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  Fang pretty much just walked past the camouflaged guards, taking slow, quiet steps, pacing his breathing, and simply blending in with the trees.

  Iggy and I had been forced into more stealthiness, actually ducking behind trees and the occasional huge volcanic boulder. All the same, despite the wide-eyed alertness of the sailors on guard, it really wasn't too hard to slither past them in a big circle.

  Gazzy had relied on the element of surprise, as he often does. First, he'd perfectly mimicked a bird call, making a guard look up. Gazzy had tagged that guard. Then, when the guards were in pursuit, he'd utilized his other—well, I refuse to call it a skill. In fact, I think of it as a huge design flaw. Despite how hilarious the guys think it is, Nudge and Angel and I are simply more evolved than that. We try not to encourage demonstrations of his mastery of the gaseous arts.

  Suffice it to say that Gazzy incapacitated the guards, leaving them coughing and gagging, gasping on the ground, their eyes watering. Then he raced through the trees, cackling in triumph, and burst out into the clear meadow where the lieutenant colonel was waiting with a clipboard and a stopwatch.

  Iggy and Fang gave Gazzy high fives just as Lieutenant Colonel Palmer's nose turned up, and he frowned at the woods.

  "It'll dissipate in a couple minutes," I said, flopping down on the grass. "It always does."

  Palmer turned a ferocious glare on Gazzy. "You were forbidden to bring or to use antipersonnel weapons!"

  "That's the sad thing," I said, just as Angel trotted out of the woods. "He didn't. I mean, his name is the Gasman. We're not just whistling Dixie, there."

  "Am I the last one?" Angel asked as she got near. "Sorry. Got sidetracked by some wild orchids." She handed me a small bouquet of creamy flowers.

  "Ooh, thanks, sweetie," I said, inhaling their delicate scent. "So. Time for weapons class?"

  The lieutenant colonel glared first at me, then at Angel. The two guards staggered out of the woods, still holding their rifles, but with their helmets askew and their camo gear trailing behind them.

  "Ensigns Baker and Kipowski!" Palmer barked. "All five of these recruits exited the woods within four minutes! Did you see them?"

  Looking dazed, the ensigns tried to straighten up. One of them cleared his throat. "We didn't see the tall dark one, sir, or the tall blond one, or the oldest girl. We saw the younger boy, but he… incapacitated us."

  Palmer just stared at them.

  Gazzy stifled a snicker. "Burritos for lunch," he whispered, and Iggy and Fang tried to hold in their laughter.

  "What about this one?" Palmer pointed his pen at Angel, who gave him a sunny smile.

  The guards looked at her, and confusion crossed their faces.

  I tried not to groan.

  "I think I saw her," one said slowly. "I don't remember."

  "You don't—" Palmer seemed speechless. I knew it couldn't last.

  "I might have seen her," said the other guard, his eyes on the ground. "I just—it's all—I don't know."

  I stood up and brushed off my khaki butt. "I guess it's time for weapons class," I said pointedly.

  Palmer was still staring at the two guards. I went over to him.

  "Lieutenant Colonel," I said. "Can I call you L? No? Well, look, it's not their fault. They probably would have caught anyone else. But we're good at this stuff. As I keep telling you."

  "She's a child!" Palmer burst out, gesturing at Angel.

  "She's a sneaky and devious child," I explained. "Plus, you know, I think she zapped the guards. With her mind. She can hear people's thoughts and sometimes control them. It's weird, it's scary, but there you go. Your guys never had a chance."

  The lieutenant colonel seemed less comforted by my explanation than you might think. Finally, he let his clipboard dangle at his side. "Weapons class," he said. But you could tell his heart wasn't really in it anymore.

  37

  LIEUTENANT COLONEL Palmer, still looking tense from the demoralizing covert ops training, stood at the front of the classroom. He opened a case on the desk and took out a James Bond-like handgun.

  "This is the Beretta M9, a semiautomatic pistol," he said, being careful not to point it at anyone. "It's one of the safest and best-designed handguns in the world and is standard issue for several branches of the U.S. military."

  Gazzy raised his hand.

