The Submarine Job Read online

  Are You Ready to Save the World?

  Title Page

  Letter

  The Submarine Job

  The Cahill Files

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  Connecticut, 1955

  Fiske Cahill was going to drown.

  Water filled his nose and mouth and eyes, and all he could do was flail his arms and pray it would stop soon. The world around him was a dull roar, muffled by the sound of the water as it flooded his ears. The hand on the back of his head held him still; there was no escape.

  Suddenly, it jerked him backward. He gasped in the air, even though it smelled like bleach and too-sweet air freshener. He could taste the chemicals in the air and he spat, trying to keep the water from trickling down past his lips.

  “Come on, now,” said the boy behind him. “I thought you were a fish. Aren’t you a fish, Fish Face?”

  “No,” Fiske grunted before his face was shoved back into the toilet. He only barely snapped his mouth closed in time. Faintly, he could hear the last bell of the day ringing from the hallways. Like dogs at the sound of a whistle, the boys let go of Fiske. He threw himself backward, away from the toilet. The group around him, four or five boys from the years ahead of him, backed away, laughing. They all sucked their cheeks in and put their hands to their necks, waving their fingers like gills as they ran out of the bathroom. Their leader, Eric Landry, turned on the faucet before he left, flinging water at Fiske with his fingertips.

  It was not a good way to end the day.

  Fiske pulled himself up off of the wet, slippery bathroom floor and went to the sink. His hair was soaked and so was his sweater, from his shoulders down to his stomach. Drops of toilet water trickled down over his ears and nose. Fiske grabbed desperately for a fistful of brown paper towels and scrubbed at his face and hair.

  It was utterly mortifying, even with no one else in the bathroom.

  This sort of thing should not happen to Fiske Cahill. It shouldn’t happen to a Cahill at all.

  He picked his books up from the corner where Eric and his gang of friends had thrown them. His history book was splayed open with its papery guts shown to the world. George Washington stared back up at him, sword raised, horse rearing. He was willing to bet that George Washington never got swirlied. Or that Shakespeare never had a note reading “Kicketh me” taped to his back, or that Mozart never had his sheet music pitched into the toilet. Fiske was supposed to have something in common with such amazing people. They were his cousins, after all, all of them far-flung members of the Cahill family. The Cahills — the most powerful family in the history of the world. Cahills were supposed to be something special, untouchable. They were supposed to be great.

  Some good that was doing for Fiske. The only thing he was great at was distracting Eric and his friends from their homework.

  Fiske tucked his books into his backpack and stepped into the main hall at school. He’d be able to go home for the summer soon, he told himself. It was early May, so there was only a month left of school. He could last a month.

  Outside, the spring sun was hot and groups of his schoolmates lounged around on benches or threw a football across the green. It was a beautiful campus, made of lush lawns against stately brick buildings with white columns in front of them. But Fiske kept his head down as he crossed toward the dorms, and so he didn’t see very much of it.

  “Fiske Cahill! Mr. Cahill!”

  One of the secretaries was hailing him, waving a piece of paper in the air. “Fiske Cahill, don’t make an old lady run across the lawn. Come here, and be quick about it!”

  Fiske looked up and around him. Were they all staring at him now? Oh, no. Fiske hurried across the lawn, feeling his ears and neck burn bright red with embarrassment.

  “Why are you all wet?” asked the secretary, wrinkling her nose at him.

  “Uh,” said Fiske, and then he mumbled something about a water fountain.

  “A telegram for you,” said the secretary, handing it over. Her fingernails were painted scarlet to match her bright red sweater. “An emergency, it says. Silly, if you ask me. It doesn’t make any sense! Well, not that I meant to read your private business or anything, but I had to make sure it wasn’t anything bad or illegal.” She looked at him from over her half-moon eyeglasses in a way that made him feel as if he were beneath a swinging lamp in an interrogation room.

  “Y-yes, ma’am,” he said, unfolding the telegram.

