Chapter 8
“What?” said Ben. “Oh—right, coming about. Yeah, I ducked every single time, see?” He pointed at his head. “No bumps, no bruises.”
“Good. Although”—Jill paused and smiled—“a good whack on the head might be what you need, knock some sense into you.”
“Yes . . . but what if I hadn’t ducked, and that whack on the head had made me even crazier? Think of my poor dad, stuck on a small sailboat with a crazy person.”
“Right.” Jill nodded. “I know how that feels.”
Ben laughed and shook his head. “So, what? You’ve turned into a comedian now? I miss the good old days when all you did was snap and snarl and yell at me.”
Jill narrowed her eyes. “Watch your step, Pratt—those days could come back any second.”
They’d reached the corner of Haddon Lane. It was Tuesday morning, another perfect spring day—the fourth one in a row. All around them other kids were also headed for school, and everyone was walking as slowly as possible. The long weekend had been a sweet taste of summer vacation—wonderful, but cruel. Nobody wanted to go back.
When he and Jill had met up to walk to school, she’d told him about her family reunion up at Lake Winnipesaukee. Then he’d told her a little about his sailing trip down to Plymouth. Ben felt like he’d been away for a month—a welcome break from his life onshore, and an especially welcome break from Captain Oakes and his school.
Still, as much fun as the sailing had been, he’d been aware every second that his mom wasn’t onboard. He felt pretty sure his dad had noticed too.
Not that they’d talked about that. They hadn’t really talked much at all. Both down the coast and back, it had seemed more like March than May—a fifteen-to-twenty-knot easterly wind, with a two-to-three-foot swell. The sailing had been intense, and the Tempus Fugit had lived up to her name—they’d flown.
By dusk on Sunday they had anchored in Duxbury Bay just north of Clark’s Island. After squaring away, they’d had supper onboard and then dropped into their bunks, exhausted. They’d talked a little, but mostly about the boat and the rigging and the weather—sailor talk. Nothing personal. Nothing about the family. Nothing about Mom.
And that made Ben wonder how things were between Jill’s parents. Her mom was totally against the new amusement park, and her dad, a businessman, had just bought two thousand shares of stock in the Glennley Group. He knew Jill was worried . . . maybe he should ask her about it.
But Ben was glad when Jill picked up the conversation and took it in a completely different direction.
“Did you read Robert’s text about all the names and numbers he found on Lyman’s phone?”
Ben nodded. “First thing I did when we got back to the marina. Pretty amazing. I bet we can figure out who a lot of those contacts are, and we might be able to use that stuff somehow—maybe to distract Lyman or something. I can’t wait to see the printouts Gerritt made.”
“Yeah, me either.”
They crossed Washington Street, and as they walked onto the school grounds, Ben stopped short and pointed. “Look—the stakes are gone again! Did you . . .”
Jill held out her palms for inspection. “I’m innocent. Actually, the school board had all of them removed last Friday—didn’t you hear about that? They were afraid kids would run into them and get hurt, which would mean lawsuits. No more surveying stakes until the construction fences go up.”
“Which means no more stakes ever,” added Ben, “if we do our job.”
“Speaking of our job, there’s Robert. I guess he got the text you sent him last night. Look, he’s pretending we don’t exist. He’s not a very good actor.”
It was true. Robert was walking their way, heading toward the front door. He was working very hard to look like he wasn’t paying any attention to either of them. Ben smiled and looked away.
He had sent Robert a simple text late Saturday night:
Don’t hang out with Jill and me at schl.
Ur the keepers secret weapon.
Robert had replied instantly.
Got it—stealth bomber
Ben looked up as he went in the front door. On the door frame to the left, he saw one of Lyman’s little black sensors. The enemy was close. Lyman was already inside somewhere, actively opposing them.
Even so, Ben felt good as the three of them walked into the front hallway together. If they could keep Lyman in the dark about Robert, it would help level the playing field. Actually . . . it might be more like taking control of the high ground during a battle.
Ben and Jill turned left at the office. She had homeroom on the third floor, and he had to go up there and get something from his locker. Ben glanced over his shoulder and spotted Robert. He was walking the other direction, headed for the north stairwell. His homeroom was on the third floor too, but he was clearly trying to avoid being anywhere near them—probably afraid he might blow his cover. Ben smiled to himself. Seemed a little silly to take things that far. But then again, there was nothing silly at all about controlling the high ground. Because every day from now on was going to be a battle.
Controlling the high ground . . . it was a concept that he had learned during his very first snowball fight. Being up higher mattered.
There was heavy traffic in the south stairwell, and as he trudged slowly upward, Ben thought about that.
He had never really studied warfare, but he’d read about plenty of historical battles, both on land and at sea. Out at sea, there was no high ground. Sailing on the wide ocean, the old warships won battles by being larger, faster, and having bigger cannons. Even then, it was tough to get an advantage. Sometimes you could sneak up on an enemy ship at night or through a fog, but usually an opponent saw you coming from miles away. To win, you had to outsail the other captain, get into firing position, and shoot your cannons first—BOOM!
A land battle was very different, and controlling the high ground was vital. Gravity was a powerful force. From up above, your cannons could fire a lot farther than your enemy’s. But controlling the high ground didn’t guarantee a victory—you still had to be smarter or stronger or better prepared, and it helped to be all three.
Back in October he’d done a social studies report on the Battle of Bunker Hill. The story had made a strong impression on him.
In June of 1775, Boston was under siege. British ships controlled the harbor, pounding the city with their cannons. Then English generals ordered soldiers to land and take control of some high ground by the harbor—Breed’s Hill and Bunker Hill.
But patriot spies heard about the attack, and the Americans rushed to the top of Breed’s Hill first. There were about seven hundred men with no training, lousy weapons, and not enough ammunition. They dug ditches and put up low walls
of dirt.
Two thousand Redcoats started marching up the hill. They thought the rebels would just run away some of the British didn’t even load their rifles. An American officer gave that famous order: “Don’t fire till you see the whites of their eyes!”