The Deep Enders: Deadline
Dave Reardon
2h21min00
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188 pages. Temps de lecture estimé 2h21min.
How Far Would You Go To Save Your Friends?Melbourne 1942. As World War II rages in the Pacific, 16-year-old cadet reporter Murph and his cheeky Aboriginal friend Banjo are thrown headfirst into an explosive wartime conspiracy when their old nemesis is found dead on Christmas Eve.All the evidence points to Banjo, who has disappeared without a trace. But Murph refuses to accept it, and—with the beautiful, enigmatic British spy Rose Atherton at his side—he dives deeper into a murky world of wealth and power.Meanwhile, Banjo's sister Micki plans her daring escape from a POW camp in the Australian outback. But can she really trust her fellow inmates, and be reunited with her family and Murph? With dangerous forces closing in, Murph must decide whether to risk everything—his freedom, his job, even his life—to uncover the truth and save his friends.The Deep Enders: Deadline is a race against time, with nothing but their wits, grit, and fireworks to unravel a deadly mystery that runs all the way to the top of the Allied war effort. This is the second book in The Deep Enders series.If you liked Dave Reardon’s first in this series, The Deep Enders, or books like Dark Fury by Evan Graver, The Coordinate by Marc Jacobs, or Seeking Safety by T.L Payne, you'll love The Deep Enders: Deadline
From Deep Enders Deadlines
Murph and Banjo crossed the road to a pine-dotted esplanade stretching the length of Hobsons Bay. The sun was sinking low, spray painting the water with oranges and pinks. The boys kicked off their shoes to feel the nip of a billion seashells beneath their feet.
In the shallows, a harmless wobbegong shark cruised only a few yards from the shore. Banjo's eyes twinkled.
"Good eatin' them fellas!" he said, making a mental note to return later with his fishing gear.
A flotilla of yachts drifted past as families played at the water's edge. An American soldier and his local girl strolled hand-in-hand enjoying ice creams.
Banjo pulled a paper bag of lemon fizzers from his pocket.
"Wan' some lollies?"
"Candy," Murph tried correcting him. After almost a year in Australia, he'd adopted many of the local customs and vernacular. But candy was still candy.
"Candy…" Banjo said, unwrapping one of the yellow sweets. "Is me little cousin back in Broome."
They crunched on lollies, enjoying the crack and fizz of sugar and citric acid between their teeth as they watched the peaceful bay.
"Hard to believe there's a war going on," Murph said as he chewed.
Banjo nodded, not taking his eyes off the ocean. He scooped up a handful of sand and sprayed it over the water like a machine-gun. And they both instantly thought of Broome … and the air raid … and then, Micki.
Murph shuddered and brushed sand off the face of his divers watch. It was his prized possession—given to him by a mysterious pearl trader, Queenie, on the eve of the Japanese raid. It had saved his life once—and saved him from being late a hundred times since.
“Hey, I'd better get home," Murph said, realizing the time, and turned from the ocean. “I've gotta grab a shower before the party tonight.”
"Awright, race ya!" Banjo yelled, tossing something high into the air, as he legged it across the sand.
For a moment, Murph watched the red firecracker spin high above their heads, a snake of smoke trailing behind.
"Banjoooo!" he shouted, then sprinted after him.
Bang! The whole beach jumped. People spun around but all they saw was two cheeky boys whooping with delight as they bolted for the road—and a small cloud of white smoke drifting on the breeze.
Their home was only a few minutes from the beach and, once inside, Banjo headed straight to the kitchen.
“Guess I’m havin’ Vegemite sandwiches for dinner again, while you’re eatin' caviar with the top end o’ town?”
“Yeah, sorry about that," Murph rushed past, his unbuttoned shirt flying in the general direction of the laundry.
Banjo stared, uninspired, at the pantry cupboard then settled for an apple from the fruit bowl. By the time he finished it, Murph Turner was out the door, calling his goodbyes as he madly tucked in a fresh shirt.
The house was quiet again. Banjo flopped at the kitchen table, his mood deflating with the silence.
He was grateful for the Turners' kindness to him. They treated him like family—something that he desperately needed right now.
Sometimes, he felt almost at home when he was at home. Almost.
Then the hollowness in his guts returned. A song on the radio, or a bird song in the air would set off a memory of his real home. The red dust of the Great Sandy Desert, the white beaches of Broome, and his own flesh-and-blood.
He switched on the wireless to listen to the 7:00 p.m. news. WWII raged on. Bloody battles in faraway lands, while, closer to home, politicians promised victory: “if we all do our bit”.
Banjo struggled to know how he felt about the war effort. Plenty of Aboriginal men had joined the Armed Services. To fight for the country of their ancestors.
But he wasn't even sure what his country was anymore. As an Aboriginal, he wouldn't be allowed to vote in elections. His education was piece-meal at best and job opportunities were severely limited, all due to the color of his skin.
Banjo loved Australia.
He wasn't sure it loved him back.
Reaching into his pocket, he removed a creased envelope and read the note again, for the fifth time, since he'd been given it at the harbor. It sounded unbelievable.
Banjo folded the letter back into its envelope. Then he shoved it into his pocket and headed for the front door.
He had to find out!
