MoonRush (3 page)

Rob chuckled with the dismissive mirth that only a teenager could manage. “Lighten up, dude. We’ve been working this site for seventeen months.”

“Seventeen months and an
hour
,” Jarod countered.

Frustrated with the monitors telling him nothing new, his eyes drifted to the bridge’s forward window, where the entire deck lay open. Lounging on the battered folding chair was the very attractive reporter, Brandi Broadhope, here to capture a “Rags to Riches” sub-segment of the regular feature, “Striking It Rich” for the nationally syndicated
Wake Up, America
. She was a natural redhead with
the
frosty beauty that told most men to back off. All it said to Jarod was, “I’m a challenge.”

Challenge…accepted
,
baby, challenge accepted
.

Aloud, he mimicked the scientist’s clipped speech. “Buton, my dear man, there’s more at stake than gold…” Jarod pointed toward the deck as he talked with the curvy redhead.

The East Indian frowned. “Seldom does the process of historical discovery trouble itself outside the realm of bounty.”

Rob snorted. “Or
booty
!”

“Well, it should,” Jarod agreed, winking broadly at Rob. A sharp elbow in Jarod’s side interrupted their male bonding moment.

Cleo tugged on his arm, drawing him away from the cluster of monitors, a frown creasing her smooth
,
cocoa skin.

“Jarod, what happened to our ‘no more pajama parties’ rule? Remember? Creating a more ‘wholesome’ atmosphere?”

“Um, I can hear you,” Rob intoned. “And I’m fourteen, Cleo, not four.”

“Exactly!” Jarod turned away from Cleo so she wouldn’t see the eye roll he directed at Rob. “And if you’re upset about a booty call, blame it on Buton.”

Buton’s head swiveled around. “Excuse me?”

“Hey, you’re the one who invited Brandi onboard,” Jarod said with a shrug.

“For…to…to help synergize our marketing paradigm…” the computer expert stammered on. “To create demand from collectors by—”

Jarod saved Buton from flailing anymore by redirecting his energies to Cleo. “The deal was that I’m not allowed to bring chicks onboard.” Jarod pointed to the top-heavy reporter. “This one was served up on a big, fat digital platter.” Cleo’s scowl intensified, but Jarod just smiled. “Darlin’, don’t hate the playa, hate the loophole.” To make his point, he low-fived Rob behind his back.

Before Cleo could scold him
any
further, a monitor crackled to life with a news report.

“Shut it, guys!” Rob yelled. “It’s our segment.”

The display whirled in 3D as the sidebar streamed enough information about the location, likes, and length of the transmission for all the geeks out there watching.

A male reporter
sported
blond hair so perfectly coiffed that it looked plastic
—
especially given the run-down farm in the background. The Ken doll was ready to interview a scientist, complete with an out-of-place starched white coat. It appeared that the proverbial stick up the guy’s backside, at least in this case, was maybe not so proverbial.

Rob turned up the volume. The men on-screen seemed engaged in the icy, age-old battle between the news reporter looking for sound bites and the scientist unwilling to give them.

“Chad Whistler here, with Dr. Weigner.” Jarod noticed that Buton crossed his arms at the scientist
’s
name. Was some professional rivalry going on? Before Jarod could ask, Chad continued, turning to the starchy scientist.

“Being a preeminent stellar geologist, could you tell us about these ‘Star Diamonds’?”

“Well, your first error is in calling them
diamonds
,” Turned out that Weigner’s tone was as stiff as the fabric of his lab coat. “These precious gems were forged by a collision of stars. It’s a trillion-
to
-one event. Not soon to happen again.”

The reporter’s silicone smile cracked just a bit. “Any estimates of how many of these jewels are buried on the dark side of the moon?”

“Any number I gave you would be wild speculation, due to the crystal’s elusive structure that defies detection by traditional means.”

“Well,” Chad said with an overly warm smile, “with everyone flocking to the moon, we’ll know soon enough, won’t we, doctor?”

Oh, nice one
. Despite Chad looking like he’d been manufactured in a cookie-cutter, ready-for-prime-time-reporter machine, the guy had some balls. Chad pivoted away from Dr. Weigner, dismissing the scientist without having to say a word. The Ken doll fixed his eyes forward and spoke directly to the camera.

“There you have it. The ‘Moon Rush’ has officially begun…”

Brandi stuck her head in from the deck. “Got anything, yet?”

Jarod gestured for Rob to turn down the volume.

“Yeah…uh …we’re close,” Jarod answered, trying really hard not to sound busted. “Give me another minute.”

Brandi wrinkled her pretty nose in irritation. “We need something
fast
, or we’ll miss our window for the story.”

“Yes. Absolutely. One more minute.” Jarod turned up the wattage
of
his smile. And it worked. That little wrinkle smoothed out, and she glanced over her shoulder before heading back out to her oceanside perch.

