The Chase for the Mystery Twister
Read The Chase for the Mystery Twister Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
1.
A Rough Ride to Twister Alley
3.
The Disappearance of Toby Gill
“Whoa!” Joe Hardy shouted as the left wing of the twin-prop commuter plane dipped and the plane shuddered, battered by strong winds.
“It's just turbulence,” Frank Hardy assured his younger brother, not looking up from his book.
Joe peered out the window at the gray blanket of clouds surrounding them. The six-foot, athletically built seventeen-year-old was usually fearless, but small planes combined with bad weather made him nervous.
“I thought we'd be flying on a big jet,” he said, running his hand through his blond hair and shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“I guess no big jets go to Tulip, Oklahoma,” Frank responded, casually turning a page.
“You'll need to put your tray table up for
landing,” a flight attendant told Frank. Still reading, Frank pushed the table into its closed, locked position.
Joe looked at his slightly taller, brown-haired brother in wonder. “Either you have nerves of steel, or that's the greatest book ever written.”
“We're going to be meeting the author,” Frank explained. “I'd like to be able to understand half of what he's saying.”
“Debris Patterns of Midwest and Central Plains Windstorms,
by Lemar Jansen,” Joe read aloud from the book cover. “I don't suppose that's on the best-seller list.”
“Do you want to take a look?” Frank asked as the plane pitched back and forth in the wind.
“Right now, I couldn't make sense of a comic strip, let alone a college textbook,” Joe said. He closed his eyes. “Let me know when we're on the ground.”
“Now,” Frank replied.
Joe's eyes snapped open just as the wheels touched down. A few seconds earlier, all he could see were gray clouds. Now the small plane was braking on the runway. He looked above at the dark, ominous sky. “Wow, that's what I call low cloud cover.”
“Let's hope Phil is on time,” Frank said, sliding his book into his carry-on bag. “I hope we can get off the road before those thunderclouds let loose.”
â¢Â â¢Â â¢
The Tulip, Oklahoma, airport was so small, there was no baggage carousel. As Frank and Joe scanned the luggage lined up against a wall inside the terminal, they heard an announcement: “Frank and Joe Hardy, please report to the customer service representative in the baggage claim area.”
The Hardys turned and began to laugh when they saw their friend Phil Cohen standing close by, speaking through his cupped hands. Beside him were their two suitcases.
“You are now looking at the customer service representative,” Phil said. “Let's get a move on.”
In the parking lot, Phil hefted his friends' suitcases into the bed of a battered 1973 blue pickup truck.
“These are your wheels?” Joe asked, nudging Frank.
“Hey, I'm just an intern,” Phil replied. “I'm lucky Mr. Jansen lets me drive
any
of the Windstormers' vehicles.”
“Windstormers?” Joe asked.
“That's the name of Mr. Jansen's tornado-chasing team,” Frank told his brother.
Joe felt the dimpled depressions on the truck's roof and hood. “It looks like someone took a hammer to this thing.”
“Any storm-chasing vehicle worth its salt has those,” Phil said proudly. “They're from hailstorms that happen often around here.”
Phil told his friends more about his spring internship with Lemar Jansen, one of the leading researchers and experts on tornado debris patterns. “I've had to learn a lot about meteorologyâthe study of weatherâand how to operate the different equipment used to forecast and track windstorms.”
“Sounds exciting,” Frank said.
“It does, doesn't it?” Phil said. “So far, though, it's been a lot of hard work and waiting around. But I think that's about to change.”
As they pulled out onto the two-lane highway, a hard rain began to fall. “Talk about a lousy day for traveling,” Joe said.
“That's true, but it's a perfect day for the first tornado of the season,” Phil noted, gazing up at the threatening sky. “Warm air has been pushed up from the Gulf of Mexico and moved beneath the cold, dry air left over from winter.”
“If I understand Mr. Jansen's book correctly, that spells trouble,” Frank concluded.
“It spells fun if you're a Windstormer,” Phil replied.
“Cool. The only twister I've seen is the one that dropped Dorothy's house in Munchkinland,” Joe said with a smile.
“Well, Joe, you've come to the right place to see the real thing. We're in Twister Alley,” Phil said. He flipped the windshield wipers to full speed as the rain increased. “More tornadoes
touch down here than anywhere else in the world. In fact, some locals call the town of Lone Wolf the tornado capital of the world.”
“That's a distinction I'll bet they could live without. It must be really bad for tourism,” Frank said.
“You'd be surprised, Frank,” Phil replied. “Tornado chasing has become a thrill sport for a lot of people.”
Joe spotted the headlights of a tractor-trailer coming toward them from the other direction.
“Sounds like a dangerous pastime,” Frank remarked.
“Dangerous in a lot of ways,” Phil agreed. “Mr. Jansen had a lot of close calls last tornado season. He and his researchers nearly collided a dozen times with thrill seekers following the same twister.”
As the tractor-trailer drew closer, it sounded its horn loudly. “Philâ” Joe warned his friend.
The huge semi passed within a few feet of their pickup truck, creating a crosswind that drove the smaller vehicle off onto the soft shoulder of the road. Phil countered, keeping a firm grip on the steering wheel and turning back toward the highway.
Frank's head shot back as the passenger side of the truck passed within inches of a posted speed limit sign before Phil finally brought the pickup back onto the highway and under control.
