UNDERCOVER on the TITANIC (book 1)

Part 1 - Uncle Dunc

It was a great, gusty day and I was a full rigged ship scudding before the wind, my arms stuck out like topgallant yards and my parka billowing like a torn topsail. I could almost feel the heave of the swell as I steered half a point to starboard and accelerated downhill into the ravine.

As I jumped the curb and scooted across a side street, the wind ripped a blizzard of yellow leaves from thrashing branches. They danced about me, twisting and twirling around the hydro-poles as I zoomed downhill balanced on the edge of disaster. Life didn't get much better than this. I was aiming for orbital velocity and if I hadn't hit that asphalt patch, I might have been the world's first skateboard pilot in space.

The goose was hunched amid the swirling leaves on a patch of grass, its beak pointing into the wind like a weathervane. I dragged a foot to slow down. It's not unusual to see a solitary goose in September but this one was different. It was jerking its neck and stomping its webbed feet in an odd staccato rhythm. It was break dancing. 

I screeched to a stop in astonishment. At first the goose ignored me but then it arched its long neck, blinked one beady eye and opened its beak slightly and asked, 'Would yeh no be Ziff Dion?'

'Huh?' I countered intelligently. 

'Laddie, ah'm asking if yeh're Ziff Dion,' it repeated patiently.

For a moment I forgot that a Canada goose is not supposed to speak, still less with a Scottish accent. 'I . . . I don't understand,' I spluttered. 'How do you know my name?'

'It's ma job, laddie,' the goose said carefully.

I stared at him. 'What kind of a trick is this? Geese don't talk.'

'Ah'm not yehr average goose.' He looked both ways. 'Ah'm an undercover pole-eese agent and ah'm . . .'

'This is crazy,' I interrupted.

'Ziff! Are yeh no listening to what ah'm saying? Ah'm here to protect yeh.'

'Who are you? I mean who is talking?'

There was a slight hesitation as the goose contemplated my question. 

'Ah'm talking to yeh . . . Ma name's Duncan MacPhun.  An' tha's M-a-c, capital P-h-u-n. But, yeh can call me Dunc.' 

Suddenly I was scared. 'But you're a goose!' His head seemed a little larger than normal but otherwise he looked exactly like a Canada goose. I glanced around trying to look like I was not having a conversation with a deluded bird.

'Ah'm in disguise . . .'

'Disguise? You mean you're really a kangaroo? 

He cackled. 'Heh, heh. Ondy said you had a sense of humour. Ah mean yeh've no seen any geese aroond, acting oddly, 'ave yeh?' 

'You mean apart from you?' I looked around warily wondering whether to run or laugh. There wasn't another goose in sight. There were no cameras, black cats or owls either, not even a pointy hat. 

There was no traffic turning into the Chinese shopping mall. In fact, the street was oddly silent and empty except for a rabbity looking little man gawking at us from the next intersection. He wore an old-fashioned, round hat with the narrow brim pulled down to his ears and a black jacket with too-short sleeves, Charlie Chaplin without the moustache.

'An' we're related,' Dunc said happily.  'Ah'm yehr uncle.'

'My uncle? I gasped weakly. 

'By adoption o' course,' Dunc cackled. Yehr granda adopted me when I hatched oout. An' he taught me to speak English.'

I was still gaping. 'You're speaking English?' I tried to make sense of what he was saying. 'Wha'. . . what are you doing here?' I stuttered.

He looked both ways again. 'Ah'm wurking undercover, on a mission t' keep yeh safe and locate Murga.'

'Who's Murga?'

'Ah was afraid yeh'd ask that. He's a verra evil character who's trying to find you.'

'And why would he want to find me?'

Dunc hesitated for a moment. 'So that he can extract the secret of yehr special talents from yehr brain.'

'My brain?' This was getting crazier by the minute. 'What special . . . '

I didn't get to finish the question as I was rudely interrupted by a squeal of tires. A car stopped beside me and two tough looking Asian men jumped out leaving the doors open. There were smiles on their faces but they didn't look happy. 

'Jeff?' one of them asked but he didn't wait for an answer. He grabbed my arm and clamped a green gloved hand over my mouth. I tried to remember what to do in case of abduction. Ah, yes. Don't get into the car. Fight back and make a lot of noise. I bit the glove. He didn't make a sound but jabbed me in the face as I tried to kick him. It's really hard to kick someone sideways. 

The goose, Dunc, joined the fight, pecking at every ankle in sight, including mine. But these guys were idiots. They didn't know a skateboard was a lethal weapon under the right feet. I kicked it around and stomped on the end so that it flipped up. Target Green Glove's crotch. He muffled a squeal and tore the skateboard away from me as the second guy kicked Dunc aside, wrapping an arm around my head, so my face was wedged into his armpit, and dragged my head toward the car's open door. 

Uhhng! He really needed deodorant! These guys had obviously never heard of the Geneva Convention against the use of poison gas. Green Gloves was trying to shove my legs into the car while fending off Dunc. The underarm gas must have been affecting my brain. I had a weird sensation of floating. The Charlie Chaplin man had moved closer but he didn't protest or try to help me. He just watched like this was a TV show. 'Help!' I yelled into the arm pit but he didn't hear me.

I got a foot against the car's doorframe but I was losing the battle when the racket of a motorcycle made Green Gloves hesitate. Someone crashed into him and abruptly I was free, although in the middle of a brawl and in danger of being trampled to death. 

Dunc stuck his head between the legs, nipped my sleeve in his beak and helped me squirm out of the scrum. My first instinct was to run but I stopped to look for my skateboard. It was nowhere in sight. My rescuer, a burly man wearing a black leather jacket and a Darth Vader motorcycle helmet, was still wrestling with my assailants. A Harley Davidson motorbike was stopped on the sidewalk nearby. It looked like a police bike. Another heavy guy was sipping at a paper coffee cup near the back of the car as he inspected the mud encrusted licence plate. He didn't look like a cop on account of his shoulder length hair and a small beard, neatly trimmed to a point, on his chin. A red bandana and shabby leather jacket didn't suggest police either. 

He made no attempt to clean off the mud but, instead, slipped something behind the plate, leaned against the motor bike and sipped his coffee cup as he casually watched the fight.

It ended quickly. The two Asians decked Darth Vader with some cleverly co-ordinated Kung Fu before scrambling into the car and rocketing away, tires screeching.