Scouts' Honor

By Blake Fontennay

Sam and Eddie are 16-year-old Eagle Scouts on a final camping trip of the summer with two adult scoutmasters and a group of younger boys. Their trip takes them into the Boundary Waters, a vast lake-covered wilderness on the border between Minnesota and Canada that’s accessible only by canoe. A campground mishap sends one of the boys and one of the scoutmaster’s home early. Then the trip takes an even worse turn when Sam stumbles across a campsite where a group of terrorists who have crossed the border from Canada are discussing plans to bomb one of America’s busiest gathering places. When the terrorists find out that Sam knows their plans, they launch a search to silence him and his friends. Before the hunt has hardly begun, the remaining scoutmaster gets injured and then mysteriously disappears. Sam and Eddie must rely on their scouting skills to protect themselves and the younger boys as they try to make their way back to civilization and warn authorities about the planned terrorist attack. They get encouragement along the way from a strange hermit who claims to live in the woods. But the terrorists have an ally, too—an American sleeper agent who knows the bombing is only the first phase of a much deadlier attack...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indigo Sea Press
• Release date: Aug 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781630660307

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Are you prepared? the old man asked Adnan.

I am, Adnan answered as convincingly as he could. But he knew that his response would not be enough to satisfy the old man.

The old man was all about questions.

Adnan knew that the old man would keep asking more and more.

He would keep pressing Adnan to find any weaknesses that might make him unsuitable for the task ahead.

But Adnan was confident.

How is your English? the old man asked. It is one thing to know how to make words and sentences in another language. It is quite another to communicate in a way that does not attract the suspicion of those around you.

Arabic was a language that lent itself to a poetic style of speaking. But even so, the old man was particularly good at expressing himself with a flourish.

You can see for yourself, if you like, Adnan replied, switching to English with a strong American accent. Yes, I can sound like an American, Adnan thought to himself.

That was one thing he could thank that miserable bastard from his past for.

Very well, the old man said, also in English. His accent was different, though. He sounded like a London college professor.

Have you thought about all the things that could go wrong on this mission?

Of course, Adnan said. But the plan seems so foolproof. It plays right into the weaknesses of the Americans...

Ah, the old man cut him off. You must be careful not to underestimate your enemies. That is what they have done to us for years. Their minds are too weak and lazy to consider what we are planning.

Imam, that is what I meant, Adnan said. They cannot anticipate that we would strike against them in this way. You and the other elders have come up with a plan that goes beyond the limits of their imagination. The Americans, they are always reacting to the last crisis, never preparing for the next one.

Nevertheless, bad luck has defeated many a great plan. Allah blesses those who are well prepared, the old man said evenly, his voice barely audible over the murmur of other voices in the cafe. It just occurred to Adnan that it was in this very cafe, one of his favorite haunts in downtown Cairo, that he first met the old man. In what seemed like a different lifetime.

Have you made your travel arrangements?

Yes, Adnan said. From here to Morocco, then to Spain, then...

The old man cut him off with a wave. He clearly didn't want all the details. He just wanted to make sure Adnan knew them. Although the cafe was crowded, the old man and Adnan were at a wooden table in a back corner, well out of earshot of the other patrons and their chatter about their unimportant lives.

Adnan had once been one of those people, laughing and joking with his friends at one of the tables set up outside the cafe overlooking the street. He couldn't even remember how many hours he had wasted there, talking about school, jobs, women and other trivial matters. Then his life had changed forever when this old man came riding up on his bicycle one night and struck up a conversation. That had put Adnan on the path he was still following now, with this mission.

The cafe was not fancy. Only a few photos of soccer players and a large Egyptian flag decorated the walls. The cafe had two large picture windows in front that were almost always open, which meant the noise from cars, mopeds and passers-by on the street was nearly constant. A few wobbly ceiling fans strained to relieve the stifling heat, without much success.

The proprietor, a slightly overweight, nervous-looking man stood at a counter next to the kitchen. A small TV, tuned to a soccer match from somewhere in the world, added to the general noise of the cafe.

The proprietor kept himself busy wiping glasses that he knew weren't really dirty. He, along with the other patrons, knew to stay safely out of earshot of the old man and Adnan unless he was summoned.

Do you know where to get your supplies after you arrive? the old man asked.

Yes. Adnan's discomfort level was rising. Even though he had known the old man for many years, he was never completely at ease around him.

How are the other men? the old man asked. Have you made contact with them yet?

They are fine, Adnan said. A very good group, and well suited to the unusual task at hand. They mind orders well. And all have skills that should help us on our journey through the wilderness.

