The Demolition Mission (5 page)

“Very impressive,” Frank said, stepping toward the line for a closer look at a second robotic arm, this one connected to a welding torch.

Joe turned to gaze at a shower of sparks coming from the parts being welded. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed something move swiftly. Glancing up, he saw that the long robotic arm that brought the windshield frames to the line had picked up another one. But instead of reaching in an arc well overhead, it was sweeping a full three feet lower, toward the group.

Joe saw that the arm was swinging directly at Frank's head. “Frank, watch it!” Joe shouted, lunging toward his brother.

But before Joe could reach Frank, the robot rotated swiftly on its well-lubricated bearings. Joe watched in horror as the mechanical arm slammed into Frank.

The robotic arm knocked Frank off his feet and threw him into the frame on the assembly line.

“Stop the line!” Mr. Ota immediately cried out.

While buzzers sounded, Joe scrambled aboard the car frame where his brother lay still on his back.

Joe felt a jolt as the assembly line stopped. He grasped Frank around the waist and shoulders and began backing out. Chet rushed over to help.

“This is terrible, terrible,” Mr. Ota said with a moan. “What could have gone wrong?”

Callie directed Joe and Chet toward a foreman's cubicle. “Put him down here,” Callie said as she removed cushions from a chair and placed them on the floor.

Frank groaned as Joe, Chet, and Mr. Ota eased him onto the cushions. Then Callie removed Frank's hard hat.

“What hit me?” Frank asked in a groggy voice.

“You were decked by a robot,” Chet told him.

Callie knelt down next to Frank and examined his head for any signs of a wound. “Are you all right?”

“I'll be fine,” he assured her. “That arm must have glanced off my hard hat.”

“It did,” Chet said. He showed Frank the yellow plastic hard hat, and Frank saw that it was cracked.

“I am
very
sorry about this,” Mr. Ota insisted. “There will be a thorough investigation before the line is started again. That arm never should have deviated from its programmed path.”

“You're saying it was a computer error?” Joe asked. “Where is the computer?”

“I'll show you,” Mr. Ota said.

While Callie and Chet stayed with Frank, Joe followed Mr. Ota up a steep metal stairway onto a platform. Against one wall was a bank of computers. Mr. Ota entered several passwords into one of the computers.

“The oil pressure on that arm is nearly zero,” the engineer said. “There's probably a leak. I promise you, Joe, we will find out what happened.”

When Joe and Mr. Ota went back downstairs to the cubicle, Frank was getting to his feet. “I'm feeling okay now,” he told them. He turned to Mr. Ota. “Have you by any chance noticed a stocky,
muscular man who wears leather wristbands around here?” he asked the engineer. “He dresses like a mechanic. He might have been visiting someone in the office.”

“Do you know his name?” Mr. Ota asked.

“No, we don't,” Frank replied. “But we have reason to believe that he was here not too long ago. He may have applied for a job.”

“We can check personnel,” Mr. Ota suggested. “Every applicant and employee is photographed for the company ID badges, and we keep copies on file.”

Mr. Ota led the group to the personnel office. There he asked a young clerk to bring three large binders to the counter. Frank, Joe, and Chet each took one. They looked through the records but found that none of the men in the photos resembled the man they had seen at the diner.

Joe closed his binder and looked at Ota. “Does your company use any white panel trucks?” he asked the engineer.

“Why, yes,” Mr. Ota said. “The company very recently purchased ten vehicles like that. Why?”

“A person we suspect of sabotaging the Saurion was driving one,” Joe told him.

“One of our trucks?” Mr. Ota asked, a shocked expression on his face.

“It's possible that someone here at Miyagi Motors doesn't want the race between your Speedster and the Saurion to happen,” Joe said.

“But why?” Mr. Ota wanted to know. “I don't see how it could hurt us that much, even if we lose. Mass-production cars always do better in the marketplace than specialty cars like Stock's. He's the one who could be hurt by not having the race.”

“That's why we're trying to help him out,” Frank said.

“Would you be able to give us a list of license numbers for those trucks?” Joe asked.

