Shanghaied: Escape from the Blackwolf

By Carey Fessler

Shanghaied: forced to join a ship lacking a full crew by kidnapping or other underhanded means.

Twelve-year-olds Emma and Scott stumble across a dark secret and are shanghaied by a rogue submarine that once suffered a ghastly fate: a radioactive incident that transformed its crew into mutants.

They

• Language: English
• Publisher: Foeg
• Release date: Mar 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9780992514563

Carey Fessler

About the Author I grew up in a military family and moved around more often than a gypsy until we planted roots in Albuquerque, New Mexico. With my head always in the clouds, I learned to fly and parachute as well as scuba dive before dropping out of university and enlisting in the US Navy to roam beneath the seven seas in a submarine. When my hitch was up in the Navy, I unpacked my seabag in Sydney, Australia, where I worked as a postman, an international flight planner for QANTAS, and an animator for Disney before awakening my imagination and becoming a children's author. For more information, visit my website at careyfessler.com

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Prologue

Honolulu, Hawaii

March 29

Harrison Wade watched the mutant submariner—rad, as the locals called them—rub at his warty skin where a scarred lesion on his arm revealed a hint of bone. His nametape read Nayak. He waved the ten people closer. There was a hint of webbing between his fingers. The group huddled around the nose of the torpedo—everyone but Harrison. He sneaked away toward the tail section and hid out of sight on the opposite side of the weapon. Slipping off his backpack, he quickly but quietly unzipped the top. He squinted inside.

Rats. It’s not here.

Had he forgotten to bring his pen? No. He dug his hand deeper inside the pack, fishing around.

Found it.

What are you doing? whispered Bob Sanders.

Harrison flinched.

His friend stared at him from around the propeller. Please tell me you’re not going to—

Harrison held up a marker pen in his signature color: blue.

Bob widened his eyes. You’re going to tag a live torpedo?

Harrison flashed a wicked grin and removed the marker cap.

Cool. I’m in. Bob squatted beside him.

Their mutant escort was still busy giving his torpedo-room talk to the rest of the group touring the rogue submarine, the Blackwolf.

Harrison glanced over his shoulder. The coast was still clear, but for how long? Check the other side.

Bob peeked around the end. We’re good.

Harrison scribbled Kwah on the tailfin of the torpedo. It was the name of his favorite bird spelled backward.

I forgot my pen, said Bob.

Harrison handed him the marker.

Bob wrote Daze. It was a lame tag and had no real meaning, but he couldn’t come up with anything better yet—Bob was new to graffiti.

Harrison didn’t mind playing big brother and looking out for him. They had been buddies since the second grade. He pulled out his phone and snapped a photo of their handiwork. Then he took a selfie.

Bob gave a bug-eyed look toward the back of the room. Harrison followed the line of his sight. Another mutant stood in a doorway ten feet away. He was holding a wrench—a big one.

Hey! Dumb and dumber, come with me. The mutant motioned for them.

Bob took a step toward the crewman, but Harrison reached out and stopped him. The mutant looked chunky and was probably slow. Harrison gauged his chances: risky but worth a quick thrill.

I’m happy to do this the hard way. The crewman raised the wrench.

Run! Harrison bolted in the opposite direction and plowed through the startled group. He shot up a ladder and paused in a corridor.

Which way off the sub? asked Bob, who’d followed right behind Harrison.

Harrison looked up and down the long, narrow passageway. I’m all turned around. I think the entry hatch we came in is up one level, maybe two.

Someone’s coming.

This way. Quickly!

Harrison pulled Bob into a short section of a side passage, which branched to the right. They ducked under a blue velvet rope with a sign marked Off Limits. Harrison glanced at two adjacent doors. One label read Chief’s Quarters, and the other read Ship’s Office.

A loudspeaker squawked, and Harrison jumped. "The Blackwolf is now closed to the public, said the voice. All visitors must leave the submarine. Please make your way toward the exit signs. Thank you."

How do we get off this sub? asked Bob. We can’t even find the stupid exit!

They’re not going to let us just mosey out of here. Not after tagging their torpedo.

We’re looking for two teenage boys, shouted a voice from the main passageway. Both are wearing black T-shirts. Don’t let them leave. The shouting in the passageway drew closer and was joined by the clomping of feet.

We need to hide first and then find an exit, Harrison whispered. He tried the door to the ship’s office. The knob turned a little and then stopped. Locked? Sticky? He turned the knob harder and cracked open the door. Nobody home.

They slipped inside the cramped space. Fearing the door would burst open any second, Harrison locked the door behind them.

He scanned the office. Cupboard space filled the left side. A ship’s clock hung from the back wall, its second hand frozen in time. Next to the back corner and at shin height was a small access panel resembling a doggy door. On the right was a desktop table, which ran the length of the wall. All the equipment belonged in a museum except for one laptop.

