Depth Perception Read online

  My father grinned and shook his head.

  Jefferson chuckled. “Oh man. I hope I didn’t give you a heart attack.”

  I forced a nervous smile. “I’m fine. Just shocked, I guess.”

  Wow, I strung six words together that time, I thought. It was a new record.

  “Come on back,” my dad told Mr. Jefferson as he led the way toward the dining room.

  I was about to follow them (and see if I could string seven words together) when I was saved by the bell… literally.

  Ding-dong.

  This time, it was actually the pizza.

  * * *

  While we ate, my dad and Mr. Jefferson mostly discussed different upcoming projects—at least, the ones they could talk about. Even though Mr. Jefferson’s company was more commercial and didn’t have government contracts like Swift Enterprises, it still had a bunch of products in development that he couldn’t discuss before they launched.

  I didn’t feel bad being left out of the conversation, though. Honestly, it gave me time to get used to the idea that I was having dinner with J. J. Jefferson. At first it was kind of weird, like having dinner with Jeff Bezos or Elon Musk. But the longer I listened to the conversation, the more I realized Mr. Jefferson was a regular person like everyone else. He even picked the olives off his slices of pizza the same way I did.

  “Speaking of top secret stuff,” Mr. Jefferson said as he slid the mystery box across the table toward me, “I brought something for you, Tom.”

  I wiped my hands with my napkin, then lifted the lid. Inside the box, a segmented foam base held several components. Four propellers were stacked in one compartment, an RC controller was nestled in another, and a thin, X-shaped device took up the center section. It was a brand-new drone.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Now, your dad told me that you already have plenty of drones,” Jefferson began, “but this is our brand-new Owl-1. Ultralight design, brushless motors. It’s our quietest one yet. That’s why we named it after an owl.”

  “Because owls are virtually silent when they flap their wings,” I added.

  Mr. Jefferson tapped the side of his head. “Smart kid. Takes after his old man.”

  “Tell Jay about your drone,” my dad said, grinning at me. “The one with the microphones.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that big a deal.”

  “I’d like to hear about it,” Mr. Jefferson said.

  I cleared my throat. “Well, my friend Noah and I made this drone with four directional microphones. But since drone motors are so loud, we came up with a program that matched the frequency of the motors and filtered them out in real time.”

  Mr. Jefferson raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed.”

  “It was mostly Noah,” I admitted. “He’s an amazing programmer.”

  “Surround yourself with brilliant people and steal all their ideas to make yourself look smarter.” Jefferson jutted a thumb at his chest. “That’s the secret to my success.”

  My dad laughed at his friend’s joke. “You’ll have plenty to pilfer next week, then. I’m always amazed at what the academy students come up with.”

  My father and I took turns telling stories about some of the cool inventions my classmates had been working on lately. My dad told Mr. Jefferson about Jim Mills and Jason Hammond’s spybots. I mentioned Noah’s virtual reality program, which reminded Dad of Amy’s cool Pop Chop phone app.

  Mr. Jefferson whistled. “Sounds like an exciting place, this academy of yours.”

  My dad chuckled. “They certainly keep Mr. Davenport, the principal, on his toes.”

  Mr. Jefferson leaned toward me. “Speaking of cool inventions, I hear you have something special planned for next week.”

  I shot my dad a look. I couldn’t believe he’d told J. J. Jefferson about the sub. Scratch that—of course I could believe it. Dad’s always been proud of me and often tells people he works with about my inventions. Embarrassingly often. But did he have to tell the guy with the coolest recreational sub design on the market about my plain, boring sub?

  I didn’t say any of this, of course. Instead, I muttered, “Uh, yeah. Noah and I built our own sub.”

  “Nice,” Jefferson said with a nod.

  “Lake Carlopa is the perfect place to test it,” my father added. “It used to be an old rock quarry, so it has great visibility. Tom did his open water dive there.”

  That was true. A year ago, Dad and I went on a vacation that included a day of scuba diving. My dad was certified but I wasn’t. After a week of classes, which included plenty of diving in a swimming pool, I needed to have one open water dive before I could become certified. For my class, that happened at Lake Carlopa.

