Season Three – Episode 26 – “Lock it Up!”
As the Three Eagles continue their pursuit of The Kraken, the remains of one Ophilia Clamella Barnacle are shipped down east for forensic identification. The name on the watch resonates zero with local historians of the Lac des Bois region, but the mystery deepens once word gets to the Australian Navy and covert counterintelligence agent (Hired Gun) Ms. Sally Squatsnfishes.
Sally’s burner phone lit the back room of the surfer warehouse where she, Ellie, and Hazel were spending a less than pleasant evening camping out on boards. They’d drifted off course down a wayward alley, bumped into some street clowns looking to side hustle a game of craps, then opted to scale a fence and break the lock on a rear entrance to establish their own safe house.
“TRUST NO ONE” was the initial text message received on Eagle One’s phone.
“Yeah… No shit…” she spoke above a hush and flashed the phone for Eagle Two and Three to view.
“BARNACLE IS THE KEY” ……………… Now downloaded and pulsed repeatedly on her screen.
“They’re coding something about Barnacle,” Sally contributed. “But what would he have to do with The Kraken?” she followed, more asking herself than her teammates. “He was literally clueless on that submarine.”
Then the third and final message rapidly fired on Sally’s burner phone, “LACK OF CUP!”
“Lack of cup!?—what the—what’s that supposed to mean?” And this time she was searching for answers with Ellie and Hazel. “Is someone missing a bra, or a protective portion of their hockey uniform?”
Then a refreshed and obviously corrected message came through: “LOCK IT UP!”
“Well, obviously we can’t trust anyone…. Barnacle or someone who knows Barnacle has something to do with The Kraken…. And there’s some sort of code, or news, or orders—maybe someplace on Bremer Beach where you would LOCK IT UP,” offered Ellie.
“Maybe—Maybe—” thought Sally aloud. “Hey Haze—where do we go on Bremer Beach to get arrested?”
“Sally, I think it’s a code for surfing. Actually, I’m almost sure it is,” replied Hazel. “Back in the day I remember a story about a surfer dude, Sean Pollard, who was famous for surviving a shark-attack and later became an inspirational Paralympian. Dude opened a shack nearby—Wylie Bay—I’m guessing that’s our next waypoint for intel.”
“And you put that next step together, how?”
“Oh—Yeah—The shack I’m referring to is called Lock It Up—As in taking on a mammoth wave and kicking some ass.”
All right Eagles, we have a plan,” Sally informed them. “For the next eight hours we shut it down to recharge the engines. We take one-hour shifts to keep someone on alert. That puts us on our way to Wylie Bay at 0530 tomorrow morning.”
All went dark when Sally stood and then smashed the burner phone with her heel. “Well done low battery junk store flip phone, now die with honor.”
Then Ellie and Hazel propped boards against the corner wall, scrummaging around in the black abyss, making impromptu sleeping quarters. Each of the Eagles silently hoped this next wave of the journey would be as smooth as the wax on the hybrid longboards, they currently nestled amongst.
Sally had the last shift and struggled to keep the sleep wiped from her eyes. This whole mission, thus far, seemed as though it was going in no order, other than a huge circle. And here they were right back where they started. And nowhere near capturing The Kraken.
Her mind was drifting, “Don’t let The Kraken win…. Tell Barnacle the jellyfish owes me money….”
She pulled a Maglite from her boot strap, double-double checked her watch, then nudged Ellie and Hazel. “Time to rock and roll ladies—I’m figuring three to four hours travel time—And first we need to commandeer a 4WD vehicle for highway and beach travel.”
Hazel pulled a Slim Jim (non-edible / but handy for carjacking) from her backpack, “Sounds fun! I’m thinking full size—early 80’s—Chevy Blazer—baby blue with a white stripe on the panel. My father taught me how to use this thing. Said it’s the only gadget more reliable than the love of a border collie.”
“Looks like someone’s excited to greet the day!” offered Ellie. “Let’s hit the streets and do some used vehicle shopping!”
“I admit—I like the enthusiasm,” Sally added. “You two lead the way, I’ll drift behind for cover.”
And with that, the three Eagles rose to shine and grind. Heads on a swivel—refreshed—destined for greatness. Out the door they trotted in the predawn unlit alley way. Two and a half blocks later they were eyeing up a late model Chevy Suburban with blacked out tinted windows.
Not exactly inconspicuous, but at this time, it would have to suffice. Tick tock goes the clock.
Hazel shuffled in low on the driver’s side with her trusty Slim Jim at the ready. Ellie ran opposite on the passenger side, while Sally slacked carefully behind for backup if needed. Ten seconds later, older model Chevy’s are extremely user friendly, Hazel popped the locks, and Ellie was under the dash working her magic.
“Oh, nice,” Hazel stated with approval as the engine sparked and the Sub came to life. “I’m guessing bored out 454ci rebuild—with an oversized cam—and the dual exhaust is certainly a sporty touch.”
Sally piled into the back seat, “This thing got gas?” she queried.
“And then some!” Hazel exclaimed, pushing her foot to the floorboard—clearing any potential cobwebs. Then she dropped the gear shift into D drive, repeated the move, and tested the rear end for Posi traction as then burned their way sideways toward the middle of the street.
“Easy there Evel Knievel” Sally barked. “I’d like to make it to Wylie Bay in one piece!”
She replied, “Copy that Eagle One,” then winked to her shotgun riding partner Ellie.
As the burning rubber subsided, they flew past a building that boasted a wall splattered with graffiti. “You see that?” sounded Ellie, “KRKN = B.R.N.C.L.”
“Yeah,” confirmed Sally. “The grammar’s not great, but someone rose earlier than us, to confirm our next breadcrumb.”
Speaking of early risers, at the other end of the universe, Rusty—Tawny—Cosmoid—Link had finished supper in the lodge (grilled northern pike / Tawny had used her native powers to lure supper to a net off the dock) and then they all retired to staff quarters to catch the NHL hockey playoffs on an old RCA Victor “Golden Throat” Radio.
Within minutes…. Link was lights out on the floor—Cos was snoring a melody from his weathered recliner—Tawny was next to Rusty on the couch.
The sofa was something built during the Eisenhower administration, everyone sagged toward the middle. Even spaced out, as Tawny nodded off innocently, she naturally gravitated in Rusty’s direction of personal space.
FLATHERS sat bolt upright…. Smelling the spring lilac mint of her hair that now rested against his shoulder…. He could only think one thing: “Not good…. Not good…. I need to LOCK IT UP!”
–To Be Continued—