  “And here I am, running across the whole school to deliver your nonsensical telegram. Let me tell you, if I wanted to deliver messages I would have been born a carrier pigeon. Well? Are you going to say thank you, young man?”

  “Uh, thank you,” said Fiske, glancing up from the telegram for only a moment. The secretary frowned at him, then turned quite sharply and marched back to the office, likely muttering something about kids these days.

  FAMILY TROUBLE STOP. NEW YEAR’S 1946 STOP. OLD FAMILY FRIENDS EVERYWHERE STOP. GRACE.

  Fiske could only stare at the telegram, his stomach going cold and his mouth dry. It looked like a simple note to anyone else, but Fiske could see through the lines. Family trouble. Grace was in trouble.

  Old family friends everywhere.

  Vespers. Sworn enemies of the Cahills.

  New Year’s 1946? Fiske’s mind was clicking so rapidly that it was having trouble making complete thoughts. For Christmas 1945, he’d gotten a new set of water-colors and a brand-new easel. He could remember that. Grace had given them to him. And then he hadn’t been allowed to stay and paint things because — because why?

  Because they’d had to go to Washington, DC. There had been Cahill business to attend to, and no one would let Fiske stay home when the nanny was visiting her sister. So Grace was in Washington.

  Surrounded by Vespers.

  Fiske folded the telegram again and shoved it in his pocket. He was shaking so hard that he thought his skin would come loose and fall off; his breath was so strained in his throat that he might choke on the air. Grace wouldn’t have risked sending a message to school if she wasn’t in danger. He glanced around again; was anyone still looking at him? Had they even been looking in the first place? Cahill business made him uncomfortable — vulnerable, as if he was being watched.

  With one more stealthy look around, Fiske turned straight for the headmaster’s office. He’d have to get permission to leave as soon as possible.

  And then he ran into something. Or someone. Eric Landry.

  “What have you got there, Fish Face?” Eric asked, holding out his hand.

  Fiske only looked at him. Not now, he screamed inside his head. Get out of the way.

  “Now what have you got there that’s got you so long in the face?” asked Eric, making a grab for Fiske’s pocket. “Girlfriend break up with you? Your dog die? Gramma fallen sick, Fish Face? Someone snatch her up and ship her back to the sea? Your gramma is a fish, too, isn’t she? A big old whale, maybe?”

  “Don’t rip it!” Fiske yelped, the words squeaking out of him as if he had been squeezed too hard. He jerked away, holding the telegram tightly.

  “Oh, don’t rip it!” Eric sang, mocking Fiske. He made another grab for it. Fiske jumped out of the way. “Stop moving around, Cahill, and give me that telegram.”

  “Hey, Eric,” said one of the other boys. “Let him go. He looks upset.”

  “He’s gonna look more upset if he doesn’t cough up that telegram.”

  “Why do you care?” said the other boy. His name was Matthew, and he was in Fiske’s history class. “It’s nothing important. It’s just Cahill. Like anything exciting or interesting would ever happen to him.”

  Fiske held his breath. He needed to go; he needed to get out of this.

&nb
sp; Eric smirked at Matthew and then shoved Fiske away. “Get out of my way, Cahill.”

  Fiske turned on his heel and ran off toward the headmaster’s office. Eric and Matthew and the other boys laughed as he sprinted away.

  George Washington would never, ever run away from anything. Something burned in Fiske at the thought. Something that said no matter how he tried, he’d never live up to the standards that he was supposed to meet.

  In the headmaster’s office, the secretary in bright red lifted an eyebrow at him. “You know the rules. You can’t just leave school.”

  “B-but I have to go,” said Fiske, showing her the telegram. “It’s from my sister. If there’s a family emergency, I need to be there for it.” He wet his lips and shifted from foot to foot. They had to let him go.

  “That’s very touching,” said the secretary, pushing the telegram back toward him. “But I’m afraid the headmaster isn’t available at the moment. And look, it says right there that you have old family friends all over the place. That’s nice, isn’t it? Your sister isn’t alone.”