  “It was very cool,” I added, happy to be off the subject of my submarine. “And since a bunch of dive instructors use the lake, people have been sinking all kinds of cool stuff to explore there. There’s an old school bus, a small plane, and even an armored truck.”

  “I’ve heard about the armored truck,” my dad said, “but I don’t think it was put there for divers.” He grinned. “Legend has it that bank robbers crashed it into the quarry before it was a lake. The authorities found the truck, but not the money.”

  “Oh yeah?” Mr. Jefferson asked, intrigued.

  My dad shrugged. “That’s how the story goes.”

  I had seen online pics of most of the wrecks, including the armored truck, which rested at the bottom of the lake next to a small rocky island. This was the first time I’d heard the story behind it, though. I wondered if there was any truth to it, or if it was simply an urban legend.

  Mr. Jefferson got to his feet. “All right, Tom. No more changing the subject. Let’s see this sub of yours.”

  “Uh, okay,” I said, starting to clear the table.

  “I’ll take care of these,” Dad said as he gently took the plate from my hand.

  I felt my face warm as I led the way to the garage. Don’t get me wrong, I was proud of Noah’s and my creation. It just felt weird showing it to J. J. Jefferson, like I was about to play a song I’d written… in front of Mozart.

  I opened the door and switched on the light. Our garage, which more often than not doubled as a workshop, had both worktables pushed to the side. The center space was dominated by a large yellow vehicle strapped to a modified boat trailer. Its nose was a clear rounded view port. Two more clear domes served as hatches for the pilot and copilot—or, in nautical terms, the captain and first mate.

  “Nice,” Mr. Jefferson said as he made a beeline for the vehicle. He ran a hand over its smooth surface, peering into the clear domes.

  “Thanks,” I said, only realizing after that I’d been holding my breath.

  Mr. Jefferson moved to the back of the sub and examined the large propeller inside the extended metal housing. “Propulsion and steering?”

  “That’s right. We’ll maintain positive buoyancy, so we’ll use the propeller to push us down, too.”

  “Good safety measure,” Jefferson said. “If you lose power, you’ll just float to the surface.”

  I nodded and felt myself smiling. It was nice talking with someone who had experience building submarines. If I hadn’t been so worried about embarrassing myself, I might’ve thought of that possible perk sooner.

  “How deep can you go?” Jefferson asked as he peered into the cockpit.

  “We’re using a snorkel to pump in air,” I explained. “It’s seven meters long.”

  Jefferson nodded. “Almost twenty-three feet. Nice.”

  “Noah wanted to build a carbon dioxide scrubber, but we didn’t have enough time.”

  A lot of people think that running out of oxygen is the most challenging problem in designing an underwater vehicle, but the bigger issue is breathing in all the carbon dioxide that’s naturally expelled. CO2 scrubbers work great on regular submarines, but to make our deadline, Noah and I had decided to pump in fresh air from the surface using a long hose connected to a floating platform. Our used
air would simply bubble away from the top of the sub through a special one-way valve.

  Jefferson knelt and examined the sub’s underbelly. “No way!” he cried as he patted the housing between the two metal skids—the same housing I’d just reattached before his surprise visit, and the same one Noah and I had demonstrated in engineering class earlier that day. “You installed an underwater drone launcher? How cool is that?”

  My chest swelled with pride. I had impressed J. J. Jefferson.

  How cool was that?

  4 The Expedition Evaluation

  SITTING IN THE COCKPIT, I tensed as I watched the water rush toward me. “Slower!” I called out.

  “Slower, please,” Noah echoed, albeit more politely.

  The brake lights flashed on my dad’s SUV, and the trailer hauling our sub and me slowed as it rolled down the boat ramp. Instead of splashing into the water like a newly launched cargo ship, our sub eased into the lake. Noah stood at the top of the cement ramp, watching the process with concern.

