Trouble in the Pipeline (2 page)

"He could be dead." Joe cracked his knuckles and looked out at the peaceful blue and white of the cloud-lined sky.

They changed planes in Seattle, and in Fairbanks, Alaska, changed again. When they finally reached Prudhoe, they'd been in the air for almost twelve hours. They found the nearest motel and crashed. Although it was light outside, the town was in bed. And there was nothing they could do but sleep until morning.

The next morning they visited Trans-Yukon Mining. The company's offices were in a drab cinder-block building not far from Prudhoe's busy harbor on the Arctic Ocean. After getting past the receptionist, they found themselves in the outer office of the president of the company.

"We'd like to see Mr. Hammond." Joe leaned across the secretary's desk, turning on the charm. Frank never ceased to be amazed. Put a pretty girl in front of the guy and he became a different person. Joe's eyes sparkled with warmth and curiosity as he spoke. "My name is Joe Hardy. What's yours?"

"Cindy," the girl stammered. "Cindy Velikov." Drawn out of herself by the sheer force of Joe's smile, she shook hands. Joe held it for longer than necessary.

"Pleased to meet you, Cindy." He smiled cheerfully. "Think my brother and I could have a word with your boss?"

A blush spread across Cindy's pretty face to the roots of her blond hair. "He — he doesn't like being disturbed. Do you have an appointment?"

"No. But we came all the way from New York to speak to him. We just want a few minutes of his time."

Cindy's ears perked up. "New York? I've never — Is it really like the pictures?"

"Oh, bigger!" Joe's hands made sweeping gestures. "Better!"

Cindy's blue eyes sparkled. "My dream is to live in New York, in one of those tall buildings with a doorman."

She hit some buttons on the intercom in front of her. "I'll check if Mr. Hammond can see you. Have a seat."

While they were waiting, Frank leaned over to Joe and whispered in his ear, "Let me handle this, okay? He may be clean, so I'm not going to hit him with everything we know."

Joe nodded.

Moments later they found themselves in Mr. Hammond's office. Dark wood paneling that matched the massive desk hid the cinder block here. A man rose, gesturing toward a pair of chairs. "I'm Spike Hammond," he said. "Sit down."

Hammond had the body of a man who'd done hard physical work all his life. In fact, he looked out of place in this office, as if he'd been stuffed into a suit and lowered in by a crane. His square jaw was balanced by an abundance of tousled red hair that fell low on his sunburned forehead. A scattering of freckles marched across the bridge of his nose.

"What brings you to Prudhoe?" Hammond asked.

Frank spoke up. "We're looking for a friend, Scott Sanders. He's supposed to be working for Trans-Yukon."

Hammond cocked his head to one side, then shook it as he leaned against his desk. "No. I don't recall that he does," he said.

"Here's a picture." Frank pulled out a snapshot of Scott in his army uniform.

Hammond took the photo between his thumb and forefinger. "Don't recognize the face, don't remember the name." He handed the picture back.

"Would you object if we had a look at your records?" Joe sat quietly with his hands folded in his lap. But Frank could hear the determination in his voice.

"That would be a bit unusual," Hammond said. "We don't normally allow anyone access to that information."

Frank jumped in. "We understand. But I don't see how you can rely on your memory to recall every name and face that passes through here."

Hammond chuckled, moving around to the other side of the desk. "I'm not one to forget a face."

"But we'd like to be sure," Joe interjected.

"We believe that Scott Sanders did work here and that he's now in some kind of trouble. I hope you'll help us out."

"I'd like to help." Hammond's forehead wrinkled in sympathy. "But it's company policy. I can't go around opening personnel records."

Frank took a deep breath. "Mr. Hammond, I'll be honest with you. We got some postcards from Scott, telling us that he was working here, and that he knew some of your managers were taking kickbacks. That's all we know. After a while the postcards stopped, and he didn't come home when he was supposed to. His folks are beginning to get nervous."

Hammond sat down. "You say this guy thought my managers were taking kickbacks? From whom?"

"He didn't say," Frank answered truthfully. "I doubt if he knew."