  The lieutenant colonel seemed to go a little pale but ignored him. "Capable of handling fifteen-round magazines, this weapon has proved to be one of the most reliable and accurate—"

  Gazzy waved his hand back and forth. Impossible to ignore.

  Palmer tried looking stern. "This better be good, son," he said, gritting his teeth.

  "The Beretta is great and all," said Gazzy earnestly, "but I've heard the military-issued model tends to jam something awful. People think it's the weird finish on the barrels. Plus, it's supposedly really heavy, bowling ball heavy. Kind of like the all-steel M1911 model. And then the trigger's too far away for most people, even if they have big hands…"

  Lieutenant Colonel Palmer was nonplussed. Again.

  Gazzy looked at him, concerned. "Um, it's still a really neat gun, though," he said. "And did you know—if you stick the spring from a clothespin right under the safety when it's in the left-hand mode, then pull the trigger, it'll explode about two-point-nine seconds later? I mean, throw it first."

  "Sometimes two-point-seven seconds," Iggy added. "Don't dawdle. And man—try doing that with the barrel full of Spam sometime!" He and Gazzy chortled and slapped high fives.

  About a minute later, the lieutenant colonel rubbed his eyes. "Class dismissed."

  38

  LIEUTENANT KHAKI, whose name was actually Lieutenant Morgan, sat at her desk, reading Lieutenant Colonel Palmer's report. Every once in a while she looked up at us sharply, as if she were having trouble believing it. Finally she put it down and laced her fingers together.

  "So you're saying these children can easily run four miles carrying heavy packs?"

  "Yes, ma'am," said the lieutenant colonel, looking straight ahead. The flock and I were lined up against one wall.

  "They outperformed the rest of the cadets in every way?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "The eight-year-old beat your best cadet in hand-to-hand combat?"

  "So did the six-year-old girl, ma'am. Actually, she beat the instructor also."

  I tried not to grin. The self-defense instructor had given all of us a pass, but the hand-to-hand combat instructor had been more stubborn. For a while.

  "So, like, we want to thank you for this great experience…" I began, shifting from foot to foot. "But now that we've gone through all your BS, can we go rescue my mom?"

  The lieutenant looked at me. "Yes," she said finally, and my heart leaped. "Tomorrow."

  "What?!"

  "We're putting you on the USS Minnesota," she went on smoothly. "Which is a state-of-the-art, Virginia-class nuclear submarine with many enhanced offensive and defensive capabilities. It's on its way here now from San Diego. It will arrive here at oh-three-hundred hours tomorrow, will refuel, and be ready to deploy at oh-six-hundred hours. You will be waiting on the dock at that time. If you are two minutes late, it will leave without you. In addition, while on board the USS Minnesota, you will obey every senior officer without question, you will comport yourself with decorum and maturity, and you will do nothing to endanger the ship, its cargo, or its personnel."

  I opened my mouth to say something, but the lieutenant plowed on. "Failure to follow these rules to the letter will result in your being disembarked at the closest possible location, and the mission will be scrubbed. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

  Her icy blue eyes raked each of us one by one. I prayed that the others would stifle their trademark lack of respect and intolerance for bull and, for once, keep their mouths shut. My mom's life was riding on this.

  Then, a miracle happened. No one said a word. I heard cautious, even breathing as each of us bit our lips and stru
ggled mightily against our true natures.

  Don't wait too long, I begged the lieutenant silently. Please dismiss us before we blurt out something bad, against our will.

  "Oh-six-hundred hours then," she said curtly. "Dismissed."

  39

  SO WHAT DO you do if you have thirteen hours to kill before you rescue your mom? Well, if you're wacky, devil-may-care bird kids, you go swimming!

  Pearl Harbor was in a bay off the coast of Oahu, this close to Honolulu. In fact, Honolulu means "sheltered bay," according to a little sign by the mess hall. (See? Who says you never learn nothin', hanging out with us?)

  Some of the shoreline near the base was off-limits, but there was a public part too. Despite it being early evening, the weather was perfect and balmy, and the water was blissfully warm. The beach wasn't crowded, but there were people swimming and collecting shells. I was starting to see Fang's point about just finding a tropical isle and letting the rest of the world go crazy without us.

