The Tillamook Escapade
The Tillamook Escapade
by David D. White
Story Editor: Melody Rondeau
Music by Hans Zimmer & David Newman
Executive Producer: Ponsonby Britt, O.B.E.
Act I - Don’t Say Cheese
Gadget Hackwrench closed her bedroom door and let out a deep sigh. She had just been through the most evasive, deceptive, half-truth filled day of her life -- And all to divert the attention of one of her best friends. It had been less difficult concealing Chip’s last birthday surprise party from him. Now, too much rode on successful lying.
She went to her window, intending to relax and enjoy the sunset. Drawing back the curtain, she got a view she hadn’t counted on. Someone had left a rodent’s head on her window sill. A head still wearing its sunglasses.
She squeaked in surprise and jumped back. The head smiled and a hand, clad in a gray aviator’s glove, appeared and waved in greeting. It took her a moment to recognize the flying squirrel’s unexpected visage. Then she stalked to the window and threw it open with a loud thump.
“Gary!” she scolded. “You nearly scared me to death! What are you doing here?”
“Well, you did say we were welcome at your window,” he replied. “And considering what we came to ask, we thought this was a safer route than the front door.”
“We? Where’s Gordon?”
“I’m standing on him.”
Gadget leaned over his head and looked down. Gary was standing on Gordon’s shoulders. Despite his partner’s weight, the well-built gray squirrel might just as well have been waiting for a bus. He glanced up from the ‘Harry Trotter’ book he was reading just long enough to wave hello. They each wore sage green flying coveralls, devoid of any marking.
“Am I the only one who isn’t reading Harry Trotter?” Gadget wondered aloud.
Gary responded in mock surprise. “You aren’t reading about the young colt sorcerer’s education? The biggest literary event since ‘The Cat in the Hat?’”
“Well, I did skim through the first one,” she conceded. “It seemed pretty good.”
“My dear, you’ll end up culturally handicapped,” Gary warned, smiling. “And you might want to ask us in before someone sees us.”
“Oh! Of course! Come in.”
Gary threw his arms over the window sill. Gordon stuffed his book in a large pocket and climbed up his partner’s body as if it were a ladder and clambered smoothly through the window. Gary then pulled himself through like a snake, somersaulted and rolled to his feet. The maneuver had taken six seconds and had not made a sound. Gordon stepped over to listen at the door, a habitual precaution, as Gary pocketed his sunglasses.
“Please keep your voices down,” Gadget said softly. “I've just spent the day telling more lies than I ever have in my life, and I don’t want to tell any more to hide you two.”
“What’s up?” Gordon asked. “Life insurance forms?”
“No,” Gadget said testily. “It’s about the cheese.”
“Unhappy coincidence,” Gary shook his head. “That’s why we stopped by. With the number of fatalities we already have, Gordo and I were called in to help find the source of the contamination. Have the Rangers come up with any leads?”
Gadget replied, nearly whispering. “Chip, Dale and I agreed this is a case the Rescue Rangers just can’t take. Even if Monterey Jack controls his cheese attacks, it would just take one absent-minded mouthful to hurt him. Maybe even kill him.”
“Didn’t Monterey agree as well?” Gordon asked.
“We’ve been hiding the news from him.” Gadget sat heavily on the edge of her bed. “If he hears, he’ll insist on investigating, and it’s just too big a risk. I just finished making sure our shortwave radio won’t work. I was afraid he’d tune in Paul Hogan from Sydney and they’d mention it.”
“It would be easier,” Gordon said, “if mice weren’t such connoisseurs. Almost every case involves some blend of cheeses. Whatever is contaminating the cheese supply seems to be harmless to humans, but it’s proving fatal to rodents, especially mice. Most are suffering from toxic shock after eating cheese and no one has been able to pin down the source of the toxin.”
“Not to mention,” Gary added, “that we just haven’t been able to get the warning out to everyone. There are so many who don’t even look at a newspaper.”
Gadget’s hands crushed the bedclothes in tight, angry fists and she closed her eyes in complete frustration. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to hear all this happening, and know you don’t dare do anything about it?”
“Yeah,” Gary said. “About as bad as trying to do something about it and failing. But we’ve just had a good lead, and we could use your help.”
“With all your resources,” Gadget said dejectedly, “what could I possibly do to help?”
“We were hoping you could loan us something that could detect a previously unknown staph toxin,” Gary said. “We can’t carry an entire bio-lab with us.”