Bob pressed an ear to the door and gave the thumbs-up signal. I think we’re safe for the moment. He pulled out his tour-guide pamphlet, which had a cutaway view of the submarine. We’re stuck on the middle level here, he said, pointing. The stairs are just down the passageway. An exit hatch is here.

Easy, said Harrison. Let’s hide here a bit longer so they think we’ve already bolted. Then we can make a break for it.

Bob tapped a key on the desktop computer. The unit lit up, and internal fans whirred to life. Seconds later, the monitor blinked on, showing a dozen desktop icons. Needs a password.

While Bob worked on the computer, Harrison rifled through the paperwork in an In tray—Reports, Contracts, Legal—and pulled out a blue folder labeled Contracts.

The emblem on the cover had the head of an eagle above a shield with a compass rose. Above the eagle, the inscription read Central Intelligence Agency. Was the Blackwolf a spy sub for the CIA? He flipped to a tab titled Jobs Pending. The first invoice read Operation: Creeping Death. Laut Besi, freighter. (Priority One target).

Harrison’s jaw dropped. Did target mean they were going to sink it?

Two voices spoke from the other side of the door.

Did you lock the door? whispered Bob.

I think so, mouthed Harrison.

The doorknob jiggled.

Then someone pounded on the door. Petty Officer Rodriguez, you in there?

Harrison and Bob slinked to the back of the room.

This is Master Chief Weinberger. Open up! We’re looking for two teenage boys.

Thud-thud-thud.

Stand guard while I go grab my set of master keys, said Weinberger to someone in the passageway.

Harrison checked his phone in desperation.

No signal.

Whom would he call anyway? Certainly not his absent parents.

Keys jingled on the other side of the door. Harrison jabbed a finger at the access panel. Outside, a key slid into the keyhole.

Bob squatted and swung the panel open. It’s some kind of emergency escape or service access.

Harrison peered in but couldn’t see anything through the darkness.

Outside in the passageway, someone jiggled the sticky door handle. Harrison shoved Bob into the dark space and scrambled in. He closed the panel behind him just as the door to the ship’s office burst open with a bang!

Two mumbled voices came from inside the office. Surely they’d search the hidey-hole. On the boys’ left shone a dim white strip of light, like what you’d see from the bottom of a door. Harrison hit the Light function on his phone. The tiny space had a large reel with a wire resembling a black garden hose wrapped around it. They crawled through a second access into a berthing area stacked with three levels of bunks.

Bob eased the panel closed and raised a finger to his lips.

Harrison nodded, staying silent.

Weinberger’s mumbled voice came from inside the hidey-hole.

Harrison tensed.

The latch on the panel turned.

Bob rolled into a lower bunk and slid the privacy curtain closed. Harrison dived through the curtains and into the opposite bunk, hoping it was vacant. The bunk was empty but still warm. The panel swung open and clunked against the side. He held a pillow to his chest, hoping to muffle his drumming heartbeat.

I’ll check the head and the aft berthing area, said Weinberger. You check the passageway in case they double back.

Two sets of footfalls strode by, fading as first one door swooshed open and closed, followed by a second. Harrison’s curtain slid open, and he flinched.

Coast is clear, said Bob.

Rolling out of the bunk, Harrison sprang to his feet and rushed down the aisle. At the next turn, they hit a dead end. He couldn’t believe this—lost in a dang bunk room.

He spun around and stumbled down a different aisle. An obstacle course of shoes and clothes littered the deck. They backtracked, made a different turn, and found a door. He inched it open and peeked through. Three sinks hung off the wall with a trio of stalls opposite them. Two showers stood in opposite corners. He looked left down a different aisle and spotted another door.

This way. Easing the door open, Harrison peeked left and right.

Bob pulled out his pamphlet. I think the entry hatch is at the top of those stairs.

Without checking to see if the passageway was clear, Harrison raced up the steep set of steps. He hurried down the short passageway to the entry ladder.

Bob grabbed a rung. The hatch is shut!

Harrison nudged him out of the way, climbed the rungs, and pushed hard against the inner hatch. It won’t budge.

Stop joking around.

I’m serious.

Try turning the little wheel thingy.

Harrison grunted as he tried to spin the dogging mechanism open. He shook his head. They must have locked it. He shook the loose rung wildly.

Heavy footsteps clomped up the metal stairs. Harrison whipped around. A mutant stood on the top landing. His nametape read Weinberger. He looked pleased that he’d caught them. I’m the chief of the boat—top dog.

More like top hog, thought Harrison. A tuft of bristly gray hair ran across the top of the chunky rad’s head, and a pair of tusks stuck out from his lips. Weird mutation. Warthog Weinberger reminded him of Pumbaa from The Lion King.

You two punks follow me. The chief led the way in single file, and the mutant with the big wrench trailed them. They stopped outside a door with a red circular window. A label read Wardroom.