“Of course,” Takeo Ota said. He punched some commands into a computer, then some more. “For some reason they are not listed. But I'll see that you get them.”

“Let's go home, then,” Frank suggested, “and run that license number from the diner through the department of motor vehicles.”

“And it is nearly quitting time for you, Ms. Shaw,” Mr. Ota said to Callie, “so if you wish to leave with your friends, it's fine with me.”

When the group reached the parking lot, Joe scanned the area for the unmarked panel truck. It was gone.

Callie climbed into the jeep's tattered passenger seat. Frank and Joe settled into the cargo area behind.

“The way I see it,” Frank said as the jeep lurched away from Miyagi Motors, “Takeo Ota is definitely not behind the incidents at the speedway. He just doesn't strike me as a criminal. He was willing to
show us the company records, and I don't think he has anything to gain by sabotaging the race.”

“What about the robot arm?” Callie asked.

“It was probably just a malfunction,” Frank replied.

“Then what have we got?” Joe asked. “We overheard two men talking in a diner, one of whom threatened a woman's life.”

“And if that woman isn't Katie Bratton,” Frank said, “it's one amazing coincidence.”

“We have a license number,” Joe continued, “and it would have been possible for the guy in the panel truck to get from Building B, where I was almost crushed, out to the restaurant before we got there.”

“We've got a warning note and that little electronic device,” Frank added. “First thing tomorrow we've got to get over to the electronic supplier and see what it is.”

“If this car had a phone,” Joe said, “we could check to see if the Saurion's turned up.”

Chet glanced up at the rearview mirror and said, “Hey, guys. Look behind us.”

“It's a white panel truck,” Frank said grimly. “He's trying to catch up to us.”

“How fast will this hunk of junk go?” Joe asked Chet.

“Not as fast as that truck,” Chet admitted. “And it's a jeep, not a hunk of junk.”

“It's too late, anyway,” Frank announced as he watched the unmarked truck roaring up behind them.

“What do I do?” Chet asked, panic in his voice.

“Keep the jeep steady,” Joe said as he looked back at the truck.

Callie gasped as the truck suddenly speeded up and pulled to within inches of the jeep's back bumper.

“Can you see the driver?” Joe asked his brother.

Frank squinted. “I think he's wearing a racing helmet,” he said. “With the visor pulled down.”

“Don't panic,” Joe calmly told Chet as the truck pulled alongside the jeep.

“What's he doing?” Chet cried. “Is he going to try to run us off the road?”

A violent jolt to the jeep was Chet's answer, and the lightweight jeep was knocked to the shoulder.

“We're heading for the ditch!” Chet shouted as he slammed on the brakes. Despite Chet's efforts, the jeep slid down a steep embankment.

“Look out for that storm drain!” Joe called.

“I see it,” Chet said. The drain was visible through the brush and trees that grew on the sides of the ditch.

Chet tried to regain control of the jeep. For an instant Frank thought he had it, but then he could feel the tires slip on some mud.

“Hang on!” Frank cried.

With a loud whack the front left side of the jeep slammed into the drain. Frank saw Chet lurch toward the windshield, his arms braced on the wheel for support.

Frank's heart skipped a beat when he saw that Callie wasn't in her seat. Then he spotted her. She'd been thrown out of the jeep and was lying dazed in the ditch, on top of some brush.

The Hardys and Chet jumped out of the jeep as its fall was halted by a tree.

“Callie, are you all right?” Frank asked when he reached the bottom of the slope. “Callie?”

“I'm okay,” Callie said, pushing herself up on her elbows.

“You sure?” Frank asked, brushing dirt and leaves off Callie.

She assured him she was unharmed, but she was still a little shaken. “If I hadn't fallen in these bushes, I'd be in worse shape.”

“Did you get the license number of that truck?” Joe asked his brother.

“No, it all happened too fast.”

“First thing we do,” Joe said firmly, “is push the jeep back up the slope.”

“See if it will start,” Frank said to Chet.