  “It’s, uh, it’s not the same as family,” said Fiske. “Please, can’t I see him? He’ll understand, I know he will.”

  “No. I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. So sorry about that. But you can schedule an appointment with him for next Wednesday.”

  “But that’s over a week from now!” said Fiske, his voice cracking. “If it’s an emergency, then I need to leave right away.”

  “I’m so very sorry for the inconvenience, but I’m afraid that’s the best I can offer you,” said the secretary. She smiled at him then, and it wasn’t a very nice smile at all. It was the kind of smile a cat would give a canary right before gobbling it down.

  Fiske wanted to throw things. He wanted to jump up onto her desk and pitch a fit and force her to see that this wasn’t a game. It wasn’t something silly. It was a Cahill thing, and more than that, it was Grace.

  Instead, he bit his tongue and ran out of the office. He would go to his dorm. He would figure something out. Somehow.

  The secretary waited until he was gone, and then picked up the phone. With her red fingernails, she spun the rotary dial, waiting impatiently as it ticked back and forth.

  “Yes, hello,” she said. “This is Eighty-nine. The Boy King will be trying to flee soon. I’ve tried to delay him, but he’ll take alternative measures. I’m recommending a tail, and eyes at Meriden and the train station. Very good. Thank you.” She put the receiver down and picked up a nail file.

  The door to the headmaster’s office opened, and he stuck his head out. “Did I just hear a student out here, Marilyn?”

  “No, of course not. There’s nothing to worry about, sir,” she said. “Nothing to worry about at all.”

  In his dorm room, Fiske pulled a bag from beneath his bed. Grace had told him to always keep one packed. He’d rolled his eyes when she said it, but as a Cahill, he didn’t really have a choice in the matter. He pulled off his damp sweater and changed into a clean black one. Outside, the sun was falling down behind the trees. It wouldn’t be fully dark for a few more hours, but he didn’t have that kind of time. He’d have to go now.

  Fiske put his ear to the door; in the hall, boys were heading to dinner or to study. He could say he was going to the library, but the library was closed during dinner and everyone knew that. He could say he was headed to the field houses, but no one would believe that.

  On his dresser was a framed photograph, taken last Christmas. Fiske was in the corner, per usual, looking awkward and half hidden in shadow. His father, a stern-faced and silent man, sat on a chair in the center of the frame. His sister Beatrice was beside him, a smile pressed into her face so unnaturally it was as if someone had to arrange her mouth and chin just to show her how it might work. And then there was Grace, beaming and full of so much life that she practically made the picture move. She was turned toward him, her arms outstretched, trying to pull Fiske into the forefront. Grace was twelve years older than him, but he had never felt any distance between the two of them. They weren’t much, that family. They were fractured and imperfect. Two of them, actually, were rather dysfunctional and not very nice. But they were still his.

  He picked up the frame and gazed at it for a moment longer.

  Fiske glanced behind him. There was always the window.

  He threw the curtains back and lifted the sash. There was no one below, but he was still two stories from the ground. He looked at his watch; the dinner bell would ring soon.

  With a grunt, Fiske threw his bag out the window toward the trees. It landed with a crash in the underbrush, and he winced at the noise. But it didn’t seem that anyone heard it. So hopefully no one would notice the freshman climbing out of the window, either.

  Doing something he once read about in a book, Fiske took the sheets off of his bed and knotted them together. It didn’t seem like a very long rope, and it looked even shorter by the time he’d tied a corner of it to his dresser. People in his books must have more bedclothes than he did. Still, he threw the end of his sheet rope out the window.

  And there were still a good seven or eight feet between the end of it and the ground.

  He climbed onto the windowsill and wrapped his legs around the sheets. The dresser wobbled a bit as he slowly edged his way down the homemade rope. The sheets began to slip their knots. Fiske wavered, his arms and legs shaking so hard that he could have been the victim of the world’s tiniest earthquake. He tried to scramble down before the sheets fell or the dresser toppled out the window, but it didn’t work. He lost his grip, and before he understood what was happening, Fiske’s arms and legs were flailing through nothing but air. He landed on his back, and all of the breath flew out of him.

