The Nerdy Dozen #2 (3 page)

NEIL'S FINGERS TRACED THE STITCHING OF THE SAFETY
harness locking him in place. It passed across both shoulders and latched into the stiff metal seat beneath his thin legs. Even after a summer growth spurt, his feet didn't quite touch the floor. He was alone in the belly of a huge cargo plane as Jones assisted with the landing in the cockpit.

As Neil stared down the row of empty seats, he plucked a piece of crouton from his hair. Before being whisked away by Jones, he'd used a wet kitchen towel to give himself a post-museum shower, but his hair was apparently saving some leftovers.

“Initiating final descent” came a voice through the headset hugging Neil's ears. The plane dropped, flipping Neil's stomach. He pinched his nose and popped his ears to equalize the change in pressure, something he'd picked up during the last mission. “Prepare for landing.”

“If I had a tray table, it would be up,” Neil shouted back over the engine noise.

Turbulence shook the plane violently, but Neil remained surprisingly calm. As the massive plane's landing gear made contact with the ground, he was focused on breathing.

Exhale
. . .
two . . . three . . . four.

It was advice he'd found online from a retired Air Force pilot, and one of many professional flying tips Neil was anxious to show off. He'd done some thorough Googling about real-life pilots, and was ready to prove he was one as well.

The internet stranger, going by the moniker the Invisible Coyote, said that pilots in tight formation would even learn to breathe at the same time. Neil and Biggs tried practicing in a game of Chameleon weeks before, but Neil accidentally hit the mute button and nearly suffocated his friend and fellow pilot.

“All right, Andertol. Let's move,” said Jones, emerging from the cockpit.

The plane rolled to a stop, and Neil heard the rear hydraulic hatch engage and begin to open. Sunlight quickly filled the ship's cargo hold, casting a long shadow behind Jones's muscular frame.

“Sir, yes, sir, Major Jones,” Neil replied with a nod. He removed his headset and freed himself from his seat's nylon safety web.

The camouflaged soldier didn't reply and stomped down the ship's metal hatch. Neil followed Jones out onto the runway, jittering with excitement and a completely full bladder. The sun was beginning to set behind a glob of cauliflower-shaped clouds, and the smell of salt water from a nearby ocean brushed past Neil's nose. Wherever he was, it was far from his landlocked home.

While a map or travel brochure on his current location would have been nice, he did appreciate the Air Force's “burlap bag–free” approach they must have recently adopted. A certain amount of trust could be earned when you weren't blindfolded in a trunk or backseat.

“So, what's the mission, Major?”

“First things first, Andertol—it's Major General Jones, now,” the soldier shouted to Neil as they marched away from the roar of the cargo plane's engine.

“Oh, nice! A promotion,” Neil gushed. They headed toward a tall, looming white building. “Do you get any fancy new pins or medals? Do they have a good jangle to them?”

Jones shook his head and patted Neil's back with a huge, rough hand. It knocked the gamer's bony body forward a few inches as they crossed over the still-warm asphalt. They neared the entrance of the giant structure, an obvious aircraft hangar of some kind.

“You know what? I think I've missed you, Andertol.”

Neil smiled to himself with pride. Those weren't words he ever expected to hear from someone who seemed to always need a nap.

As the rickety metal doors of the hangar opened, the last of the day's sunshine spilled onto the interior of the hangar floor's taupe-colored concrete. The structure was vast and empty, like a hollowed-out steel turtle shell.

A gaggle of determined people in orange, blue, and white jumpsuits scurried around the facility. A few furiously tapped on computers and handheld tablets, while others lugged hoses and electrical cords from one side of the building to the next. Their shoes were covered with white booties that kept subtly slipping on the slick floor. A gigantic American flag was hung on the wall opposite the only doors leading out, with smaller flags from other countries just below.

Neil scanned the hangar, but he didn't see a ship. He assumed it was just invisible, cloaked under its active camouflage. His eyes squinted to find the outline of a Chameleon, but he only saw a set of double doors leading out from the airy space.

“So what have you got for us? Recon? Going behind enemy lines?” It being Friday night, Neil figured he had the weekend to save some sort of botched mission before the end of Janey's karate tournament. “It would rule if we could make it back by Sunday at sevenish. It's pizza night.”

Neil and his friends already proved video gamers could handle anything, so he assumed their second mission should be a piece of cake.

“But more important, I can't wait to get back in a Chameleon,” Neil said, miming the controls of a phantom jet, “and to fly with you again, obviously.”

“Well, about that . . . ,” Jones replied, the two walking in stride under the fluorescent glow of the hangar's interior. They were nearly to the building's center as the huge exterior door finally clanked shut. “How'd you fare on that game I sent you?”