Even your lieutenant? the old man asked, with the tiniest hint of a smirk. He knew...

Imam, about that, Adnan said, as diplomatically as he could. It was not his place to challenge the leadership. Ever. And yet...

I would never question your wisdom in such matters. But that man, well, he is so...

Bah, the old man snorted. "Say no more about it. The one they call the Lamb Butcher is the perfect man to round out your group.

He is strong. He is fearless. And he will inspire the others to do as they are told."

Adnan knew better than to argue. For all of the differences, and there were many, in this respect the old man very much resembled Adnan's father.

As always, my faith in you is complete, Adnan said somewhat meekly. And with most of his heart, he meant it.

Adnan leaned back in his seat in the cafe. At this moment, he felt much older than 30.

He was a good-looking man, which was not necessarily an asset on a mission like this. Better to be plain, if that meant avoiding any unnecessary attention.

But perhaps his charm, highly practiced, could help if he ran into any difficult situations with the Americans.

With his dark eyes and curly black hair, there was no denying his Egyptian ancestry. But he was fairer skinned than many of his race, which could be helpful, too. Less noticeable.

Although it wouldn't matter during the first phase of the operation, there would be a time when he would need to blend in.

The old man was staring at him again with those coal black eyes. At times, his face seemed to be nothing more than those eyes, glaring out from a circle of long white hair and a long white beard.

Now, they were burning a hole in Adnan. He stared silently at his young charge for a minute.

Then another. Adnan couldn't tell whether there would be more questions, or just more of this staring.

But he knew better than to flinch or squirm in his chair. That would be a sign of weakness. Adnan started to wonder if he would ever see the old man again. No! It did no good to think like that.

Finally, the old man grew tired of the game and looked down long enough to take a sip of tea.

One last thing, Adnan, the old man said, his corners of his mouth again flickering ever so slightly. Remember to dress warmly.

CHAPTER 2

Sam's arm hurt.

The whole inside part, from his armpit to the elbow, felt as if a thousand hornets had somehow gotten under his skin and were stinging him.

Yet Sam wasn't the kind of guy who complained. Instead, he tried to block out the pain and focus on the job at hand.

He also blocked out the sound of the crowd in the bleachers, the chatter of the other players on the field and in the dugouts and the batter swinging his aluminum weapon menacingly at the plate.

He focused on Eddie's glove and the signal he was flashing. One finger.

Eddie wanted another fastball.

Oh, Eddie, you're killin' me, Sam thought to himself. It had been a long season.

But mostly a successful one. Sam's team, from the Minneapolis suburb of Richfield, had won the American Legion championship for the Twin Cities area, thanks in large part to Sam's stellar pitching.

Sam was between his sophomore and junior year in high school. Sam had pitched for his high school team, too, but he had played sparingly his first two seasons behind a flamethrower who had graduated in the spring and was headed to Mankato State on a baseball scholarship.

American Legion was a different story, though. Sam was clearly the best player on this team. And Richfield was good enough to get into the state qualifying tournament, where it was facing a team from Moorhead, a town on the North Dakota-Minnesota border.

And, as it turned out, the Moorhead guys were pretty good.

Sam had faced them once before, in the first game of the tournament.

Richfield won that game 3-1. But Sam couldn't pitch every game.

In their second game, Coach Johnson gave Sam's arm a rest and had Billy pitch instead.

Billy was usually solid, but this time he had the jitters.

Sam could see that from his position in left field. Sam hit well, the whole team did actually, but Richfield lost to Wadena in a 10-8 slugfest.

Sam pitched game three, the team's first game in the loser's bracket, and mowed down the opposition on the way to a 2-0 win over a team from the northern suburbs of Duluth.

It was in the final inning of that game that Sam first felt the hornets.

Moorhead had won its next two games in the tournament, setting up the rematch. Coach Johnson sent Billy to the mound to start the game, but the Moorhead hitters quickly jumped on him for a 5-0 lead.

Sam came on to relieve him in the third inning.

He'd shut the Moorhead hitters down for five innings, stingy arm and all.

And he'd also hit a three-run homer to bring Richfield back within striking distance.

The crowd was buzzing a bit now. It was a warm summer day, but not yet warm enough to be uncomfortable. A nice breeze was blowing. The stands were full for this tournament—parents, younger brothers and sisters, friends and neighbors of the team members and the like.