The captain wants to have a quick chat with you two troublemakers before you leave.

Harrison didn’t believe him, and Bob’s concerned look said the same.

Weinberger motioned with his hand in a way that told them they had no choice but to enter the room. There wasn’t a shred of flesh on the tips of his fingers, which resembled claws. Don’t worry. We won’t be calling the cops on you.

Inside the wardroom, Weinberger held something in his grisly hands: a rusty pair of handcuffs. Now Harrison was worried.

Chapter 1

Darwin, Australia

Two Months Later

Emma Fitzpatrick flopped onto the sofa. Who’d want to see a bunch of mutant sailors? Gross.

It’s not going to kill you, said her mother without looking up from the morning paper. The headline read Rad Submarine in Port.

It might if Scott’s involved.

Don’t say things like that about your cousin.

Well, it’s true. He’s always getting in trouble.

He’s at a confusing period in his life.

You wake up, go to school, and do homework. What’s so confusing about that? One thing she admired about Scott, though, was that he was never afraid to color outside the lines. Sometimes she wished she were brave enough to break a few rules.

Emma took in the view of the bay, where her father had gone fishing. She clasped her lucky necklace, a keepsake from her gran. Rubbing the pendant, she hoped he wouldn’t catch anything. She hated the taste of fish.

"Try and remember today is Scott’s birthday, not yours."

Speaking of mine. She gave her mother a sly grin. If you buy me a new telescope tripod, I’ll forget the idea of having a slumber party. She loved stargazing and knew all eighty-eight constellations.

I’ll go half.

And will Dad chip in the other half?

In your dreams.

Darn. It had been worth a try. Still, she came out of the deal with half a tripod paid for. Gran had always told Emma that you got more by being silky and smart.

A car horn honked.

They’re here. Bye. Emma grabbed her phone and strolled out the front door. Halfway down the path, it felt like she had forgotten something. She paused but couldn’t figure out what it was. A garden skink basked in the sun, staring at her. Reptiles gave her the willies, and she skirted past the creature.

Emma fidgeted as she rode beside Scott in the backseat of Auntie Eileen’s SUV. Rubbing shoulders with mutants would be bad enough, but touring a submarine would be even worse for her. All she wanted was for the trip to be done as quickly as possible.

The SUV cruised along the waterfront, where a forest of sailboat masts filled the marina. They slowed to let a couple of jaywalkers scamper across the road toward the Maritime Museum, an old sandstone building overlooking the wharf. The museum clock tower said it was fifteen minutes till noon. Uncle Gary rolled down his window, and the smell of salt air drifted in on the light breeze.

Mum, Scott asked, drop me and Emma off here while you and Dad find a place to park, okay?

Auntie Eileen glanced back at him and smiled. Sure, sweetie. She slid her sunglasses onto the top of her head. Every hair was in place.

As soon as the SUV stopped against the curb, Emma jumped out. Race you to the pier. She darted away, and Scott took off after her. They sprinted through a grassy reserve that needed mowing and zigzagged through a group of tourists taking selfies.

Emma winced at the stitch in her side and checked over her shoulder. Scott was catching her. She gritted through the pain. Breathing hard, he passed her with thirty yards to go. Her second wind kicked in, and she crossed onto the wooden pier a stride ahead.

I won! Emma bent over with her chest heaving.

You cheated!

So?

I demand a rematch.

Emma sat on a bollard and gazed at the sheltered bay. The putter of tour boats and water taxis filled the still air as they jockeyed for a position along the main wharfs. Three ships were tied up to the museum’s finger pier and on permanent display: an old sailing ship, a tugboat, and a warship. Have you ever been on that old navy hulk?

A few times. Scott shoved his unruly hair out of his eyes. "It’s the HMAS Elwood, a World War II ASW corvette."

Emma had no idea what ASW meant and wished they would tour a ship instead. Staring at the rogue submarine—the Blackwolf—she jiggled her knee. Small confined spaces made her anxious. The giant steel killer whale slept against the pier. I don’t get why you want to see a sub full of mutants.

I’m into naval ships and stuff. Plus, the sub leaves today.

A shudder rippled through her. In a few minutes, she’d be coming face to face with mutants.

Emma would’ve rather been home cleaning her room, which she hated, or doing homework, which she hated even more, than be here. Scott had wanted to tour the Blackwolf to celebrate his twelfth birthday, and her mother insisted she go along. Emma would celebrate her twelfth birthday next month. She planned a trip to the planetarium, followed by a night in the backyard, stargazing.

I’ll never get used to this tropical heat. Emma squinted in Darwin’s bright sunlight and wiped the sweat off her forehead. She checked her phone: 30° C. Hmm, thirty degrees Celsius is about … ninety Fahrenheit.

Scott gave