"Well, that's news to me." Hammond bit off his words. Frank couldn't decide if it was from anger, surprise, or the tension of a guilty conscience. "Thanks for the tip," Hammond said. "I'll look into it immediately." He got up and started to show them out. As they were passing Cindy Velikov she looked up and smiled.

"Sir, I overheard you say that Scott Sanders never worked here. But I remembered him, and I took the liberty of looking him up." She pointed to her computer screen. Joe moved quickly, not waiting for Hammond's reaction.

"He's on record," Joe said firmly. "Scott Sanders started work in June and 'quit' in mid-August." He quickly scanned the rest of Scott's personnel information, but there were no clues.

For a second the Hardys thought Hammond was going to explode with anger at Cindy. But he controlled himself and said simply, "I still don't think I ever heard that name — sorry."

Frank nodded, and Joe winked at Cindy. They left the office knowing only that Doug had told the truth. They weren't any closer to Scott.

There wasn't much to do in the Caribou Motel, where Frank and Joe were staying. They were lying on top of their beds fully clothed, including down parkas. Someone had forgotten to turn on the heat.

"Do we go to the police?" Joe asked, staring at a map of the area.

"I don't think so," Frank said. "That might scare whoever's involved — Scott may get hurt if he's still alive. Let's check around town for any kind of a clue to his whereabouts."

A faint knock on the door brought the Hardys sitting bolt upright. Frank ducked behind the door while Joe called out, "Who is it?"

"It's Cindy — Mr. Hammond's secretary," came a small voice from outside.

Joe opened the door to reveal a frightened Cindy. He made sure she was alone. "Are you all right?" he asked, staring at her.

"I have to tell you," she said. "Mr. Hammond was furious with me when I let you see my computer screen. Then I heard him on the phone. I don't know what's going on, but I think you'd better leave."

Frank came out from behind the door. "Why? What did he say?"

She was startled by Frank's sudden appearance. "I didn't hear everything, but he said something about 'getting rid' of you." Cindy stepped back, ready to bolt. "I can't stay — just be careful." She glanced around, terrified. "And don't tell anyone I talked to you. I just barely have my job still."

Joe sighed as he closed the door. "Do you think she'll be all right?"

"I'd worry more about us," Frank said. "Come on." In a few minutes they had piled up most of the furniture in front of the flimsy door.

They took turns standing guard, but the trip and jet lag caught up with Joe on his turn. He had just dozed off when he heard a crash. Four men smashed through the thin plasterboard of the room's back wall to fling both Hardys to the floor.

Joe was grabbed and shoved into a huge canvas bag — a mail sack, he guessed as he fought to get free. He might as well have been paralyzed. There was no way out of the heavy canvas.

Then came a blow to the back of his head—and the darkness in the bag gave way to deeper blackness.

JOE CAME TO FIRST.

He was folded in half, lying on his side, and only when he tried to straighten up did he remember where he was — inside a bag. It might as well have been his coffin. Then he felt the pain, the throbbing at the back of his head that was making his skull ring. He couldn't even reach up to feel the spot — the bag was too tight. He lay still then and tried to gather his thoughts in spite of the hammering in his brain.

"Find Frank," he told himself. "That's the first thing." He listened for any signs of life around him. Then he whispered into the smothering dark, "Frank, are you there?"

He strained his ears—and heard the distant hum of an engine. A plane! He was on a plane! Then, nearer, he heard a rustling and scraping, which he assumed was Frank moving inside his bag.

"Frank, is that you?"

"Yeah." His brother's voice was laced with pain and confusion. "Where are you?"

"Inside a bag," Joe whispered. "And I think we're aboard a plane."

"Great," Frank responded sarcastically. "They airmailed us somewhere. Any ideas on how to get out of these things?"

Joe could hear struggling. "Keep it down," he warned. "We may have company."

Both of them listened, but all they caught was the deep thrum of propellers. Propellers! It must be a small plane. "If you can move at all, you should be able to get out of yours," Joe whispered. "You're more flexible than I am. I do have a knife, but I can't get to it."