The Leonard H. Neiman Sports Complex was an impressive athletic venue, stretching across 117 acres of land off State Highways 55 and 5 near the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. The complex included two baseball fields, three softball fields, 8 soccer fields and other facilities for golf and tennis. It was just a few miles from Sam's house, but with the energy of the tournament crowd, it seemed like a different world. Sam had been in big tournaments before, of course, but it still took some getting used to. Moorhead's paper even sent someone to cover this game, although American Legion action didn't quite rate coverage from either of the big Twin Cities newspapers. The big city dailies would rather write yet another story about the Twins' dubious playoff prospects instead of covering youth baseball.

But youth baseball was obviously a bigger deal in Moorhead, a small town where entertainment options were considerably more limited.

The Moorhead team’s nickname was the Mighty Wolverines—which their fans shouted in unison any time the team did something right. Migh-TEE-WOOOOOOOL-VERINES they would shout, much to the displeasure of the Richfield fans. The Richfield kids had a nickname, too—the Sky Captains, because of Richfield's proximity to the Minneapolis airport—although it was so lame that none of the kids or even the most clueless parents ever used it.

Sam blocked out the background noise and focused on Eddie’s glove. He nodded in agreement at Eddie's sign, then fired another fastball.

Whoosh. Pop. The ball hit Eddie's glove just a split second before the batter's swing.

Arrgh! the batter yelled in frustration. And maybe to try to intimidate Sam a bit.

At this point, the Moorhead team was feeling pretty confident. Everyone in the stadium could see that. Momentum was clearly on their side now.

The count was 1-2, and Eddie was signaling for another fastball.

This time, Sam shook his head.

Time, Eddie shouted to the umpire, then he jogged out to the mound.

Eddie had pale blue eyes, close-cropped light blond hair and a light personality to match.

To judge by his facial expressions, you'd think Richfield was winning. In fact, Eddie was grinning the same way he would if he and Sam were hanging out and checking out girls at the mall.

What's up? Eddie asked.

Need a break. I wanna throw a curve ball, Sam said.

He'd been able to hide his pain from his coach and his teammates so far. But Eddie knew him better than anyone.

Anything you need to tell me about? Eddie replied. If Sam's arm was shot for the day, Eddie would be the first to know. Maybe even before Sam did.

I'm fine, Eddie, Sam said. Just need a chance to rest my arm for a minute or two.

OK, whatever, Eddie said, turning to jog back behind home plate.

So Sam threw a curveball, low and inside. The Moorhead batter hacked at it anyway, fouling it weakly down the third base line.

Eddie again flashed the sign for a curveball.

Sam shook his head no. I'm fine now, he thought to himself.

He fired another fastball, once again, just getting it past the grunting batter's swing.

Two out now. And still two runners on base. Sam had already given up a couple of walks earlier in the inning as he tried to pitch through the pain.

Now Sam was facing the batter who'd homered off of him for the only Moorhead run in the first game.

He'd also hit one against Billy earlier today. And from what Sam had seen in Moorhead's other tournament games, this was their best hitter. A big kid with high cheekbones, dark hair and dark eyes. Could have some Indian blood in him. Sam knew this guy could be trouble at the plate.

Sam took a deep breath, trying to bring his heartbeat under control. He just needed one more out, but his arm was killing him.

Eddie flashed the signal for another curve, but Sam wasn’t going for it.

If I'm going to get out of this, I’m going to do it with my best pitch, he thought.

After getting the signal he wanted from Eddie, Sam fired another fastball that hurt so bad his eyes teared up.

It was a good pitch, but not quite good enough. Ping! The batter, a first ball hitter, got a piece of it with his aluminum bat and drove it toward left center.

Had Sam been playing left, it was the kind of ball he would have caught on a dead run, making it look like an easier play than it was.

But with him watching helplessly from the pitcher's mound, the ball got into the gap between two diving fielders, allowing both runners on base to score. Moorhead had a couple more insurance runs and a 7-3 lead.

After that, Sam bore down to get the last batter of the inning. It took a total of five pitches, two balls and two strikes, before Sam got him to pop out on a weak curve ball.

That wasn’t enough, though. Richfield scored two runs in the bottom half of the inning, but lost 7-5.

Sam was waiting on deck for his chance to hit when the last out was made. He went through the usual line of postgame handshakes in a daze. Most of the fans were gathered at the chain link fences along the baselines, waiting to congratulate the winners or console the losers. After the handshakes, most of the players were headed that direction.

Sam wasn't quite ready to face the crowd yet, though. He just needed a minute or two to pull himself together first. His arm hurt. His insides hurt because the season was over and he felt like it was all his fault. He wouldn’t get another chance to play organized baseball again until the high school team took the field in the spring.

Hey, Eddie said, slapping him on the back. Eddie was good at sneaking up when Sam was lost in his thoughts. Coach Johnson's taking us over to the Dairy Queen.

