The Nerdy Dozen (7 page)

THE JET TORE THROUGH THE CLOUDS AS IF THEY WERE THE computer-simulated clouds Neil was used to facing, leaving only a blue frontier in all directions.

As Neil eyed his jet's rapidly rising altimeter, the blood in his temples pounded and he thought back to a night, months earlier, when he'd suddenly grown frustrated with online gaming. He'd stayed up into the wee hours of the morning researching the actual experience of flight so he could know what it felt like to pilot a real fighter jet. That night, Neil spent hours watching online videos, studying flight maps, and reading blog posts of former pilots. The next day, he'd gone back to gaming, feeling more like an actual pilot, having a better idea of the reality of the game he was playing.

How wrong he'd been. Nothing, none of those videos or blog entries, really prepared him for how cool the real thing felt. It was better than he could have ever imagined.

Suddenly, the jet fighter shot up at a steeper angle than Neil thought possible.

“Whoa.” Neil held on to the controls in front of him, his stomach dropping to his knees.
Maybe having a barf bag around would have been a good idea.

“Increase the thrust, copilot,” instructed Trevor. “We'll climb up in altitude and look to roll right.”

“I know,” Neil said, catching his breath. Neil wasn't thrilled to be taking orders from Trevor, but he felt like he had no choice. He grabbed the grooved metallic control in the thin console between the pilots.

Their jet leveled while capping hundreds of miles per hour, and Neil was surprised to feel nearly motionless. And yet he sensed, too, that the plane could go faster still. It was being held back, like a boat engine stuck in seaweed, its propellers lurching to break free. It was time to put the pedal to the metal. Or a joystick to the sky.

“Recruits,” Jones said over the radio to everyone, “I want to run through terms quickly, just so you're familiar. To fly up, it's—”

“Pitch. We know,” Trevor said.

“And yaw. What I mean by yaw is—”

“Left, right,” said the duo of Dale and Waffles over the radio.

“Side to side,” added JP.

“We have the internet. You'd be shocked at how much we know,” said Neil. The group laughed.

“Well, can the internet teach you what the battlefield really looks like? How it feels to fly a jet engine? Or break the sound barrier? The smell of freedom from a hard-fought victory?”

“Wait, you've got that scent? Are you sandbaggin' me on that smell, Mr. Jones?” Biggs barged in.

“Hurbigg, it's Major Jones. Were you raised by wolves or something?”

“It was only a week, and I'd rather not talk about it.”

Meanwhile, Trevor straightened his back and tightened his grip on the controls.

“So you don't think we can fly, Jonesy? Copilot, ready the afterburners,” Trevor said.

Trevor kept the fighter aimed forward but suddenly had Neil throttle back.

“What are you doing?” Neil asked as he eased on the speed of their craft. In the same motion, Trevor rolled right and aimed the nose of the plane down. The fighter dived toward the brown rocky landscape dead ahead.

From hours of virtual piloting, Neil now realized Trevor was trying a split S. It was tricky—the plane dived down and turned, then turned again to accelerate in another direction. When the move was performed correctly, the plane made a swooping S shape, exiting the maneuver going either directly left, right, or opposite from where it started.

“Grunsten, watch your—” Jones began, but stopped as the g-force suddenly pushed down on everyone. Neil felt as if a huge person, a sumo wrestler maybe, was sitting right on top of him. But even as he gritted his teeth at the feeling of being smushed, he couldn't help noticing how flawless and precise Trevor was. As the plane moved smoothly out of the roll, Neil punched the throttle.

“Woo!” Trevor yelled, and even Neil joined in.

“That was awesome,” Neil agreed, unleashing the afterburners as their craft rocketed forward, like being fired from a slingshot.

“In my three decades of service, I've never seen a pilot do that without hundreds or thousands of flight hours logged,” an impressed Jones said over his headset. “I'd be furious if you hadn't done it perfectly.” Trevor smiled. “But let's hand the controls over to copilots, quickly. They need to get a feel for the planes, too, just in case.”

Trevor's smirk faded as his hands reluctantly moved from the controls to the throttle.