  When the water level inched toward the open hatch, I held up a fist. “That’s good,” Noah called out, and my dad hit the brakes again.

  Noah and I had checked and rechecked our calculations when we built our submarine. We’d even had Amy and Sam double-check them. By all accounts, our invention should not… sink like a stone to the bottom of the lake. Like I had explained to Mr. Jefferson, the sub’s positive buoyancy should make it float. Unfortunately, up until this moment, Noah and I hadn’t been able to field-test our vehicle, and now we were stuck doing it in front of a bunch of people waiting in line to launch their own boats.

  I held my breath as I reached out of the cockpit and lifted the quick-release latch on the strap holding the submarine to the trailer. As soon as the strap fell away, I knew our calculations had been correct. I let out a sigh of relief as I felt the sub rise, bobbing away from the trailer.

  “Yes!” Noah cheered.

  Grinning, I flicked on the power switch and threw the throttle in reverse. I could hear the propeller churning the water behind me.

  “I’ll see you at the campsite,” I told Noah as I backed away from the boat ramp. He waved before climbing into the passenger side of my dad’s car.

  I breathed easier as I piloted our sub along the lake’s shore. I’d left the front hatch open, so I was enjoying the cool breeze as it ruffled my hair. Step one of our field test had officially been a success; the sub hadn’t sunk. For step two, we’d add Noah’s weight to find out if we were still buoyant. Step three would be us trying to safely submerge the Advance.

  Yeah, Noah and I had named our submarine the Advance. A little corny, I know, and even kind of ambitious. After all, we knew full well that we weren’t the first ones to create a homemade submarine, and we weren’t expecting to advance science with this invention. But even so, this was our most ambitious creation yet, and Noah and I were certainly advancing our own horizons.

  The boat ramp area slowly fell out of sight as I motored along the shore and around a bend. Because the lake was a flooded rock quarry, instead of declining gradually, like at the beach, the rocky ground pretty much fell off straightaway at the water’s edge. That meant I could pilot right next to the shore, which worked in my favor since the lake seemed more crowded than usual. I didn’t know how our sub would react to being tossed about in the wake of passing speedboats.

  As I cruised along, a familiar landmark came into view—a small island that Noah and I had explored during past camping trips. Its surface was several meters higher than the shoreline, so it loomed like a small fortress a few hundred meters off the main shore. The towering landmass was around ninety-one meters wide—about the size of a football field. Trees and shrubs covered its flat top, but its sides were solid rock. In the past, it hadn’t been unusual to see people cliff diving from one of its sheer sides.

  It wasn’t long until I reached the camping area where we’d be staying. Luckily, my father and Mr. Jefferson were able to score three campsites right on the shore—a campsite for the girls, one for the boys, and one for the adults. Each plot was large enough to house several tents, and each had its own floating dock.

  As I neared the site, I spotted Noah standing at the end of the dock on the right. That must’ve been the one for our campsite.

  “Well?” he asked as I pulled up.

  “So far so good,” I replied. “You want to try her out?”

  “You know it,” Noah said, “but I have to show you something first.”

  “What?”

  Noah shook his head. “I can’t explain it. Okay, I can explain it, but it’ll be better if you just see it for yourself.”

  “Okay,” I said. Noah’s mysteriousness was making me nervous.

  I climbed onto the dock and closed the hatch. Then we both tied off the Advance, and Noah led the way toward the girls’ camping area.

  As we crossed the grounds, I noticed litter scattered along the shore. My father had mentioned that he’d asked the park rangers to hold off on cleaning up our area for a week, so volunteers would have the chance to test out their inventions. From what I’d seen so far, we’d have our work cut out for us during the trip.

  I followed Noah down the narrow trail until it opened out into a large clearing. There, I saw a picture-perfect campsite scene. Six tents had been erected in a circle, and even though they were different styles and shapes, they were laid out with military precision. A small campfire crackled in the middle, its firewood arranged in a perfect tepee style within a rock ring.

  I turned and peered through the trees. I could just make out the boys’ campsite. From what I could see through the underbrush, only one tent had been erected so far, and I knew for a fact that Noah and I hadn’t set ours up yet.