Yeah, sure, Sam said glumly. His dark brown hair and dark blue eyes suited his dark mood. His jaw was set firm to hide the pain.

I'll meet you in the parking lot.

Sam was often amazed at how well Eddie was able to hide his own pain. Eddie's life hadn’t been all sunshine and light, that was for sure. After what he'd been through, a lot of people would have been severely depressed. Eddie had gone the other way. He was always upbeat, no matter how bad things were. But he stopped smiling when he studied Sam’s face.

You know, Sam, it's not your fault, Eddie said quietly. Although he tended to be a jokester, Eddie could be serious when he needed to.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam replied.

Come on, man. We've known each other since kindergarten. You know I can tell what you’re thinking.

Oh, yeah? What am I thinking, Eddie?

You're thinking if you'd only played a little better, we wouldn't have lost. But you know, what Coach Johnson says is true. We win as a team, we lose as a team.

Sam rolled his eyes.

You played great today, Eddie continued. You played great this whole season. And you should know by now that you're the best player on this team. But you give a lot of the other guys the willies.

What? Why? Sam had never thought about this before.

Because you take everything so hard, Eddie said. Right now, just about everybody on the team would love to get a soda and chill out. Losing sucks. We all get it. But you seem to take it so personally. You know there will be another chance next summer. And even before that, there’s the high school team’s season next spring. With Billy Mulloy gone on to college, you’ll be the ace on that team. So why treat this as a funeral or something?

Sam thought about that for a minute. No, it wasn’t a funeral, that was true. And yes, there would be other seasons of baseball ahead. But right now, next spring seemed like a long time away.

Yeah, man, I know. It’s just a game, Sam finally said. The sun will come up tomorrow and all that stuff. I’ll get over it. But I just need some time. I can’t change who I am.

CHAPTER 3

It was almost automatic for Ben, the kind of work he was doing now. He'd done it so many times it seemed like second nature.

He moved through the big mall, snapping photos and taking notes in a small notebook, just as he'd done a thousand times before while working on a thousand stupid newspaper stories.

Why did I throw so much of my life away doing this? Ben thought to himself. So many years he'd wasted before he'd found his true purpose in life. Of course, his life was going in a different direction only a few years ago, but so much had happened since then. If only things had been different. But it was too late to think about that now. Things were happening the way they should be happening. He had no doubts about that now.

A question from the public relations woman brought him back to reality. Her name was Tabitha and she was a perky blonde in her mid-20s, with perfect hair and makeup. And of course, she thought her job was oh-so-important.

Is everything OK, Mr. Radford? Tabitha was asking, taking note of the faraway look in Ben's eyes.

I'm fine, he said, forcing himself to smile almost as broadly as she was smiling at him. There must be a factory somewhere where they churned out women like this one, Ben thought. And he didn't mean that in a nice way. To Ben, Tabitha seemed as fake as the plastic plants in this huge mall.

I thought I'd lost you for a second, she said in a way that was so sugary it got on Ben’s nerves. But he could play this game, too. Tabitha knew she was attractive, and that gave her an advantage in dealing with men. Well, most men, anyway.

It's just that everything here is so cool, Ben said with all the fake enthusiasm he could manage. I mean, I've seen a lot of malls in my life, but...

But none of them is the Mall of America, Tabitha said proudly. A lot of mega-malls have been built since it opened, but this is the original.

That's why I'm here, Ben said, smiling so broadly he felt sick. This is such a great subject for a travel story. I know I can sell this piece to newspapers and magazines all over the Midwest.

Well, sure, the Midwest is our primary market, but you'd be surprised at how many tourists we get from other parts of the country, too, Tabitha said. They were walking past a food court with a delicious blend of fried food smells. Delicious to many of the shoppers who visited the mall, anyway. Ben was not the least bit interested in food, though.

I wish I could tell you what percentage of our business comes from tourists as compared to locals, Tabitha blathered on. We keep track of that type of information, of course. But we have to keep some secrets from journalists like yourself.

The mall was really huge and shaped sort of like a giant wedding cake, with layer after layer of stores connected by twisting walkways in the sky. Every big name retailer had a store here, as well as many nobody had ever heard of. Who cares? Ben thought.

Ugh! Tabitha’s smug I-know-something-you-don't-know attitude was making it tough for Ben to keep his act up.

Oh, he thought to himself. If only you knew what I knew. That thought made him feel better.

Could we walk by the anchor stores again? Ben said eagerly. I'd just like to be able to accurately describe the size of this place. Walking it one more time would really help me get a feel for that.

For the first