“Besides which,” Gordon added, “you’re a mouse and a good cook. How much do you think two tree climbing nut crunchers like us know about cheese?”
Gadget perked up. “I do have a portable analyzer that would do the job, but it should be calibrated specifically. Do you have any samples of the bad stuff?”
“The Rodent Poison Control Center does. They finally got some unblended samples,” Gordon said. “We know one of the doctors. We’ll meet you at the Dutch elm just south of here.”
“What are you going to tell the other Rangers?” Gary asked.
Gadget rolled her eyes toward heaven. “I’ll tell ‘em I’m going to the hardware store. What’s one more fib today?”
* * *
In a world where no small amount of poisons, toxics, pesticides, and generally foul chemicals are part of daily life, the rodents have poison control centers second to none. The Thousands Oaks Center was as well staffed and equipped as its human counterpart nearby, but saw a much greater case volume. Gary landed the helicopter a short distance from the entrance, leaving the helipad for LifeFlight emergencies.
As they approached the admitting desk, Gordon produced an identification case from a chain around his neck and flashed it to the nurse. “Is Doctor Goldsmith available? We just have a couple of questions for him.”
The nurse glanced at the card. “Just a moment, I’ll page him.”
Gadget’s curiosity was piqued. When Gordon stepped away from the counter, she caught the I.D. in her hand.
“Los Angeles Police Rodent Division?” she read. “I thought you were...”
Gary stopped her with a bemused smile and a finger to her lips. “We have identification for everything from the Secret Service to the Encino Board of Health.” He bent to whisper conspiratorially in her ear. “As good a detective as you are, you’ll always know us as the Two Scruffy Guys, or we wouldn’t be doing our jobs.”
She regarded him with an arched eyebrow. “Would you care to make a small wager on that?”
A handsome rat veterinarian strode up to them. “Gordon, Gary, good to see you again. I wish it were under better circumstances.” The doctor nearly stopped in his tracks and smiled broadly. “Is this Gadget Hackwrench?”
“Um, yes, I am,” she said apprehensively. “Have we met?”
“Not in person,” the doctor said. “But I’ve heard so much about you and your work with the Rescue Rangers that I feel like I have.” He shook her hand warmly. “I’m Harry Goldsmith. Very pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise, Doctor,” Gadget said, somewhat taken aback.
“We came to check on the cheese poisonings. How bad is it, Doc?” Gordon asked.
“I’ve got eleven serious cases of toxic shock right now. There’ve been eighty-one cases citywide and nineteen deaths. It’s the most bewildering thing. There’s not a sign of the lethal toxin detected in any lab tests of any of the cheese. Just a trace that, at worst, would cause mild food poisoning. There hasn’t been a single reported case of illness from any of the human hospitals in the valley where cheese is suspect. It’s almost like there’s nothing there until it hits a rodent’s bloodstream. Then it has the effect of the staph strain that causes toxic shock. It’s as if it were aimed at us like an arrow.”
“Doc, we could use a sample of the suspect cheese, if you have any,” Gordon said.
“Sure, I’ve got a couple of unadulterated samples,” the doctor said. “Hold on and I’ll bring you the latest health commission report as well. Nice to meet you, Miss Hackwrench.”
“See,” Gary whispered to Gadget. “We never get the star treatment.”
As the doctor headed for his office, a commotion arose in the nearby emergency room. Gary gave the area a quick glance and disregarded it. Gadget, concerned, followed the sound.
She stepped past the unattended admitting desk to stand just inside the emergency room. The scene was chaotic. Nearly a dozen rodents in surgical green worked with desperate efficiency over the figure of a boy mouse, no more than six years old. His young parents stood by, held up only by a raveling thread of hope. Gadget watched as a physician performed chest compressions and a nurse squeezed oxygen into flaccid lungs. An intravenous needle went in the mouse’s arm, followed at once by an injection into the I.V. line. Then another. An electronic monitor showed no response. A doctor barked “Clear!” and the child’s body spasmed with the defibrilator’s shock. “Clear!” again. Another spasm. Nothing more.
One of the doctors turned sorrowfully to the parents. The mother’s voice keened in anguish, denial and loss. The father only stared, hollow-eyed, at a future cut horribly short. Gadget could no longer bear to witness the tragedy. As she turned to go, she saw a scrap of sheet plastic on the floor that had fallen from the gurney as the boy was brought in. Glued to the plastic was a shred of a paper label, human sized. The white-on-blue letters “Til” still readable.