Neil confidently reached for the joystick in front of his seat. It felt like second nature, like riding a bike after a long winter spent indoors.
Except this bike doesn't have giant orange safety flags attached to the back.
Neil's mother was aggressive about bike safety.

“You need to try to
feel
your aircraft,” Jones encouraged. “You need to become a part of it.”

This stuck with Neil. As he effortlessly cut through the air, he felt as if the fighter jet was an extension of himself, as if he simply had to think what he wanted it to do and then it would happen.

On the interactive visors on everyone's helmets, coordinates of the aircraft carrier began to flash in vivid detail. The distance to the carrier was calculated and shown beneath. The Chameleons had sped past the coastline and were now out over the churning currents of endless sea.

“Copilots, we'll be approaching our first destination, the USS
Martin Van Buren
,” said Jones. A three-dimensional satellite image of a massive aircraft carrier came into the center of each display. Planes and complicated weaponry dotted the floating runway. It turned slowly, tiny soldiers moving around on its deck.

“What's on all their faces?” asked Biggs. Neil toggled the controls on the joystick in front of him to zoom in. He saw what Biggs was talking about. On either side of the soldiers' faces, it looked as if some kind of furry wildlife had recently died there.

“Oh, the chops.” Jones groaned, as if the question came up frequently. “Well, as per military rules, soldiers aren't allowed facial hair. But there's the name loophole.”

“The name loophole?” Neil asked.

“Basically, a rule was grandfathered in that the only style of facial hair a soldier can have is that of the ship's namesake. So, for example, the crew on the USS
Lincoln
gets beards,” Jones explained. An electronic bust of Van Buren appeared on the visor displays. “Unfortunately, President Van Buren enjoyed what we in the business like to call muttonchops. Those big patches of sideburn hair that tend to grow more out than down. Sadly, it seems the men of the ship are keeping that disgusting tradition alive.” Jones cleared his throat. “But you'll see all that soon enough. Coordinates set?”

Neil and the others now piloting—Sam on his left and Yuri on his right—replied with an affirmative, and Jones gave them the go-ahead to start flying out of formation.

“Hey, Biggs and Riley, how you guys doing back there?” Neil asked.

“Great, man. This video camouflage stuff is awesome,” Biggs said. “I think I can get it to play giant cat videos. For later.”

“And I'm ready if you need me, your lordship,” piped up Riley.

Neil made a mental note to do a quick Google search on his phone for Renaissance terms once they were safely on the ground. He turned his attention back to the monitor, where the GPS beacon for the aircraft carrier was quickly approaching, and began to prepare for landing.

There was something else on his radar, Neil realized—a dot approaching from behind. At first he assumed it was another aircraft headed for the USS
Martin Van Buren
, possibly to refuel, but it wasn't slowing down. It was accelerating. Acting on instinct, Neil swerved the plane hard to the right, knocking everyone against the taut safety straps of their seats.

“Andertol!” Jones bellowed in his earpiece. “What the—”

At that exact moment, a rocket shot past, missing the jet by a matter of feet and exploding in a fiery ball in the space ahead.

“That's enemy fire, recruits!” Jones boomed. “Somebody get me some eyes on who that is!”

Neil and Trevor frantically turned their heads, as Biggs and Riley did the same in the back. Among the four of them, every direction was covered.

“There be-eth an unmarked bogey, my liege,” Riley replied.

“Somebody wanna tell me what he's saying?” Jones exclaimed.

“We have visual on that bogey,” Neil confirmed. “Or, uh, we used to . . . ,” Neil trailed off as they all watched the enemy fighter begin to shimmer invisible—almost like the Chameleon could. Neil peered closely and could still see the outline.

“They're trying to activate camouflage, but it doesn't seem to be on a par with ours,” Jason 1 was saying from another plane. “Look, you can tell it's created to broadcast from only one viewing angle. If we pulled up or below, we could probably see the plane.”

“You heard the kid! Pull up!” Jones yelled. “Pilots, back in command! Copilots, release controls!”

Abruptly, Trevor guided the nose of the fighter up, forcefully reclaiming the controls just as another rocket shot past them.