  I turned back to the girls’ campsite. Honestly, it could’ve been for a photoshoot for a camping magazine. “Did they get here a day early or something?”

  Noah grinned and shook his head. “Nope.” He moved toward the closest tent. Sam was kneeling beside it, digging through a small backpack.

  “How did everyone set up so quickly?” I asked. “Did you help them?”

  Sam rolled her eyes. “Not me.” She pointed across the clearing.

  Two tents over, Amy knelt beside Simone Mosby, where she was finishing tying a cord around a stake. “This knot is called a taut-line hitch,” Amy explained. “It’s adjustable, so you can tighten it to keep the tent from sagging, or if you need extra tension for strong winds.”

  “Cool, thanks,” Simone said.

  I looked at Sam in disbelief. “So, Amy’s an expert camper now?”

  “I blame you, Swift,” Sam replied. “You’re the one who told her to research camping. I think she memorized every set of tent instructions while she was at it.”

  “And check out her backpack,” Noah added, pointing to the enormous pack propped up near Sam’s tent. It was stuffed full of gear and probably as tall as Amy!

  “My backpack,” Sam corrected. “That’s the one she asked to borrow. It’s also the one I used when my family hiked the Appalachian Trail for two weeks.” Then Sam pointed to the smaller backpack beside it. “That’s the kind of pack I bring for a four-nighter at the lake.”

  I chuckled as I watched Amy help Maggie Ortiz and Jessica Mercer toss a line over a tree branch. It looked like they were hanging a bag to keep their food away from bears. “At least she isn’t anxious about camping anymore.”

  “You can say that again,” Sam agreed.

  “Tom, let’s get our tent set up,” Noah suggested. “Then maybe we can sneak in another test drive.”

  “Good idea.”

  We headed toward the short trail that connected the three campsites. As we grabbed our gear from my dad’s car, he spotted us.

  “Your maiden voyage looked good,” he said as he screwed together two tent pole segments. “Any issues?”

  “So far so good,” I replied.

  He grinned back at us. “Glad to hear it.”

  Noah
and I were about to take the short trail leading to the boys’ campsite when he grabbed my arm. “Whoa, is that who I think it is?” Noah’s eyes were practically bugging out of his head.

  We watched in awe as an enormous RV pulled into the parking area. Something that big could only belong to J. J. Jefferson. Noah had been jealous when I’d told him about having dinner with the icon the night before, especially the part where I showed off our submarine without him. I hadn’t planned any of it, of course, but it was still kind of fun giving my friend grief about it.

  “Come on,” I said, changing course and heading toward the RV. “I’ll introduce you.”

  “Oh yeah, because you two are big buds now.”

  After the giant vehicle pulled to a stop, we approached the main door. I could see someone moving behind the tinted glass before it finally swung open.

  “Mrs. Scott?” Noah asked, sounding disappointed. “This is your RV?”

  Our robotics teacher was dressed in overalls with her hair pulled up with a bandanna as usual. “You fellas can sleep on the lumpy ground all you want,” she said as she stepped down from the RV, “but I don’t camp. I glamp.” She extended a finger toward us. “And spread the word: Don’t even bother asking for my Wi-Fi password.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I replied, swallowing hard.

  “Did you see the big-screen TV she had in there?” Noah whispered as we hauled our gear toward our campsite.

  Noah pointed to an open patch beside a partially assembled tent. “How about that spot there?”

  “Wait a minute.” I stopped short when I saw who was backing out of the slumped shelter—Terry Stephenson. Noah and I had shared a cabin with him during the summer camp field trip. The kid snored louder than an idling school bus.

  Noah’s eyes went wide. “Good save.”

  We found a nice level piece of ground on the opposite side of the campsite and got to work.

  In record time, our tent was up and our backpacks stashed inside. I think Noah was as anxious to get back to our sub as I was. The rest of the volunteers would start working on their cleanup inventions soon, so we didn’t have long to squeeze in another test run.