Heist of Stonehenge: An Ethan Sparks Adventure

By Nick Barry

Bound for England, fourteen-year-old photojournalist Ethan Sparks quickly realizes that his summer jobshooting candids on The Young Explorers Castles and Stonehenge touris not the gig that he thought it would be. A billionaire genius plans to relocate Stonehenge so he can possess it for himself, recruiting a brilliant young engineer named Russell to mastermind the airlift. When Russell agrees to join forces with Ethan, the boys concoct a Double Cross to prevent the heist. But can Ethan trust this new spypartner, who is also a member of the genius club? Its Ethans first trip without his dad, a famous archaeologist, or their bodyguard, Murphy, and it becomes the most dangerous mission of Ethans life. With the stakes this high, and possibly no backup even from Scotland Yard, will Ethan be the one who is double-crossed? Will one of the worlds most iconic monuments become one mans personal treasure?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475982190

Nick Barry

Nick Barry has written fourteen novels, two stage plays, three movie scripts, and a dozen short stories. His first published book, Escape of the Terra-Cotta Soldiers, successfully launched the Ethan Sparks Adventure Series. Nick lives in the foothills of North Carolina with his wife, Jenn, and their two dachshunds.

Book preview

Chapter One

The moment I met Russell Heacham, my gut immediately went on Red Alert. I suspected him of harboring a secret, a heavy burden that he was carrying around.

So while doing my summer job aboard the freighter Explorer, I engaged in some espionage surveillance. Like now, when Russell just looked over his shoulder and then ducked his enormous head and body through a little wood doorway. Hearing his size-fourteen shoes start to clump down the stairs, I tailed him.

Abruptly, the old wood stairs creaked Big Time under my feet. Russell’s steps stopped. I held my breath. Finally, before my lungs exploded, I heard his steps down the creaky stairs resume.

I took off my new suction-soled athletic shoes, shoved them into my backpack, and continued to follow him in sock-feet. Down the narrow stairs we went, the decks descending below from B Deck to C Deck, until we were in a long hallway with closed doors on each side. A sign read: Storage Rooms—Crew Only.

I stood in silence, waiting for Russell’s next move. At that moment, the freighter slammed into an Atlantic swell. The force threw me into a pile of life jackets stored inside a net bag in the corner of the hallway entrance. When I looked up, Russell was getting up from the tangle of his backpack.

"Bugger, that hurt!" he cursed, rubbing his back. Apparently, whatever he was carrying in his pack was as hard as a rock and had sharp edges.

He leapt to his huge feet. Wow, despite his big frame, his leap was surprisingly agile. But then again, he was seventeen years old, three years older than I was. He also had the biggest ears of any human being I’ve ever seen.

Russell Heacham stopped at the third door on his left. He had to duck his head to get through the squat storage room entrance. He closed the door behind him. I commanded a deep, steadying breath, and quietly—very, very quietly—I snuck up and palmed the doorknob.

When the old wood door opened a crack, it began to creak. I stopped, extended the telescopic lens of my camera, and looked through it into the storage room. Russell removed a small, black, square device from his backpack. It had red digital readouts on its side.

The teenager flipped a switch. The device surged to life with a crack of static. It caused the storage room’s overhead lights to flicker for a moment. He fine-tuned two dials simultaneously until the static cleared, and out came a conversation between two men. One had a squeaky, pompous voice. The other, a crusty, almost pirate-like pitch to his voice. Both men were definitely British, and their conversation sounded like they were talking on the phone.

C. H., the squeaky voice instructed, I plan to meet your train at Victoria Station. Are you still on schedule to dock in Southampton on time?

Yes, crusty-pitch said. We’re scheduled to dock on Thursday morning at 8:03 a.m.

Splendid, squeaky-voice said. Once your train arrives, you will introduce me to your nephew. I will do the rest. Is this understood?

Right-O, C. H. agreed. And I expect to be paid for my services at once.

Ah, yes, the annoying, squeaky voice said. It pleases me that you are such a greedy bugger.

Never mind that, Mawbry, or I’ll—

You’ll what? Mawbry sliced in.

Ah, forget it!

Already forgotten, the guy named Mawbry said, but by the smug way he said it, you just knew that he hadn’t really forgotten.

When the phone conversation ended, Russell turned his huge head and said directly to me, Ethan Sparks, you may pop in now. It’s no use—I know you’re there.