  "Keep your Windbreaker on," I told Angel, who was shimmying out of her tiny uniform. "Bird kids weren't exactly designed for bathing suits."

  She made a face but nodded. "I think there's like dolphins or something out there. I can hear things thinking, but they're not human."

  Concern shot through me. "Not human? Do they feel evil? They're not, like, Erasers with fins or something, right?"

  Angel giggled. "No. They're not Erasers. And they feel totally not evil. Okay, bye!" She ran across the sand and threw herself into the water. I watched as her golden curls submerged and disappeared. I sighed and sank down on the sand next to Akila and Total.

  Fang sat next to me, still looking out of character in nonblack clothes.

  "Whoa. Khaki much?" I couldn't resist saying.

  He looked at me. "Uh-huh. And I dig your military hair."

  "Touché." Self-consciously, I touched the tight French braid I was required to wear here at the navy fun house.

  Gazzy and Iggy were already in swimming trunks, racing toward the ocean. They yelled when they hit the waves, plunging in far enough to bodysurf.

  Fang's dark eyes scanned the water. He was counting heads, the way I was. I hadn't gotten over the feeling that something was wrong because Nudge wasn't here.

  "How long's she been under?" Fang asked.

  "About five minutes. She said there were dolphins. Or something."

  We sat together silently for a while. Gazzy and Iggy were shouting and splashing in the water. Angel still hadn't come up for air, and I tried to let go of the normal expectation that she needed to. After all, what are a few gills among friends?

  Suddenly Angel did pop up, smiling and waving, heading toward us. "It's totally awesome, clear and blue," she announced, shaking off water.

  "Were there dolphins?" I asked.

  She nodded. "Yeah. They're really mad. Hey, Total. Come out with me. Practice breathing under water."

  Total wrinkled his nose. "No gills," he said. "And I'm still getting used to the wings."

  I was stuck on the angry dolphins, but Angel frowned at Total, then at me and Fang. "You guys all really need to practice breathing under water," she said urgently. "It's really important. I want you to practice right now."

  "Sweetie, I don't think any of us can breathe under water except you," I said. "Remember when Gazzy tried? He barfed up half the ocean. And what do you mean, the dolphins are mad?"

  "I really think you guys should try," Angel said, wearing her familiar and dreaded "I'm not gonna let this go" expression. "You might have developed gills by now."

  "Don't think so," I said. "Now, back to the angry dolphins—"

  A piercing scream stopped me, and Fang and I leaped to our feet.

  A woman was standing at the edge of the ocean, pointing frantically at a small boy being swept out to sea. "A riptide got him!" the woman screamed. "Someone help him! Call nine-one-one!" She plunged into the water but stopped when it reached her waist.

  Gazzy and Iggy had set off after the kid, but the tide had pulled him amazingly far out in just a few moments. Fang and I looked at each other, then whipped off our jackets at the same time. Ignoring all the bystanders, we sped across the sand. Right as we reached the small cresting waves of the ocean, we snapped out our wings and jumped up into the air.

  Working powerfully, we raced low over the water. The spray misted my face, the wind whipped through my hair, and I could smell the salt air. We were flying again. It felt like we hardly ever got a chance to anymore.

  We were incredibly fast, but not fast enough. When we were almost there, the boy sank beneath the waves, his small arms still reaching up. In an instant, we angled down sharply, folding back our wings, and hit the water.

  It was so clear that we immediately saw the kid's bright red rash-guard shirt. His eyes were closed, his face still and pale in the aqua light. We each grabbed an arm, then shot up toward the surface with as much force as we could, popping out of the water like corks, hoping we could get airborne.

  It worked. Our wings brushed against each other, but we managed to get aloft and streaked back to land. Sadly, our landing was less than graceful because of our shared cargo, but we thunked to a stop in the sand without falling and put the boy down.

  "I know CPR!" a man shouted, already kneeling. Within less than a minute, the little boy was gagging and retching, then gasping for air. "Mom?" he choked out, and then the woman hauled him into her arms. They were both crying, holding each other tight.