“Oh, Shuttle Fury?” Neil said, remembering his copy of the game, and the juice box that was still on top of it. “Um, well, you know, pretty good. I didn't get a chance to totally ‘finish it,' so to speak, but—”

“I know what you mean,” Jones interrupted. “Figured I'd send it to you all on the off chance anybody could beat the blasted thing.”

“Nobody ever has?” Neil asked, anxious to move the subject of conversation away from his Shuttle Fury score, or lack thereof. “I mean . . . right! No way anybody has beaten that thing.”

“It's impossible. Now just more of a hazing ritual. Something the Force gives to all new test pilots on their first day,” Jones said, his voice echoing off the ceiling's rippled sheet metal.

“So you've played it?” Neil asked.

“Some. Not well, though. When I play it's more like Shuttle Furious,” Jones answered, producing a chuckle from Neil. They'd reached the center of the hangar, and busy technicians buzzed around them as Jones stood still. “But I figured I'd send it. Call it a hunch.”

Neil's forehead crinkled.

“A hunch?” Neil asked, unsure what he meant.

Jones pointed up. Above Neil hung a banner with a blue circle and futuristic lettering.

“Welcome to NASA, Neil Andertol,” Jones said. “Or should I say: potential Astronaut Andertol.”

Neil's eyebrows arched up.

Astronaut Andertol.

The title sounded surreal, especially for someone who had been called Boogercheeks earlier in the day.

“Now let's get moving; we've got work to do.”

Neil felt his stomach drop, and he was still a long way from outer space.

NEIL GATHERED HIS THOUGHTS, OR AT LEAST SOME OF THEM,
and followed Jones through a twisting hallway. It branched out from the huge open space of the hangar, and Jones cut through it in quick strides. Neil was reminded of the mysterious military base he had woken up in months ago. The walls and floor were so similar, Neil almost wondered if it was the same place—or the same interior designer, at least.

Jones abruptly turned another corner, and the hallway came to a dead end. He pushed open a heavy door, revealing a long glossy table full of friendly faces.

“Jones! ManofNeil!” shouted an energetic Robert Hurbigg, or just Biggs for short. Biggs made a hand signal that looked like a dying finger puppet.

“Biggs! Everybody else!” Neil said, a goofy smile stuck on his face. He looked down the two rows of seats, both dramatically lit by the ceiling's track lighting. Neil was surprised, but happy, to see that all his friends had arrived before him. He was realizing just how much he'd missed everyone.

“Glad you could join us,” said a distinguished-looking African American man in a deep-blue suit. He stood behind a podium at the opposite end of the long table.

“Glad I could, too,” Neil said. “You guys didn't get started without me, did you?”

The man said nothing but gestured to the empty seat at the end of the table closest to the door.

Okay, maybe not the best time for jokes.

Neil took the seat next to Yuri, who was clad in gray sweatpants with a velvety cape. The pale dungeon master gave a nod of his greasy forehead, and Neil scanned the ten other faces lining the table.

They were the same video gamers who'd been previously recruited by the military for Neil's last mission. They'd all been deemed the best, based on their top scores from a leaked military flight simulator, Chameleon. The scores were apparently good enough to merit a second chance at saving the world.

Across from Neil sat the identical faces of brothers Dale and Waffles, the tips of their round ears peeling with sunburn. Incognito superhero Jason 2 smiled at Neil, a glittery black costume peeking out from under his shirt collar.

Next to him Jason 1, sporting a freshly cut fade, threw a make-believe football at Neil. It may have actually been a make-believe cantaloupe, but Neil mimicked catching whatever it was with both hands.

“Greetings, Lord Neil!” whispered Riley, a doughy boy wearing a dirty yellow tunic. As he bowed with a royal flourish, Neil wondered who was left at his Renaissance fair to act as swineherd.

“Greetings, my fair pig wrangler,” Neil responded. Jones and the well-dressed stranger were busy talking, so Neil's eyes darted to tally the remaining crew. There was JP waving hello in a sweet Taiwanese soccer jersey, and Corinne in the next swiveling chair. Her hair was wrapped into two spongy buns, and she wore a new pair of dark-brown plastic glasses. She mouthed, “Hi, Neil!” He was a bit disappointed when she didn't spell anything using her body, the source of her spelling bee YouTube fame.

Neil locked eyes with Trevor, who offered a kind of long, extended blink. Neil knew not to expect much more from someone he classified as a certifiable wiener.

From the far end of the table, Neil felt another pair of eyes on him. He turned to see Sam staring straight at him. Her shiny brown hair was now tucked up in a ponytail, the front chopped into a curled row of bangs. She smiled weirdly, doing her best to hide two rows of new braces. They were silver, with tiny sparks of orange stuck to the front of each tooth.