It carried the unmistakable odor of fresh cheese.
Gary and Gordon had concluded their business with Doctor Goldsmith and came in search of Gadget. They found her leaning on the admitting desk, her face buried in her hands.
“Gadget?” asked Gary. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
She turned toward them, her face as careworn as the mother’s, her eyes as anguished as the father’s, her voice as lifeless as their only son.
“Found a clue,” she said softly, offering the plastic scrap.
Gary took it and saw the lettering. He had seen the gurney come in and guessed the rest. He rested his hands on her shoulders.
“The kid?” he asked. She nodded. “Aw, I’m sorry, Gadget.”
“Twenty dead, now.” Gordon said through gritted teeth.
She looked at the scrap in Gary’s hand. “It isn’t there, is it? Not my very favorite cheese?”
“Yes,” Gary said. “The contaminated cheese samples Doctor Goldsmith has come from Oregon. From Tillamook. We’re going up there tonight.”
The light returned to Gadget’s eyes, then blazed up. “I can’t sit here and do nothing! I’m going to call the Rangers and tell one more whopper, then I’m going with you.”
* * *
Half an hour later, they touched down in their concealed base within the Tehachapi Mountains at the edge of the Mojave Desert. Gadget had shaken off the terrible scene at the hospital. Being able to finally take action proved the best tonic for her. Gary offered his hand to help her down from the helicopter.
“Welcome back to the Nest Egg. Do you remember how to get around?”
“I remember. I wondered if this place had a name.”
“Officially, it’s Site TW, but that lacks any sense of poetry. We’re going to load some extra equipment. You might want to change your clothes.”
“What’s wrong with my clothes?” Gadget asked defensively. “They’re practical and I like lavender.”
“First, that jumpsuit is a little bright for sneaking around in the dark. You will never find a place more secure against an intrusion of rodents than a cheese factory. Second, you’re not flying in one of the Ranger aircraft. We use highly volatile fuels. Gordon and I would both prefer you wear something a bit more fireproof than cotton.”
“All right,” she sighed. “If it’ll make you feel better.”
“I set out some things for you in the back bedroom.”
Gadget went through the connecting corridor into the main quarters, then turned and followed the short hallway into the rear most spare bedroom. She noticed at once there had been changes since she had peeked in here two months before. There was now a bedspread with a floral bouquet pattern and white ruffled trim. The lamp shades were in a similar soft motif with a purple ribbon scallop. The windowless room had a fine quilted wall hanging with a gold and violet heart pattern, and nearby a large full-color cutaway graphic of the Titanic. On the bed, she found a green Nomex flying suit, a match for the outfits the Scruffies were wearing, along with a pair of shining black jump boots. She smiled when she saw they had added a Rescue Ranger insignia patch on the front of her suit.
Still adjusting her new outfit, she went out to the hanger, but no one was near the helicopter. Following her ears, she found the Scruffies in the adjoining hanger bay, loading a very different aircraft.
This aircraft Gadget had read about. NASA had experimented with jet powered Short Take Off and Landing planes early in the seventies. This smoke-gray example resembled the new Osprey tilt rotor, except it was squirrel-sized and had a pair of turbofan jet engines on each swept-back wingtip instead of helicopter-like rotors.
“Wow! What a beauty. Where did it come from?”
“Ames Research Center,” Gordon said as he secured a tie-down to the aft cargo ramp. “The original fuselage was intended as a wind tunnel model and it was built up to airworthiness by our animal contacts at Boeing. We have some very supportive friends in high places. And I think we’re about ready to go. Go on forward and take a seat.”
Gadget went up the cargo ramp and moved past several large pallets of boxes fastened down with heavy nylon strap nets. Just past a bulkhead that separated the cargo deck from the cockpit she found a row of seats behind the pilot’s positions and was about to settle in when Gordon poked his head around the bulkhead.
“Take the co-pilot’s seat. I like to move around during the flight, and Gary can check you out to fly the Vertijet on the way north.”
“I get to fly this?” Gadget sighed. “I’m in love!”
Gordon saw Gary moving forward through the cargo deck. “Hey, partner!” he called. “Fit, trim, ready to win! Whatdaya think?”
“Hmmm? What?” Gary did not look up from his clipboard as he climbed into the pilot’s seat.
“Gadget, you rare twit!”
“Oh, yeah. Looks good.”
