust out his arm and waved us on through.

  “Awesome,” said Andy.

  I waved at the officer as we sped through the intersection.

  “And here’s an update,” said Q.U.I.P. “Officers on the scene now report that a double-tracked trail leads up the hillside behind Swift Tower—and disappears into a large, cavelike hole that looks, and I quote, ‘recently excavated.’ ”

  “Yeah, like five minutes ago,” I said grimly. “No doubt Dawson is in the Mole, and she’s headed for the tower.” I looked over at Dad. “Could she cause a catastrophic collapse?”

  Dad shook his head. “It would be very difficult for her to bring it down unless she knew exactly which support structures to hit,” he said. “As you know, Swift Tower was built to withstand hurricanes. But I have no doubt that a five-thousand-pound machine with a one-ton drill bit can cause a lot of damage.”

  “Try eight thousand pounds,” said Andy proudly.

  I nodded. “Thanks, Andy,” I said dryly.

  “Hey, a scientist needs all the facts,” he replied.

  My phone rang again. Dad answered.

  “Hey, Harlan,” he said. “Okay, good. Thanks. We’re almost there. Is Victor nearby? Let me talk to him.” He chatted briefly with Victor Rashid, asking him about some equipment. Then he got back on with Harlan. “Help Victor put a team together ASAP, okay? Thanks, Harlan. Yeah, I feel good. I’ll see you in a minute.” He hung up.

  “The tower’s evacuated, right?” I asked hopefully.

  Dad nodded with a relieved sigh.

  “So how can we stop this maniac?” asked Andy. “Follow her down the hole in your Mini-Worm?”

  Up ahead I caught the first glimpse of the thirty-story structure, gleaming against the dark, wooded hill behind it. I knew there wouldn’t be time to get behind the hill and catch the Mole before it drilled into the tower.

  “I think we’ll have to cut her off at the pass, so to speak,” said Dad.

  “But how can we locate her if she’s coming under the hill?” I asked.

  “I’ve got Victor putting out a team with some GPR equipment we’ve been developing for utility companies,” he replied. “We’ll also plug a cable into the media pod of the Mini-Worm.”

  “What’s GPR?” I asked.

  “Ground-penetrating radar,” replied Dad. “Our units can detect even small plastic pipes and cables, so an eight-thousand-pound, metallic mole-monster should be easy to find.”

  I swerved around some road construction signs, feeling the heavy trailer swaying behind the Speedster.

  “And you say the Worm has a media pod?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Dad. “Since drillers tend to lose radio contact when underground, we developed a heavy-duty com-link cable that attaches to an aft pod on the Worm. They’ll feed it in behind us as we drill, and we can keep in touch as the GPR locators get readings on the Mole’s movement.”

  “Awesome!” I said. “We can cut her off!”

  “Yes,” said Dad. “Although I’m not exactly sure what we can do once Worm meets Mole.”

  “You’ll be outweighed ten to one,” said Andy.

  Dad turned to him. “Are you familiar with the specs for the Mole?” he asked.

  “A little.”

  “Is there a weak spot we can exploit?” he asked. “A critical power or control casing, something external we can aim for?”

  Andy looked reluctant. I guess I couldn’t blame him. After all, we were talking about ramming his dad’s gazillion-dollar baby. But good sense overcame his resistance quickly. Once again I had to acknowledge that maybe Andy wasn’t such a self-centered, blowhard scum-bucket after all.

  “Well,” he said, “the drive assembly computers are directly behind the nose, up on top. In a small, humped compartment for easy access. Tucked right behind the back rim of the drill bit.”

  “Wow,” I said as I pulled into the Swift Tower parking lot. “Tough target.”

  “Hey, if you even find the Mole underground, I’ll be amazed,” said Andy.

  I swung the Speedster around to the back parking lot, at the base of the hill. Victor, Harlan, and a team of technicians were already fanning out up the hillside, pushing wheeled GPR units that looked like big lawn mowers. Each unit had a radar screen mounted between the push handles.

 

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