Callsign: Queen - Book I (A Zelda Baker - Chess Team Novella) Read online

  His concern is nice, but fades quickly when I say, "They're recording us."

  "They always record us," he says. "This is what you signed up for, Harper. You're here to take a stand. To go on record against these murderers. If you go to jail, so be it. That's what we do. I've been in jail four times already."

  How Chase could survive in jail is beyond me. I can think of ten raunchy inmate nicknames for the kid off the top of my head. He doesn't give me time to test them out in my mind.

  "Look," he says. "I know this is your first time out. And it can be intimidating. You're not used to this kind of action. I get it. You can cover your face if you want, but eventually you'll have to make a stand and reveal yourself."

  I contemplate making a joke about revealing myself, but that would either turn him on or piss him off—neither of which is something I want happening, so I hold my tongue.

  He reaches past my head, pulls up the hood of my bright red jacket and ties it tight so only my eyes can be seen. "These guys are amateurs. They've never had to face us before. This isn't like the Japanese. They have no LRAD, no flash-bangs, no water cannons. They don't even have a loudspeaker to shout at us! But you've got the best arm on board and I want you to fuck their shit up!"

  He's got a bigger smile now. Couple his grin with the goofy face and passion stolen from a Braveheart speech and I can't help but laugh. He takes my chuckle for excitement and I play the part. With my face concealed, I turn and send another jar sailing across the hundred-foot divide between the Sentinel and the Bliksem.

  But I've put a little too much pepper on this pitch, and instead of striking the hull of the whaling ship, it soars toward the wheelhouse. The tall blond man, who looks like some kind of modern Viking, ducks, and for a moment I think I've been saved. Then the distinctive sound of a breaking window fills the air. I cringe, thankful that the cinched hood hides my face from their crew and ours.

  A battle cry rings out from all around me. Not just from the crew on deck, but also from the Sentinel's wheelhouse. The whole crew has seen what I just did.

  Great.

  Chase gives my shoulder a hearty shake like he's Captain Blackbeard and shouts, "They're not going to want to pilot that ship for weeks!"

  "From paint?" I ask. I imagine that some of the instruments got splattered in red, but I can't see how a single bottle of red paint thrown through the wheelhouse window could disable a two hundred foot ship.

  Chase's smile turns fiendish, and I know I've been duped.

  I curse myself for not looking at the bottle before I threw it and ask, "What was it? What did I throw?"

  "Butyric acid," he says.

  "Acid!"

  He's laughing now, and I suddenly wonder if he's sane. The FBI might have been a better choice for this undercover mission. Of course, we're in Greenland's waters and the Sentinel is registered in the Netherlands so I think this would actually be the CIA's jurisdiction. But the CIA is too busy keeping people from blowing up buildings. They probably don't think twice about whales, unless they can beweaponized, which I'm sure someone somewhere is working on. So that leaves me, Nancy Drew of the seven seas.

  "Don't worry," he says. "It's no more acidic than orange juice. It's essentially rotten butter. Slippery as hell and smells worse than a point blank blast from a skunk's ass. Worst thing you could ever smell."

  Chase's nose must not work, because the people on board this ship are the worst thing I've ever smelled. I look to the Bliksem and see the wheelhouse crew stumbling and slipping out of the cabin. The tall Viking man with the camera catches an older, chubbier version of himself wearing a captain's cap, and helps the man down the stairs leading toward the main deck. I'm thankful that the man is no longer recording, but my relief is short-lived. The old man I suspect is the captain of the Bliksem collapses at the bottom of the stairs.

  The cheers around me grow louder still and I feel sick to my stomach. Opposing the killing of whales does not justify harming people. It's just not the same. That's an opinion that could get me thrown off this ship, but the man could be having a heart-attack. And it could be my fault! What if the jar hit him? What if he got a dose of the vile smelling acid in his face? As panic grips me, I fear that Chase will ask me to throw more bottles. I feel so weak with worry I doubt I could do it. Thankfully, the captain's voice booms from the wheelhouse window before more bottles can be thrown.

  "Time to send the message home!" Captain McAfee shouts. The man is tall and skinny, but has the voice of a baritone. He's all contradictions. Sixty-five, but full of energy. A full head of hair that's stark white. Went through knee surgery after an accident, but walks like a middle-aged mom trying to regain her figure. Preaches love for the Earth's creatures, unless you include humans. "Get away from the rail and hold on tight!"

  The crew around me jump away from the rail like it's been electrified. But I stand dumbly in place.

  "Harper!" Chase shouts. "Get away from the rail!"

  "Why? I don't—" But then I see it. We've changed course and are closing the distance to the Bliksem at a sharp angle. The Sentinel was an ice breaking whaling ship before it was bought and outfitted for anti-whaling missions. It sports multiple hulls and its bow is strong enough to slice through icebergs. I imagine ship hulls aren't too dissimilar.

  "McAfee's going to ram them?" I ask no one in particular.

  But Chase has heard me and shouts, "Yes! Now get down here!" He takes hold of my jacket and yanks me back. I fall to the black deck and am pinned down by the malodorous Chase. A moment later, an impact shakes the ship. The groan of metal on metal drowns out the shouting voices of both crews and lingers for what feels like minutes.

  When it ends, I'm pulled to my feet. The deck crew rushes back to the rail and lets out a cheer. I stumble up behind them and catch site of the Bliksem. Its port side hull has a long dent that isn't nearly as bad as I expected, but that's probably only because it's also designed to take on icebergs. A lesser ship would have no doubt been sunk.

  I marvel that the Bliksem's crew hasn't taken aim with their harpoon or tried to ram us in return. At first I think they're incredibly patient people, but then I remember the captain. It's possible they're preoccupied with saving the man's life. In fact, as the Bliksem languishes behind, I wonder if anyone remains in the wheelhouse. The Arctic is a bad place to be on a boat without a pilot. But then I see the Viking man with a bandana wrapped around his face. He climbs the stairs to the wheelhouse and pauses at the top to look at us—at me. The Sentinel's crew shouts obscenities at the man until he enters the wheelhouse.

  As the voices fade and calm returns to the Arctic sea, I let slip my true feelings, "He's fucking insane."

  It's just a whisper, but Chase hears me. He spins around, eyes ablaze, and says, "I know. He's amazing."

  The fact that "fucking insane" is taken as a compliment is nearly the last straw, but I manage to swallow my revolt and say, "So what next? Is that it? Mission accomplished?"

  "No, no, no," he says, licking his lips like a hungry dog. "We've only just begun."

  ###

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 01

  Chapter 02

  Chapter 03

  Chapter 04

  Chapter 05

  Chapter 06

  Chapter 07

  Chapter 08

  Chapter 09

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  Sample: THE LAST HUNTER by Jeremy Robinson

  Sample: QUEST by David Wood Sample: THE SENTINEL by Jeremy Bishop

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