ACCESS DENIED!

EITHER YOU ARE AN

IMPOSTOR OR YOU HAVE

A BOOGER ON YOUR THUMB.

PLEASE WASH YOUR HANDS

AND TRY AGAIN.

ACCESS GRANTED!

TRY NOT TO GET ANY MORE

BOOGERS ON IT, ’KAY?

Alexander Brand was a secret agent. He had saved the world on more than a dozen occasions. He had stopped three invasions of the United States by foreign powers. He had helped depose six dictators and four corrupt presidents. He had a bevy of skills that served him well, including: defusing land mines, driving tanks, parachuting into hostile territories, infiltrating terrorist compounds, wearing disguises, engaging in underwater hand-to-hand combat, and breaking codes. Plus, he looked awesome in a tuxedo. At one time, Brand was the United States’ most valuable spy. But that was before the accident.

“I heard about the accident,” General Savage said as he glanced over his desk at the white cane resting on Brand’s lap. The cane was an ugly thing to Savage—like a rattlesnake. It made him uncomfortable, and when he was uncomfortable Savage lost his temper. He slammed his hand down on his desk, and considering the size of his hand, it was a wonder the desk didn’t crack in two. The general was a mountain of muscles with a tree trunk-size neck and a face like a slab of concrete. He’d fought in fourteen wars. Rumor had it that he’d started ten of them himself just to stay in practice.

Brand nodded respectfully. He didn’t want to talk about the explosion that had injured his leg. He wasn’t the talking type. He could dismantle, clean, and rebuild an AK-47 in forty-two seconds, but share his feelings? Never tried it.

“Well, I have something that will put a smile on your face,” Savage said as he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out an overstuffed manila folder with the words TOP SECRET printed on it in red. He passed it to the former spy and sat back in his chair with a knowing grin. “I was wondering if you are ready to get back to work.”

Agent Brand ran his hand across the folder’s crimson warning. The words “top secret” always sent a spark of excitement through him. He loved secrets. Codes, puzzles, mysteries—they seemed to run through his veins. Still, he resisted the temptation to open the folder. What was the point?

“Sir, I appreciate the offer. Nothing would make me happier than serving my country, but I’m not interested in a desk job. I won’t push papers, not even for Uncle Sam.” Brand set the folder on Savage’s desk and grasped his cane, ready to leave.

“Just take a look, agent,” the general said. “This isn’t a desk job.”

Brand opened the folder and scanned the top page. The man who had seen everything couldn’t believe his eyes.

“I thought these guys were a myth,” Brand whispered.

“That’s how we like to keep it. Even the president is in the dark.”

“You’re keeping this from the commander in chief?”

Savage wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Their work is too important. We can’t let anyone distract them.”

“So you want me to join them?” Brand asked.

“Not exactly,” Savage said. “Turn the page.”

Brand did as he was instructed. The next page did not make him happy.

“They’re not spies. They’re—”

“They’re the world’s last, best hope, Agent Brand. When the best of the best can’t get it done, we send these guys. They have billions of dollars of technology at their fingertips, and the perfect cover. We can drop them pretty much anywhere and they go virtually undetected. You have no idea the debt the world owes them. The team is young, inexperienced, and now drifting without a rudder. Their last director died under mysterious circumstances. He jumped out a window.”

“Spy jobs are stressful, General. There’s nothing mysterious about that,” Brand said.

“I would agree, except the window overlooked the shark tank at the local aquarium,” Savage said.

“Hmmm,” the spy replied.

“And he had a bomb strapped to his chest and three knives in his back.”

“That does raise a few eyebrows,” Brand said. “Still, General, what you’re describing to me is a glorified baby-sitting job.”

Savage shook his head. “You’re not getting it, Brand. This is a chance to get our best team back under control. I’m sorry it’s not sports cars and exotic women, but it’s a way to get back into the game.”

Just then there was a knock at the general’s door. A nervous little man with short red hair and a face full of freckles poked his head into the room. “General, I’m sorry to interrupt—”

“This better be good, Casey! I told you not to bother me.”

“We have a crisis,” Casey said. “It’s Greenland.”

“Who is Greenland?”

“Greenland isn’t a who, sir. It’s a place.” Casey swallowed hard, as if afraid to correct his boss. “It’s the world’s largest island. It’s off the coast of North America, very close to—”

Savage pounded his hand on the desk once more. This time one of the legs broke, and the desk tilted so that the general’s work slid off. “I know where Greenland is! What about it?”

“It just slammed into Iceland,” Casey said.

“It what?” Agent Brand asked.

“It collided with Iceland,” Casey said.

“How does something like that happen?” Brand asked.

“W-we’re not sure, sir,” the assistant stammered.

“Scramble the team,” the general barked. “Someone is behind this! Giant islands don’t just move around by themselves.”

Casey nodded and dashed away.

“What do you say, Agent Brand? Can America count on its bravest secret agent again?” the general asked as he turned his attention to a globe of the Earth still teetering on the edge of his desk.

The spy nodded. “I’m in.”

The general smiled. “Good. Now, let’s talk about your cover.”

Jackson Jones peered through his binoculars at the horizon. He spotted his targets climbing the crest of an embankment not more than a quarter of a mile away. He smiled and turned to his partner and friend, Brett Bealer. “They’re coming.”

Brett nodded, then turned to signal to the rest of Jackson’s team. They scampered into position behind shrubberies, trees, and lampposts. They were practically invisible to the enemy.

Jackson’s team was eager, but their leader knew that surprising the enemy required patience. They would have one chance, and if they blew it, weeks of planning would be wasted.

Though he would never admit it to the others, Jackson found the enemy unnerving. They were grotesque with their drooling mouths and puffy eyes—barely human. Brett was convinced the enemy had been born misshapen, but the idea was far too unsettling for Jackson. He couldn’t imagine being born a … a … a nerd.

Unfortunately for Jackson, Nathan Hale Elementary had more than its fair share of nerds. In fact, his whole town of Arlington, Virginia, was one giant geektropolis. Perhaps there was something in the drinking water Arlington siphoned from the Potomac River, but there were dweebs, spazzes, goobers, gomers, goofballs, and freak-outs crawling out of every nook and cranny. Jackson sometimes felt as if he were drowning in an ocean of wheezing, math-loving, Velcro sneaker-wearing waste cases. Jackson’s high school-age brother, Chaz, felt the same way. He told Jackson the elementary school had always been overrun with misfits. Their father, who was also an alumnus of Nathan Hale, said the same. Jackson was smack-dab in the middle of Nerdville, USA.