“You keep coming back to this one harvest camp,” Jeevan points out.
“So far it has the most potential.”
Jeevan studies the satellite image and points to the screen. “But look at all those guard towers at the outer gate.”
“Exactly. All their security is outwardly focused.”
“Ahh.”
Clearly Jeevan doesn’t get it yet, but that’s all right. He will.
“Tad’s dead, by the way.”
Hayden hadn’t planned on saying it. He hadn’t even been thinking about it. Perhaps the memory was tweaked by the heat of the computer room reminding him of that last awful day in the ComBom. The day that Hayden and his team of techies would have died had he not shot out the plane’s windshield. There are still dark moments when he thinks he made a mistake. That he should have honored their wishes and let them die rather than be captured.
“Tad’s dead?” The look of horror on Jeevan’s face is both satisfying and troubling to Hayden.
“He fried to death in the ComBom. But don’t worry. That’s not Starkey’s fault either.” He doesn’t know if Jeevan reads the sarcasm—he’s about as literal as computer code. Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t.
“I haven’t seen Trace here. He flew the plane, didn’t he?”
Jeevan looks down. “Trace is dead too,” he tells Hayden. “He didn’t survive the crash.”
“No,” says Hayden. “I imagine he wouldn’t have.” Whether Trace’s death was a result of the crash or secret human intervention is something Hayden supposes he’ll never know. The truth most certainly died with Trace. Or without a trace, as the case may be.
Hayden hears footsteps coming up the steep slope from deeper in the mine. The way the guard steps aside so obediently telegraphs to Hayden who the visitor is even before he comes into view.
“Speak of the devil! We were just talking about you, Starkey. Jeevan and I were reminiscing about your magic tricks. Especially the one where you made a commercial jet disappear.”
“It didn’t disappear,” says Starkey, refusing to be goaded. “It’s at the bottom of the Salton Sea.”
“He didn’t actually call you the devil,” Jeevan tells Starkey. Literal as code.
“We have a common enemy,” Starkey points out. “The devils are all out there—and it’s time they got their due.”
Starkey dislodges Jeevan from his seat with the slightest flick of his head. He takes his place, studying the image on the screen.
“Is that a harvest camp?”
“MoonCrater Harvest Camp, to be exact. Craters of the Moon, Idaho.”
“What about it?” Starkey asks.
“All of its security is focused outward!” blurts Jeevan, as if he actually knows why that matters.
“Yes,” says Hayden. “And they don’t have eyes in the backs of their heads.”
Starkey crosses his arms, making it clear that he doesn’t have all day. “And why does that matter?”
“Here’s why.” Hayden drags up another window, showing schematics, and a third that shows a standard geological survey. “Craters of the Moon National Park is a lava field riddled with caves, and all the camp’s utility conduits use the caves. Electricity, sewerage, ventilation, everything.” Hayden zooms in on a schematic of the camp’s main dormitory and starts pointing things out. “So, if we create a diversion at the main gate in the middle of the night—some smoke and mirrors, if you will—it will draw all their attention. Then, while the security forces are all focused on the gate, we go in through this utility hatch in the basement of the dormitory, bring all those kids down into the caves—and exit the caves here, almost a mile away.”
Starkey is genuinely impressed. “And by the time they realize their Unwinds are gone, we’ll be free and clear.”
“That’s the general idea. And no one gets hurt in the process.”
He claps Hayden on the back hard enough that it stings. “That’s genius, Hayden! Genius!”
“I thought you might appreciate a ‘vanishing act,’ approach.” He touches the screen, changing the angle of the schematic to show the levels of the dormitory. “Boys are on the ground floor, girls on the second, and harvest camp staff on the third. There’re only two stairwells, so if we man them and tranq any staff that tries to come down, we could theoretically be in and out before anyone figures out what’s going on.”
“How soon can we do this?”
There’s a kind of greed in Starkey’s eyes that makes Hayden close the computer’s open windows so it doesn’t prompt further scheming. “Well, after Cold Springs, I figured you’d want to lie low for a while.”
“No way,” Starkey says. “We should strike while the iron’s hot. One-two punch. You plan the rescue. I’ll take care of the diversion. I want this to go down in less than a week.”
Hayden shudders at the thought of something so theoretical becoming real too quickly. “I really don’t think—”
“Trust me. If you want to clean up your reputation around here, this is the way to do it, my friend.” Starkey stands, his decision set in stone. “Make it happen, Hayden. I’m counting on you.”
And Starkey leaves before Hayden can offer any more reservations.
Once Starkey is gone, Jeevan takes his seat next to Hayden again. “He called you his friend,” Jeevan points out. “That’s a really good thing!”
“Yes,” says Hayden. “It thrills me no end.” Jeevan takes that at face value, as Hayden knew he would.
Starkey had said they had a common enemy. So then is my enemy’s enemy my friend? wonders Hayden. Somehow the old adage doesn’t ring true if that friend is Mason Starkey.
• • •
The Stork Brigade hits MoonCrater Harvest Camp six days later. Hayden and a team consisting entirely of kids who knew Hayden from the Graveyard, map out the caves two days in advance. For the actual event, Starkey leads the way with his special-ops detail, but admits that it would be a good idea to have Hayden and his team there as well. Leaving a trail of flares in the jagged lava tunnels, they reach the camp’s plumbing and conduit lines at 1:30 a.m. and follow them to the basement hatch, which is locked from the other side. They wait.
Then, at 2:00 a.m., a burning truck filled with ammunition crashes through the harvest camp’s outer gate, and gunfire erupts from the volcanic wasteland beyond. Bam is in charge of the diversion, and Hayden does not envy her. She has her work cut out for her—she and her own team of storks must make this look like a real assault on the camp, and they must make it last for at least twenty minutes.
The moment the gunfire starts outside, the inside operation begins.
“Blow the hatch,” Starkey orders his fairly psychotic demolitions kid. “Do it now!”
“No,” says Hayden. “Not yet.” Hayden knows that the building up above is going into lockdown mode—a security measure that will work to their advantage. Steel shutters are rolling down over the windows. Emergency doors are sealing. No one will be able to get in or out of the dormitory until the security system is reset.
Hayden counts to ten. “Okay, now!”
The hatch blows, and armed with only tranq weapons, they pile through the hole toward whatever awaits them.
The Unwinds in the dormitory, already awakened by the explosions and gunfire outside, are primed for death or rescue. Tonight, it will be the latter.
The rescue force tranqs a guard and a counselor on their way up the stairs to the main floor—a single huge communal room lined with row after row of beds. The space is dim. Only emergency lights shine now, hitting the beds at oblique angles, making the plywood headboards look like tombstones. The sounds of the battle outside are muted by the steel shutters. No one can see out, but that means no one on the outside can see in. With all the camp’s attention on the fake assault on the outer gate, the rescue team is effectively invisible.