“Why haven't we gone invisible yet?” Neil blurted out. The plan had been to activate the invisibility technology after refueling on the
Martin Van Buren
. But when they made that plan, no one knew they were going to get shot at.

“Good thinking, Andertol,” said Jones. “All Chameleons, activate camouflage. Abandon first destination and proceed directly to second coordinates. I repeat, continue on to second coordinates. You've all had enough practice!”

Biggs fired up the invisibility technology for the Chameleon, and Neil could feel it in his bones as the entire craft began to vibrate. As the formation of jets vanished into thin air, Neil hoped this was enough to shake off their strange, half-invisible enemy.

THEY FLEW STRAIGHT AND SILENT FOR A FEW SECONDS, BUT it seemed like an hour, while the enemy fighter looped around in search of Neil and company. It ducked up and down, firing frustrated shots into the distance as it scoured the air. But as the search came up fruitless, the aircraft eventually turned around, returning in the direction they'd just come from.

Neil breathed a deep sigh of relief. They were okay. But the faint, high-pitched buzzing sound that started when the invisibility scales were fully activated was beginning to make his teeth grind. It reminded him of when the cable box was turned off at his grandparents' house while their old tube television was accidentally still on and the TV's faint screech droned incessantly. Neil was always the first to notice it, as apparently the others in his family were unable to hear the frequency. He wondered if it would be the same now, or if this meant he possessed doglike hearing.

“Sam, you getting that buzzing sound too?” Neil asked into his headset.

“What buzzing sound?” Sam sounded confused.

Uh-oh. Dog hearing is sounding more and more likely.

While Trevor maintained control of the gears, Neil wished he could check out his jet's invisibility in action. From inside the plane everything still looked normal—he could see the exteriors of the other jets, a safety feature so that the invisible planes wouldn't crash into one another. But Neil had secretly been hoping that he would at least be able to look through the floor of his jet to the ground below, like those glass floors atop tall buildings designed to lure tourists.

“That was close, recruits,” Jones said, jogging Neil's attention. “I've alerted the
Martin Van Buren
to the situation, and they'll be in pursuit of the bogeys. Continue at full speed to our final destination.”

“But, sir,” Corinne piped up from the neighboring jet, “we haven't practiced landing!”

“I have trust in you, cadet,” Jones reassured her. “Now, we're going to bring up our satellite feed to see what we're dealing with. I want all craft to stay at about thirty thousand feet for now. I'm thinking we can get a bird's-eye on our craft and just hover down nice and quiet-like.”

Trevor pulled back farther on the joystick, but there was tension in the gears. He looked at Neil as if something wasn't right.

“What'd you do, Ashley?”

“What? I didn't touch anything. I haven't even been flying!” Neil responded. He grabbed hold of his controls and tried moving them, but the plane continued to level out, barely idling forward.

Uh-oh,
Neil thought.

At the same time, everyone's visor display went blank. The coordinates, levels, and monitors disappeared.

“It's okay, cadets,” Jones said. “Electrical systems are still operational, just not sure what's going on. Mission Control. Mission Control . . . ,” Jones's voice repeated, but there was no reply. “Wells, Lopez. Switch to the alternate channel on the telecom.” Neil could hear a click as they left to talk privately. Neil tried to stay calm and ignore the gnawing feeling that if something needed to be said on a separate channel, it probably wasn't good.

He returned his focus to the gauges in front of him and concentrated on getting them to their final destination. Neil was just starting to get back into the swing of things when the jet suddenly hit an air pocket. In an instant, the plane dipped, but Trevor quickly pulled back up to correct their flight. His confidence guiding the plane was impressive, but Neil had a feeling that something still wasn't right.

“Hey, Trevor,” Neil said, “we should slow down a little so we don't leave a vapor trail or anything. Don't want to make being invisible pointless.”

“
Psh
, I know, Ashley,” Trevor replied, but he increased the speed anyway.

The invisible fighter pushed on, covering hundreds of miles of ocean in minutes. The jets skimmed over a blanket of puffy white clouds, the choppy sea appearing in the small gaps between them.