Gordon rolled his eyes in frustration and stalked away. Gadget smiled at their antics and craned her neck to peek at Gary’s clipboard.
“Worried about weather?” she asked.
“There’s a storm blowing through around Crescent City. We’ll fly over it and we should have clear weather in Tillamook.”
“That bedroom’s very pretty, by the way,” she said. “It’s a little frilly for me, but awfully thoughtful. Were you so sure I’d be coming back?”
“We prepare for every contingency,” Gary replied, setting aside the clipboard. “I’m very glad you’re here. I just wish it wasn’t necessary.”
“You’re not just worried about weather, are you?”
Gary shook his head slowly and stared out the windshield at the hanger door, his mind’s eye clearly reaching far beyond it. "Something is going on. Something big. You just walked into the middle of it. We’ve had incidents all over the world. The Rescue Aid Society has never been busier. This business with the cheese seems tailor-made to paralyze the Rescue Rangers. I even picked up a rumor of strange happenings with the Thorn Valley rats, and you know how secretive they are.”
Gadget stepped forward and slid into the co-pilots seat. “Do you think there’s some connection between all these incidents?”
“I don’t have evidence. All I have is this creeping sense of an underlying order to each of these incidents, of someone’s hands pulling the strings. I just can’t connect the dots. Hell, I can’t FIND the dots!”
“Watch your language,” she said reflexively. “Does Gordon agree with your estimate?”
“Gord’s a pragmatist,” Gary turned to the engine start checklist. “He believes me, he simply doesn’t see what I see. But it’s there. It’s like a foul taste you get out of the air. You can’t find where it’s coming from, but it’s there.”
“I trust your instincts. I’ll keep my eyes open for anything that might be a link to other cases.”
“Thanks. And thanks for hearing out a worried old operator who thinks he’s seeing cat’s eyes in the dark.”
Gordon walked in from the cargo deck, tucking away a fax and chuckling softly to himself.
“Something funny?” Gadget asked.
“Oh, just an odd bit of cosmic comedy,” he answered, smiling broadly as he strapped himself in. “I’ll tell you later.”
Gary started the engines and lifted the aircraft vertically as the hanger doors opened. He maneuvered the craft carefully out of the hanger as the last color left the sunset. Canting the engines forward, he rapidly built up speed and altitude and turned north.
Minutes later, with the craft well above the cloud cover, he throttled back. “Okay, Gadget, I’m sure you know the routine. Take the controls and get comfortable with her. Your aircraft.”
Gadget scooted her chair forward enough to get her feet on the rudder pedals and began the flight check routine that consisted of several careful stalls and gentle recoveries, turns easy and sharp, transiting from horizontal to vertical flight and back again, descents, climbs and hovers. They lost a little time due to the slow speeds required for most of the maneuvers, but they gained a third pilot who could fly the Vertijet by the seat of her pants if necessary.
“Very well done, Gadget,” Gary said, taking the controls. “My aircraft.”
“Your aircraft,” Gadget acknowledged, smiling. Gordon responded with quiet but vigorous applause.
“Mr. Michaelson,” Gary began. “Did we ever get an answer to our request for someone to meet us at the factory?”
“We did, Mr. Morley,” Gordon answered formally. He pulled out the fax that had arrived just before take-off. “We are to land at the Naval Air Museum south of town and meet our contact. Callsign: Gloria.”
“WHAT!!” Gary roared. “We’re supposed to hook up with G.G.!!?
“Yep!” Gordon said with delight.
“What bloody blue bastard hatched this idea!?” his partner bellowed.
“Gary!” Gadget snapped. “Watch your language!”
“I’ll just bet it was Chucky! That venomous, unprincipled, unreconstructed pirate would be just the one to stick us with the most self-centered, workaholic, damn-near suicidal creature ever to lack a ‘Y’ chromosome!”
“GARY...! Ohhh, darn you not having a last name!” Gadget shouted. “So help me, if you don’t stop this instant I’m going to hold you down and wash your mouth out with a Brillo pad!”
“In case you haven’t guessed,” Gordon told Gadget, bemused, “Gary and G.G. have been previously introduced.”
“As what?” Gadget asked sharply. “WWF contestants?”
“Wrestlers?” Gordon said with malicious glee. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Can it, Shirley,” Gary groused.
“Have it your way, Laverne,” Gordon responded. He laced his fingers behind his head, leaned back and smiled like a squirrel who knew where all the walnuts were buried.
* * *