Chapter Two

I opened the door all the way and walked into the storage room.

Okay, I said, sitting down on a big sack of flour. When did you first know I was following you?

Since that first creak on the stairs, Russell answered.

Boy, you’re good, I admitted. I didn’t have a clue that you knew.

Since I was eleven, I wanted to be a Scotland Yard detective, he confided.

Yeah, I said, nodding. I was nine when I decided to be a spy.

I know, he said. "You’re Ethan Sparks, the astounding fourteen-year-old photojournalist working for The Young Explorer magazine. That’s why I baited you to place me under surveillance."

You baited me, I said, sighing. Huhmmm.

"Huhmmm nothing, he said. I definitely baited you to start following me. And I was beginning to wonder if your articles about your adventures were more fictionalized than I’d thought."

They’re not, I said. They’re as real as your master of science degree in engineering from Liverpool Community College.

"It was Oxford," he corrected, huffing.

Yes, I said. I know. I was just baiting you.

He laughed. So hearty was his expression of amusement that his big ears … well, flapped. Brilliant! he exclaimed. Well done. That was clever of you, I must admit.

Okay, I said, since we’re admitting things, what’s all this about? You know, the conversation we just digitally eavesdropped on between Mawbry and C. H.?

Blast! Straightaway to business, I see, Russell said. I like that.

Glad you approve, I said. Now what’s up?

Right, he said. It all started two days ago, while we were still in the New York Harbor. C. H. is our captain aboard this freighter. I overheard old C. H. and the bursar of this ship, the pipsqueak Herman Potts, talking about finally snagging it big. Big enough to purchase a healthy retirement.

Uhmmm, I processed out loud. "I knew that the Explorer’s captain was sleazy the moment I met him. I turned to Russell. A real sleaze-ball."

That sleaze-ball, he said, head hung so low that his big ears drooped, is my uncle.

Sorry, I said. You know, for the sleaze-ball comment.

No, he said, don’t apologize. My dad’s younger brother is definitely a sleaze-ball, as you Americans say. The family knows it. Very obvious, especially since my parents are both hardworking schoolteachers from Liverpool.

Wow, I said, shrugging. I guess every family has one, you know, the black sheep of the family. Tell me, why is this guy Mawbry paying your uncle for an introduction to you?

Because, Russell answered, Mawbry needs my help to heist Stonehenge.

C’mon, I shot. No way! Steal Stonehenge? That’s ridiculous!

I assure you, Russell said, that no matter how ridiculous it sounds, Mawbry intends to do so.

I stared at him. Don’t tell me, I said. Mawbry wants you to engineer and build—what? Trucks capable of carrying off the four-ton stones that comprise Stonehenge?

Close, Sparks, he said, shaking his huge head. "He intends to use blimps. Unlike dirigibles, they’re nonrigid."

That’s impossible.

Actually, he informed me, it’s quite possible.

I looked at him.

Quite right, he continued, I could indeed engineer very advanced blimps capable of carrying a four-ton-or-so stone from its present location to Mawbry’s home in Castletown on the Isle of Man.

How do you know this?

I have already worked out a prototype on my laptop, he admitted.

Okay, I said, let’s go over all this again. Did you overhear your uncle C. H. telling the bursar all of this?

No, he answered. All I heard was C. H. and Herman Potts talking about finally earning enough to retire.

Okay, I said, nodding. Then how did you find out that this guy Mawbry intends to heist Stonehenge using blimps?

I became suspicious enough to tag Mawbry’s mobile phone and eavesdrop on a brainstorming session he had with someone else aboard this ship about his plan to do so.

Who? I said.

I don’t know, he answered. But I didn’t believe him.

Okay, I rerouted, but I bet you know the identity of this delusional man named Mawbry who thinks he can heist Stonehenge.

Yes, Russell concurred. "His full name is Melton Fortescue Mawbry. He is the third-wealthiest man in the world and obviously barmy—you know, crazy."

Is he? I asked. You said that you developed blimps on your laptop that could actually pull it off.

He turned to me. Yes, I did. Indeed, I have engineered a digital prototype of an extremely advanced blimp that could definitely transport one of the average four-ton stones that comprises Stonehenge from its current location in North Dorset to the Isle of Man.

A weird chill ran through me. "Then you’ll have to do the opposite. Instead of engineering and building the prototype of a blimp that can succeed, you’ll just have to construct one that fails. A true Double Cross."

Russell looked