  Fang and I faded back to where the flock was waiting with Total and Akila.

  Angel looked at us accusingly. "You didn't even practice breathing under water just now, did you?"

  40

  WHAT THE HECK—everyone had already seen the wings, so there was no point waiting for the tram to take us back to Navy Central. Instead, the six of us hit the skies, the warm breeze sticking our sodden clothes to our bodies. Total flew alongside me, still awkward with the whole flapping thing. He was getting better, though. Iggy and Fang took turns carrying Akila, who was eighty pounds of hot fur. Total talked to her reassuringly, but she was not thrilled to be this high up.

  It took about two minutes to get back to the base, and we came down on the training field, landing smoothly and lightly in front of about a hundred stunned ensigns. The next thing we knew, John Abate, Brigid Dwyer, and Lieutenant Colonel Palmer were hurrying toward us.

  "You're heroes!" John said, waving. "We just heard about your daring sea rescue."

  I stared. "How did you hear so quickly?"

  "We have you under surveillance. For safety reasons," said the lieutenant colonel stiffly. Actually, he seemed incapable of speaking in any other way, so from now on, if he talks, assume it's "stiffly" and I'll quit putting that in, okay?

  "Oh, for Pete's sake," I muttered, heading off to our hut to change.

  "Fang!" said Brigid, pushing past me. "I can't believe you risked your life for that little boy! You're wonderful!"

  I gazed openmouthed as Brigid gave Fang a big bear hug, wrapping her arms around him. I was about to say, "I risked my life too," but then realized I didn't want her to hug me. And I didn't want to look petty. And the truth was, the rescue had been a snap, compared to other situations, like when Angel and the dogs had been trapped in an ice crevasse in Antarctica. Or when we'd all been in a huge cage, and my half brother, Ari, had literally chewed his way through its metal bars to set us free. For example.

  Today we hadn't risked anything except the possibility of our new jeans shrinking up on us. My jaw set in disgust as I stalked past them, my stomach clenching at the sight of Brigid pressed against Fang like ugly on an ape.

  "You must come have dinner with us at the Officer's Mess," Brigid gushed.

  "Uh, I'm busy," Fang muttered.

  My eyes widened, but I kept walking and refused to turn around. That's me: suave Max.

  "Hey," Fang said, falling into step with me. I looked at him. "We have to eat. Let's you and me go into town. I'll treat you to the b
est artery-clogging Hawaiian food we can find."

  My heart began thudding painfully inside my chest. I wondered if Fang could hear it. "You mean the whole flock?" I asked casually, trying not to shriek with tension.

  "Nah. They can eat at the Officer's Mess with Brigid and John," he said.

  I stopped and looked into his eyes, seeing nothing but my own reflection, as usual. "Just you and me?" I repeated, barely hanging on to my suavity by my fingernails.

  His eyes were unreadable. "Yeah."

  "Hawaiian food?"

  "Yeah."

  I was still grossed out by the Brigid display and wanted to coolly brush past him with a mild, "I'll think about it." But the combination of having Fang all to myself, plus fun food, was rapidly pummeling my self-respect into the dust. Then I remembered something.

  "The last time we… left the flock, all heck broke loose," I reminded him.

  He grinned, one of those rare Fang grins that lights up his face and makes the sun stop in its tracks.

  "This time they're protected by the U.S. Navy," he pointed out.

  I laughed, relief flooding through me. "Well, okay. You got me there." Oh, boy, did he have me.

  41

  WAS THIS A DATE? Those four words kept swirling through my mind, over and over, and it was getting to the point where I wanted the old Voice back, just for a change of pace, to hear someone who at least pretended to be rational.

  Which I so wasn't. The whole thing was like a dream. All I knew was that we were in Honolulu. There were festive streetlights and store windows everywhere, crowds of people walking past, many sailors in uniform, an ocean, kind of all around us, and…

  Me and Fang. Holding hands and eating ice cream.

  And the flock was safe on a giant naval base where you couldn't even spit without hitting an antiaircraft missile.

  If life got better than this, I didn't think I could take it.