Jarod motioned for Rob to turn the volume back up. Grainy, flat images of miners panning for gold in a river accompanied the stiff voice-over.

“Now, exactly two hundred years later, a brand
-
new band of ‘Forty-niners’ are racing to the moon.”

The images exploded outward, enveloping the viewing audience, and then reassembled themselves in the razor-sharp digital Surround-D images of the present day, with quick cuts of spacecraft taking off from the earth’s surface, some from official-looking launchpads, some from backyards, most from shady, albeit tech-forward used spacecraft lots. Interspersed were shots of complicated docking maneuvers at the space station and shaky landings at the Moonbase.

Crowds of miners stood around in their spacesuits or sat on moon bikes—observing as fresh competition exited the shuttles.

“Everyone’s rushing to claim the best stake.” As Chad spoke, shots of a ragtag group of ships lined up at the “termination” line, where the light and dark sides of the moon meet. It really was pretty amazing stuff. If his love of the sea didn’t eclipse all else, Jarod might have been tempted to try his hand up there. Then the sc
reen filled with stacks of high
tech “huts” making up a modern-day squatters’ village.

Or maybe not.

“When you’re only granted an acre, you’d better choose carefully. It’s first come, first served.” The camera focused on a miner in a spacesuit, kneeling in the moondust, panning for jewels.

Chad’s narrative continued
.
“Undetectable to any mining devices, there is only one way to find the jewels. Pan the moondust by hand.” The final shot was of a tiny sliver of a Star Diamond, sparkling with unholy fire in the miner’s pan.

“Are you coming, or not?” Brandi whined from the deck, compact in hand, retouching her makeup. “Once that windbag’s done, we’re on.”

Damn it
. Jarod turned to Buton. “Anything yet?”

The man might be a computer
wizard, but apparently he couldn’t conjure proof that the galleon below was, in fact, the treasure ship that they hoped it would be.

But they couldn’t miss this window. Not again. If they wanted any press out of this, they needed to air today.

Jarod unzipped the top of his wet suit, tugging it down to his waist.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” Cleo asked.

“Giving them something to look at,” Jarod responded, catching some moisture from his suit and rubbing it on his bare chest. “Duh.”

That got another low-five from Rob.

Chad’s carefully cultured delivery followed Jarod out. “And who knows? You may be the
next one to ‘Strike It Rich’! ”

* * *

Brandi fidgeted, working out her pre-airing nerves. She could hear Chad’s weaselly voice droning on in her earpiece, finishing up his segment. That Botoxed jerk had scooped her again. Star Diamonds? Really? She looked around the ship
’s
deck
.
The
ship looked as though it
was
manufactured back before J. Lo became a grandmother. This scene really couldn’t compete with space jewels and a mad rush to the moon. She could feel her already tenuous slot within the newscasters’ hierarchy plummeting.

She turned to make sure that Jarod was ready to go. His pecs rippled as the drops of water glistened in the Caribbean light. She forced herself to swallow. Where had this guy come from? And where had he been hiding those muscles?

The voice buzzing in her ear had switched over to the main anchor.
Thanks, Chad. Continuing our “Striking It Rich” segment, we join Brandi Broadhope in the Bahamas …

Brandi released the recording disk, which spiraled out of her hand and hovered a yard away, red light blinking. She cleared her throat, hoping the flush in her cheeks wouldn’t be too visible in the bright sunshine. She gazed beyond the tiny lens at her adoring fans.

“
I’m
here with the leader of Rogues Incorporated, Jarod Haster. Tell
me
, Jarod, what exactly do you do?”

Jarod’s eyes sparkled as he shifted his weight to one side, somehow managing to lounge without any support. “We like to call ourselves ‘aquatic acquisition specialists.’ ”

“You’re what?” she said, looking back at the floating disk, sharing her fake bewilderment with the audience.

“Treasure hunters, basically.” Jarod hefted the goblet, the gold and jewels ten times more impressive in the midday sun. “We’ve found the
San Rafael
—a Spanish galleon rumored to have been carrying over two tons of gold coins.” Jarod lobbed the cup from one hand to the other. “And we’re going to see if those historians are correct.”

Trying hard not to be flustered by those pearly whites, Brandi added, “Well, looks like you’ll be very rich, very soon.”

“That’s the plan, darlin’.” Jarod’s slash of a smile planted itself firmly in her belly, then radiated downward. Seriously,
was
her makeup cover
ing
the heat in her cheeks?

“Uncle Jare!” A young voice called from the bridge. “We’ve got serious ping!”

Jarod winked at Brandi, and spoke to the
TV audience
before turning away. “That would be fate calling.”

Brandi watched
the
well-proportioned
man
hustle toward the bridge. She caught herself staring and whipped back to the lens.