  It took a minute of lying there in the bushes and grass to get his breath back, but he jumped up as soon as he could. Now what? The airport was a good five miles away, at least.

  Beyond the tree line was a row of faculty houses, residences specifically set aside for teachers with families. And there, leaning against a back porch, was a bicycle with streamers on the handlebars and a pink plastic basket.

  Of course, he thought. Of course it would be an eight-year-old girl’s bike. It couldn’t be a moped or something cool.

  He swung his leg over the pink banana seat, mentally promised the little girl that he’d get the bike back to her, and then sped off down a service road.

  But there was someone waiting for him there.

  The secretary stood in the middle of the street, her hands on her hips and a very disapproving look on her face.

  “I should have known you would try to sneak away. It’s incredibly rude to do something when you’ve been told you don’t have permission.”

  “How did you know that I — how — I’m, I’m sorry,” said Fiske. “But I have to go.”

  “Oh, to your sister. I know, darling boy. But you really shouldn’t worry about her. She’s with some friends of mine, and they’re just dying to talk to her.” The secretary smiled in that not-very-friendly way of hers.

  Fiske felt as if he had been washed in snow. The secretary’s friends? There was a Vesper working at his school?

  “We’re everywhere, Mr. Cahill,” said the secretary. “Don’t think that we’re not. Now, I know you’re a good boy. You’d much rather be sketching your family tree than trying to live up to it and never doing so, am I right? Of course I am. So, get off the bicycle. Let your sister put out her own fires. And perhaps you’ll live to see another day.”

  A part of Fiske crumbled, like a piece of a cliff tumbling down into the sea. He stared at the secretary with her red suit, her gray hair curled into a little iron helmet.

  He put his foot back on the pedal.

  The secretary lifted a finger. “I’m giving you a chance. You’re a snotty little Cahill, but you’re just a boy. The others won’t be as forgiving. The others would kill you as soon as they looked at you, Fiske Cahill. Don’t think they don’t know where you’re going
, or who you’ll see.”

  Fiske pushed off. He tried to gain as much speed as he could, whipping past the secretary. She yelled out at him, turning and chasing him down the road. Her scarlet claws grabbed at the back of his sweater, but he sped away.

  He didn’t want a chance to turn around. He didn’t want to be delayed. He knew that the secretary would run back to her desk and call whoever it was that she had to call, but he couldn’t worry about any of that right now. He needed to get to Grace, and they would handle it together.

  He had a sister to save.

  Meriden was the nearest airport, and while it was ten minutes away by car, it took considerably longer to get there through the wooded paths at dusk, on a small girl’s bicycle. Fiske didn’t dare use the main road.

  There were some old paths through the forest that some of the older boys used when they were sneaking out; Fiske followed one of those. His teeth clattered against one another from fear and from the cold.

  He didn’t have a lot of time; he knew the Vespers would be waiting, looking for him. They could be crawling all over the small airport in the quickly falling darkness.

  The airport was sleepy and dark when he arrived at the security gate. The watchman was napping, but he opened his eyes when Fiske rapped on the window.

  “I need to use the Cahill plane,” he said. “It’s an emergency.”

  The security guard wiped his nose and buzzed Fiske onto the airport grounds. The Cahills had kept a plane at Meriden and a pilot on retainer. He was available at any hour that Fiske or Grace might need him. This was another family precaution that Fiske had huffed and moaned about, but Grace’s choices were becoming more and more clear. Everything was about the Clue hunt — whether Fiske agreed with that set of priorities or not. He bit his lip. It wasn’t fair to think that way, but he couldn’t help it.

  Fiske rode his bike to the hangar. Pete, the pilot, was wiping down the Cahill plane’s nose with a cloth. Pete had been in dogfights in World War II . The danger had made him nearly fearless, but possibly a bit crazy. Which, in turn, made him an excellent Cahill ally.