“Pilots, let's pull back a bit. If estimations are accurate, we should be getting close to our missing ship's location,” said Jones, returning to the main radio channel. “Looks like we're getting continued interference on our radar, though.” He slapped his helmet, and then the screens surrounding him. It was obvious Jones was not exactly familiar with the technology.

“Jones, I'd be happy to take a look at the radar. I'm wondering if there's a—” JP started to say.

“Silence, recruits,” commanded Jones. He looked toward the horizon. “Due to apparent technical difficulties, we'll have to do this the old-fashioned way: with our own two eyes. On my mark, we'll hover down to scout out what's below us. If my map's correct, I'm not seeing that there should be anything, so keep your eyes out for our craft floating below. Stay in formation as best you can, pilots, and do exactly as I say. Now, let's do this.”

Switching the craft's controls with a toggle of his thumb, Trevor dived toward the surface of the ocean. Neil felt his stomach get left behind at a higher altitude. They were falling fast—
too fast
, Neil thought, watching the altimeter drop from six digits to four. This was bad. Neil grabbed his controller and tried to correct Trevor's flying, pitching the nose up ever so slightly. With a free hand, he pulled back on the throttle.

They slowed, but only for a moment. Neil looked to see Trevor's hand firmly on the thrust controls, pushing well beyond the speed Neil had just corrected.

The fighter burst clear from the cloud cover to loom over a small chain of three islands. Neil could see where tidal pools had carved the land, leaving sandbars and jutting rocks scattered around the row of oddly shaped landforms. There was a larger main island that formed a misshapen triangle with two smaller ones. It looked like a spooky, half-smiling face, Neil thought. Two uneven eyes above a crescent mouth.

“What's going on up there? Slow down, pilots!” Jones snapped as the jet sped down toward the smallest island. Neither of the boys responded. Neil just gritted his teeth, clutching the throttle as he tried his best to reduce Trevor's pace.

“This isn't fun and games, soldiers. Cut this out,” Jones commanded.

“I can land these things on a dime in the game,” Trevor insisted. “Just watch.”

Neil let go, as if to say “Fine, do it your way,” and immediately regretted his decision. Trevor just kept accelerating, and without Neil's resistance, they plunged even faster.

The tops of the palm trees below grew terrifyingly close, and Trevor finally tried to slow down. But he'd waited too long.

At the center of the smallest island was a tiny crater devoid of trees. Trevor aimed for it. As they neared, a subtle red glow became visible from cracks in the bottom of the rocky circle.

“Trevor, that's lava!” Neil cried out.

“Get us out of here!” Jones shouted.

The heat rising up from the small crater of magma below caused the thrusters to moan and fire out of sync. Neil felt the once-powerful fighter wobble in midair, circling unsteadily like a bad juggler's spinning plate atop a stick.

“Watch out!” Neil shrieked as dozens of gauges began to beep in distress. The Chameleon thrashed through the humid tropical air, unleashing a sputtering howl as it lost control and launched into a violent tailspin.

As they spiraled down, Neil looked for something, anything, to help. He saw a handle marked
EMERGENCY
and pulled it firmly, before realizing that the next word was
RELEASE
. Neil stayed put, but a cache of gear spilled out from the belly of the plane into a thick patch of palm trees.

In a final, disorienting plummet, the jet took a nosedive toward the white sand beach that circled the small island.

“Thy ship is verily crashing!” Riley exclaimed.

“If anyone finds a recording of this, as my last living will and testament, I leave everything to my cat, Mayor Mittenbottom!” Biggs screamed.

“Tell that to Mayor Mittenbottom yourself,” Neil replied. “We're not going down like this!” And with every ounce of strength he had, he yanked back on the throttle, forcing the tail of the jet to stabilize and breaking them free of their swirling descent. But just as he thought he might have regained control, the jet hit a tangle of vines dangling between tall palm trees and jerked to the ground.

The plane landed with a thick, powerful slap, first its tail and then its nose. Seaweed and driftwood flew in all directions, settling onto the sand like pieces of confetti. Neil's safety harness dug into his body, knocking the wind out of him. As he gasped for air, his ears were ringing at a loud and unforgiving frequency. He looked up at the blinding sun and winced.

He was in trouble. This was far, far worse than broken headgear.