“Man! That guy must have been doing ninety!” Joe exclaimed.
“I wonder where he's going in such a hurry,” Frank said.
“The only thing in that direction is Tulip,” Phil replied.
“We should report the driver before he really hurts someone,” Frank suggested. “Did anyone get a look at what company owns the truck?”
“It was unmarked,” Joe replied. “Just painted plain white. The guy inside had black curly hair and a mustache, but that's all I could see.”
“Did you notice the Doppler effect?” Phil said out of the blue.
“The what?” Joe asked.
“The Doppler effect,” Phil repeated. “As the truck got closer, the acoustic waves of his horn rose in pitch. After it passed, the sound faded to a dull moan.”
“Phil, we were a few inches away from being roadkill back there,” Joe said. “This is probably not the best time to be giving us a science lesson.”
“Sorry,” Phil said, smiling. “I've just learned so much from Mr. Jansen the last two weeks. It's the principle of how the Doppler radar works. That's what the Windstormers use to track tornadoes.”
“I read about that,” Frank told his friend. “A radar reflection from a moving object changes
frequency, depending on whether the object is moving toward or away from the radar.”
“In our case, the moving object is the tornado,” Phil added. “That's how meteorologists get the computerized images of storms that they show on the TV news.”
“Well, right now the radar in my stomach is trying to bounce some waves off the nearest burger place,” Joe joked.
“Good luck.” Phil laughed. “There's nothing but cornfields for the next ten miles.”
A garbled voice suddenly crackled over the citizen's band radio in the truck. “How close are you to Route Thirty-one, Greg? Come on?”
“Sounds like we picked up some trucker on your CB,” Frank said.
“No, this is set to a special frequency,” Phil replied as he turned up the volume.
“I see it, Jed. Looks like an F two,” another garbled voice replied.
“Who is that?” Joe asked.
“Jed is Jed McPlat. Greg is his boss,” Phil said, tilting his head to look at the sky through the top of the windshield.
“His boss? In what business?” Frank asked.
“The storm-chasing business,” Phil replied. “Greg Glover and his team are our chief competition.”
“Buckle your seat belt, Jed,” Greg Glover's voice came over the radio.
“That sounded loud and clear. They must be getting closer,” Frank said.
A split second later, a black truck mounted on giant tractor tires tore out of the cornfield to the right of the highway.
“Look out!” Frank shouted, bracing himself for the collision. “It's going to hit us!”
Phil spun the wheel to the left. The pickup truck skidded sideways, then fishtailed back again, barely missing hitting the monster truck head-on.
Phil angrily grabbed the CB microphone. “Greg Glover, this is Phil Cohen. Are you nuts?”
“Phil!” Joe shouted, grabbing the steering wheel and spinning it to the right. Another vehicle had emerged from the cornfield, and Joe's quick hands avoided a collision. Phil dropped the CB microphone and put both hands on the wheel.
A van, then another car, and another came tearing through the cornfield and crossed the rural highway in front of them, following Glover's monster truck. Phil swerved right, barely missing the rear bumper of the first car
before stopping inches away from the second car as it whizzed past.
“We're safer in a cornfield than on that obstacle course,” Phil shouted to his friends, hitting the gas and joining the pursuit.
“They're driving like they have the law after them,” Joe noted.
“It's not what's after them, it's what they're after,” Phil replied.
“I see it!” Frank shouted as the truck cleared the cornfield and bounced over the crest of a low hill. From the base of a great wall of dark clouds, a funnel cloud had formed, and as the boys watched, a thin tail stretched down hundreds of feet and made contact with the earth.
“A twister!” Joe said in wonder.
Immediately, the CB radio waves were jammed with excited voices pointing out what everyone already knew: the first tornado of the season had arrived.
Ahead, Joe saw Glover's monster truck dip down into a ditch and up the other bank. The giant tires gripped the solid ground beneath the muddy field beyond, spewing mud and water high into the air behind it.
The car behind Glover tried to follow, but its wheels got stuck in the muck. The other Glover vehicles stopped short on the near side of the ditch.
“No way, Phil,” Joe warned.
“I know,” Phil replied. He turned left onto a dirt road that ran parallel to the empty field.
Frank now had a good view of the twister through the passenger window. It crossed an open field, pulling an oil derrick from its mooring. Crude oil was sucked up into the gray whirlwind, turning it black.
“Come in, Wind Six,” a low voice came over the radio.
“This is Wind Six,” Phil responded.
“Tracking,” the low voice continued, then paused. “The F two is turning southeast.”
“Southeast?” Frank asked, looking behind them. “That's in the opposite direction!”
“Ignore it,” Phil instructed, eyeing the black monster truck paralleling them on the other side of the ditch. “The guy in that truck is trying to mislead us.”
The twister continued moving northwest, plucking the tin roof off a dilapidated barn. A few moments later, it flung the roof back to the ground in a twisted mess.
“Look, it's a fire engine!” Joe shouted, pointing toward one of several vehicles about a mile beyond the tornado.
“That's not a fire engine,” Phil said with a grin. “It's Mr. Jansen!”
Frank realized that what Joe thought was a fire engine was in fact a red customized bus, with a number of radar dishes and antennas sticking out from every side.
“Jubjub, Bandersnatch!” another low voice radioed in.
