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Chapter 2

From Russia With Love

It was an odd sort of morning. Thanks to the movie marathon, none of us were feeling quite up to par. Around 8:30, Dale was discovered sleeping in Chip's bunk, having been unable to make it up to his own. Zipper took a cue from Dale and bailed on us for his room, too. Monty drifted off to the kitchen and was soon banging away, causing varied fragrances of cheese to drift through headquarters. Chip read a Sureluck Jones novel for about an hour, and I caught him alternately staring at the couch and snatching glances at me as I wandered aimlessly. In the end, he too fell asleep, leaving me completely to my own devices.

I wandered quietly from one end of the tree to the other, stopping off in my workshop just long enough to disassemble the Wing's GPS system. It only took three and a half minutes to do, but I knew it would take at least two hours of hard work to fix it, if I had all the correct parts. The bottom of a plastic cup had gotten jammed into one of the sensors, and the best I could figure was that it had been sucked in through the back of the plane, though heaven knows how that could have happened. I had the back sealed to prevent this sort of thing.

Looking closer, I also discovered a loose gear in the back of the propeller control box. Feeling frustrated and stale, I tossed a wrench across the landing pad and went back inside. I didn't feel like fixing it just then; something must have been wrong with me.

Several hours passed like that before we all rallied and woke up. Well, sort of woke up. We were all sitting together on the couch with the news on, staring blankly at each other. Monty's cheese scones sat on the table, untouched and steaming.

Agitated, I squirmed in my seat. Finally, in a desperate attempt to liven things up, I said suddenly, "I found part of a plastic cup in the Ranger Wing this morning."

Monty jumped in his chair. "Say what now, luv?" he asked, looking rather bewildered.

Dale nodded lethargically, yawning. "I wonder how it got there?"

Chip rolled his eyes. "Knowing you, I'd say you were probably drinking chocolate milk in the Wing again."

Dale frowned. "I don't drink it out of cups, I drink it out of the carton."

I laughed. "It's all right, Dale. I got it out."

"See, Chip? Gadget says it's okay," Dale bated.

Chip looked like he was about to strike onto the warpath when we were rescued by the doorbell. Seeking refuge from our insanity, Chip jumped up to answer it, casting angry glares over his shoulder at us. He opened the door and a haggard-looking, but immaculately dressed mouse gentleman stepped in.

"This is the establishment of the Rescue Rangers, is it not?" I heard him ask in a clipped and hurried British accent.

"That's us," answered Chip, all business. "How can we help you?"

The mouse took a deep breath and looked quickly around the room, pulling absently on a white handkerchief.

"Why don't you come in and sit down?" I asked, getting up to receive him.

"Oh, yes, thank you," he replied fervently and collapsed on the couch where I had been.

Monterey observed him shrewdly for a second. "Tu-ra-loo! You look like yeh've gone 'round the world in eighty days. Why doncha fetch 'im some water, Dale, pally?" Dale saluted and zoomed out to the kitchen, returning moments later with a glass of water for the gentleman.

He accepted it graciously and sipped it perhaps a bit too hastily for someone as formal as himself. We all looked at him curiously.

He finished the water and sighed deeply. "Thank you very much," he began, setting the glass on the table. "I hardly know where to begin, but what I have to say must be taken seriously, and acted upon with rapidity and alacrity." His words rippled along like wine, despite the gravity of them. "I am Mr. Jules Crissen, personal butler to Miss Sophia Marskov, a Russian actress. Miss Marskov is in a great deal of danger, my friends."

"What kind of danger?" asked Chip.

"Ah, danger of the most foul sort, young master," Jules continued. He sounded almost like Vincent Price announcing the Mystery episode for the evening. "You see, several weeks ago, Miss Marskov began receiving hate mail. You must understand, any performer is entitled to his or her share of ridicule and rejection, but this was not ordinary hate mail. It came again and again, every day, worse and worse. And two days ago, a single letter arrived."

We were all leaning towards him, eyes huge and breath drawn. "What did it say?" I choked, mesmerized by his voice.

"I have it here," he answered, producing a wrinkled note from his breast pocket. Chip took it and unfolded it. I leaned over his shoulder to see it better as he read the untidily scrawl aloud: 'I have sent my assassin. Run.'" Chip swallowed hard.

"Blimey!" cried Monterey, "That bloke's serious!"

"What did Miss Marskork ever do to him?" asked Dale, turning his head sideways to get a better view of the note.

"Marskov," reiterated Jules. "Miss Marskov has given no man reason to hate her so. We do presume that it is a man, from the handwriting," he said, gesturing at the letter Chip was holding like a bomb. "But of course we could no longer judge these as idle threats."

"Too right!" ejaculated Monty.

"All right. Where's Miss Marskov now?" asked Chip, returning the letter.

Jules stood up. "We have sent her away in disguise. She still fears, as do I , so I volunteered to come and enlist your aid whilst she hid. We are hoping you find her before the assassin does."

"But where is she?" asked Chip again, pushing his hat back.

"In Vladivostok, until 2:00 p.m. your time. She will sail on the Anastasia for Japan, where she has friends."

Chip yanked on the front of his coat, puffing out his chest. "Gadget, is the Ranger Wing ready?"

Oops... "Give me three minutes and I can make it ready. With the time change, we should be able to catch Miss Marskov in time." I turned and ran for the door, hoping that we could find a plane headed for Vladivostok.

I clambered into the Ranger Wing and began stuffing the guts of the GPS system back in, minus the cup bottom, and screwed the console and body panels back into place. Just as I finished the last panel, the rest of the Rangers and Jules came running out of headquarters and towards the plane.

"Is she gonna make it?" asked Monterey as he hopped in the front seat.

"It should work, as long as-"

Chip cut me off. "You said 'should,' Gadget. Are we gonna get there or not?"

"Well, if anybody's got a zip tie, the propeller-"

"Gadget!"

I thought you had complete confidence in my abilities, Chip. "No problems, chief!" I declared, crossing my fingers behind my back and hoping I wasn't lying.

"All right then," shouted Chip, joining Dale and Jules in the back seat. I revved the engine. "Rescue Rangers AWAY!"