While Neil was happy to see everyone, it was Sam who made him feel a slight buzzing in his fingertips. As his palms grew sweaty, for reasons Neil wasn't altogether sure of, Jones's voice broke his trance.

“Will do, sir,” said Jones. He stepped back from the podium, nodded at the man in the blue suit, and headed for the room's exit.

“Wait, you're leaving?” blurted Biggs, his face distressed. “But who can I steal sunflower seeds from?”

“Keep it together, Hurbigg; you'll be fine. Keep an eye out for this one, Draymond,” said Jones, playfully pointing toward Biggs. As he stood in the doorway, he gave a salute. “You're in good hands, team.”

And with a swish of the doors, their former leader was gone.

Well. This doesn't seem to be going like I'd expected.

Neil and the others directed their eyes back to the man in the suit.

“The name's Commander Draymond Finch,” the man said after clearing his throat. “And NASA needs you all.”

The group remained hushed.
Why would NASA need video gamers?

Even though he'd barely spoken, Neil thought Finch seemed friendly. His voice was much calmer than Jones's, plus he didn't have that pulsing jaw muscle thing happening.

Finch had short hair shaped like a fuzzy horseshoe that left the top of his head bald and shiny. His bushy mustache and eyebrows were speckled with gray streaks. Neil wondered if he used some kind of bowling alley grease to give his scalp such a radiant glow.

“Normally I'd offer a proper introduction, but there's no time to waste.”

Neil had been waiting for months for someone to deny information because time was of the essence.

“You all should know that Jones and I flew on our first five tours as soldiers, served together as test pilots, and I trust him like a brother,” said Finch. “So when we discussed our situation, he convinced me you all could be our only chance of success. Because honestly, we're out of options.”

No pressure or anything.

The overhead lights dimmed, and above the podium a crystal clear 3-D projection appeared. It was a sleek blue orb visible from all directions, and it depicted a rotating ship, which resembled a futuristic Chameleon fused with a standard space shuttle.

Uh-oh. That looks a lot like Shuttle Fury.

Finch clicked a button on the tiny remote he clutched in his left hand and rolled video footage of a rocket preparing for launch. The time stamp on the clip was from the same day, just earlier in the morning.

“As you can see, today we were set to launch one of our top-of-the-line spaceplanes, a model called the Whiptail. The craft handles similarly to the Chameleons you've piloted, but it can withstand the rigors of space.

“This particular ship is the
Newt
. It can reach Mach 25 in less than a minute and even function like an airplane in Earth's atmosphere,” Finch explained as the video playing showed preflight preparation accompanied by the audio of crew-member radio transmissions.

“In other words, it's expensive,” said Trevor.

“You could say that,” Finch replied. “But just after oh-nine-hundred, an hour before the scheduled launch, the not-cheap spacecraft became compromised, along with our entire computer system. The only video we could recover is from an outdoor security camera.”

“You mean, like, you were hacked?” asked JP, his huge brain already working overtime.

“We believe, yes. Whoever it was took total control of our operating systems, completely untraced.”

Neil watched the idling rocket, fixated as confusion and mayhem broke out over the radio frequency. The rocket attached to the shuttle began to fire, and it quickly lifted toward the stratosphere.

“Who's flying this shuttle? Who approved this launch!?” came a distressed voice from the recording. As voices were replaced by the explosive sounds of chemical rocket propulsion, Neil watched the graceful liftoff, following the white plumes of smoke that streaked from the ground far into the air. It looked like a shooting star.

Wait a second
—
that's what I saw at the planetarium!

Neil hadn't witnessed a rare asteroid or shooting star but an even rarer space shuttle hijack.

“You mean, this was just stolen, like my sister's bike outside of a pool hall?” chimed Biggs.

“And didn't the shuttle program end?” questioned Sam, who was pretty much an encyclopedia of knowledge on space, fossils, and old military slang for taking a dump.

“Yes, technically,” Finch said to Sam before turning to Biggs. “And I'm not here to provide excuses: the ship was stolen, plain and simple. The first reported incident of grand space theft. Involving our most technologically advanced craft to date.”

Neil could tell Finch was a bit embarrassed to admit his mission was a failure, and having to tell Jones probably didn't help. Messing up was never fun in front of friends, especially ones who can spit sunflower shells at you.

“But . . . ,” Finch said, “we're proposing a mission, the likes of which has never been attempted before—using an old experimental prototype of our stolen spacecraft. The
Fossil
. While it isn't exactly a conventional ship, it should still be able to get you to space and back and retrieve our stolen ship.”

Not conventional? Is that an adult term for
death trap
?

“You mean, we're going to space?” Sam asked.

“Yes.”

Space.

But Neil felt strangely confident. If he could fly a Chameleon through the clouds with ease, doing so without the constant nuisance of gravity should be easy. Right?