Chet turned the key. “Come on,” he muttered between his teeth. Finally the engine sputtered to life, and he shifted into gear. Joe and Frank pushed the jeep up to level ground while Chet steered.

Within an hour the four teens were back in Bayport, parked in front of Callie's house.

“Thanks for the ride,” Callie said as she climbed out of the jeep. “I'll see you guys at the demolition derby tomorrow night—although I don't know if I'm ready to see another car crash.”

“See you tomorrow,” Frank called out as Chet turned the jeep toward the Hardys' house.

When Frank and Joe stepped into their house, Aunt Gertrude was coming out of the kitchen. She stared at the brothers' muddy clothes. “Are you two all right?” she asked anxiously.

“Chet's jeep got stuck in a ditch,” Joe said smoothly, glancing sideways at his brother. “We're fine.”

“Well, at least you didn't get into an accident,” Aunt Gertrude said.

“Hi, Dad,” Frank said as he and Joe entered the book-lined study.

Fenton Hardy smiled at his sons. “Have you two been prospecting for mud?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. Joe filled his father in on the day's events.

“It looks as though the person who's behind Felix Stock's problems has found you,” Fenton said. “Now you've got to find out who that person is.

“Felix called me late this afternoon,” Fenton continued, “He said the Saurion is still missing.”

“I don't think the Saurion left the speedway grounds,”
Joe insisted. “We're going out there tomorrow morning and search again.”

“Right now we want to run this license number through the department of motor vehicles,” Frank said. “And we've got to identify this.” He handed the small plastic device to his father.

“I'd say it's a relay switch,” Fenton said, examining the device. “Relays can route electric currents onto some device, a motor for instance.” He held the piece of plastic under the desk lamp. “What this particular one is used for, though, I don't know.” He turned to his computer and punched in his private investigator ID number. “Go ahead and run that license number.”

Frank keyed in the number, but the computer had no information on it.

“You copied the number down correctly?” Fenton asked.

“One-twelve JPA,” Frank replied. “I was checking under truck licenses. Maybe they took the plate from a passenger car.”

“Or an RV,” Joe suggested.

“Nothing,” Frank announced after checking.

“You seem to have found a license number that doesn't exist,” Fenton said.

“I'm
sure
I wrote it down correctly,” Frank insisted.

“Someone might have made that license plate,” Fenton suggested.

“You think it's counterfeit?” Joe asked.

“It's possible. Someone with access to a machine shop could easily make his own plates.”

“There are machine shops all over the speedway grounds,” Frank said.

“And the waitress at the diner said the guys we saw there work at the demolition derby,” Joe added.

Frank took a list from his pocket. “This is a printout of Stock's employees. We want to see if any of them have criminal records.” Frank keyed in the names and Social Security numbers. Within seconds the information appeared on the screen.

“This is interesting,” Joe said, looking closely at the screen. “Here's a guy who was given a lifetime suspension by a racing association. His name is Marvin Tarpley. He's been banned from driving in any of the races sponsored by the organization. Everyone else looks clean,” he added.

“Didn't Stock say Tarpley was his best mechanic?” Frank asked.

Joe nodded. “We'll make a point of looking him up tomorrow,” he said. Then he took the warning note from his pocket and showed it to his father.

“We want to check this for fingerprints,” Joe said. “Katie Bratton, Stock's driver, found it in her locker this morning.”

Fenton frowned as he looked at the note. “It's hard to raise prints on paper,” he said.

The three checked the letter for prints using a
fingerprinting kit Joe brought in from the van. There were a few smudged prints but nothing clear enough to send to the police for checking.

“Do you think Mr. Ota has anything to do with the sabotage?” Fenton asked as he pondered the note.

“No,” Joe said emphatically. “Mr. Ota wants that race.”

“At least, he says he does,” Frank said.

Aunt Gertrude called from the dining room, and the Hardys continued discussing the case over dinner.

• • •

Frank and Joe got up early Friday morning and had a quick breakfast before heading to Grayson's Electronics. Frank drove the van into downtown Bay port.

“Is Callie riding to the derby with us tonight?” Joe asked.