Frank's head was at the bottom of the bag, and the drawstring was down near his feet. He pulled himself into a tuck and held the bag tight against the floor so it couldn't turn with him.

Moving a few inches with each turn, he was finally able to grope the top of the bag. Frank tried to force his fingers through the tiny hole to reach the knotted rope.

But he couldn't squeeze them through. He dug into his pocket and found a key, which he brought up, and began the slow process of loosening the knot.

"How's it going?" Joe asked after listening to Frank's deliberate breathing for a few minutes.

"I'll be done in a minute," Frank whispered. His fingers ached, but he'd managed to pry open the knot. Then he pushed open the mouth of the bag and peeked out.

They were in the cargo section of a small plane. Leading into the cockpit was an open door that let in the dull glare of an overcast day. Wisps of cloud whipped by the front window. Bundles, packages, and crates had been dumped everywhere, and they bounced and shifted as the plane cut through the cloud cover.

After crawling out of the sack, Frank untied the knot on Joe's. Silently, they moved on all fours toward the cockpit door, pausing to take cover behind crates. A large bearded man was asleep just outside the door, a parachute strapped to his back, a revolver in his lap.

Hunkering behind an open shipping case, Joe asked, "What do you think?"

"Give me a minute," Frank said, rubbing his sore head.

"I see only one chance," Joe said. "We grab the gun and hijack the plane."

Frank nodded and tried to ignore his pounding head. He straightened to take another look at their sleeping guard and glanced down into the crate in front of him. Inside was a kind of giant sea buoy with a beacon and what looked like radio equipment attached to it. Strange, he thought to himself. I've never seen anything like that.

But he didn't have time to think more about it. The man with the gun began to stir. As he moved Frank saw that he was sitting on a pile of packed parachutes.

The bearded guard startled himself awake with a snuffling snort and rubbed a hamlike fist across his eyes. His head snapped up, and he focused immediately on the empty mail sacks. Jumping up with more speed and grace than most men fifty pounds lighter, he scurried nervously around the cargo bay, searching for his escaped prisoners. He got to Frank's hiding place first.

In two moves Frank shot up and kicked out with both feet to try to knock the revolver from the goon's hand.

But his kick was off the mark, and Frank fell, landing violently on his side. The bull of a man was on him in a flash. Frank watched as the butt end of the revolver came crashing toward him. The blow only glanced off his head, but Frank still saw red and orange circles swim across his eyes as he lay stunned for a moment.

Joe gave a war whoop and swooped down on the man from his perch on a crate. But the hulk's reflexes were quick. He reached out and grabbed Joe's wrist, flipping him over on his back. Joe's head caught the full impact, and he was knocked unconscious.

Dropping the gun, the guard reached out for both of Joe's wrists and dragged him over to the hatch. Boosting Joe up onto his hip, he held him tight against his body with one arm and released the lever on the hatch with the other.

Frank watched and, in a sudden burst of understanding, knew that the goon was planning to drop Joe from the plane as soon as the hatch was fully open.

Frank focused all his concentration, shook his head to clear it, and dove for the parachutes.

Supporting Joe against his hip, the guard continued to struggle with the door against the wind and pressure. He had it slid halfway open. Joe would be tossed out in another few seconds.

Frank slipped on the chute, snapped it closed, and pocketed the gun he had retrieved from the floor.

The goon, in one final shove, had the door open.

Frank dove for Joe just as the hulk released him into the whistling air. He caught Joe by the belt. The blast of cold had an almost instant reviving effect on Joe, and he woke up as soon as Frank snatched him. He wrenched his body around and clung to Frank's shoulders. The boys were sinking through the white puffs of cloud vapor, too insubstantial to support even a feather.

As soon as they were free of the plane Frank yanked the rip cord on his chute and tightened his grip on Joe. The air caught the silk, and the boys felt the welcome tug that broke their free fall. They drifted slowly down to a moonlike landscape.

Rocky hills covered with green lichen and moss stretched as far as the eye could see. Fifteen feet before touching down Joe hopped off, bent his knees, and landed in a tuck two feet from Frank. They were on a fairly gentle slope a few hundred yards from a narrow but swift little river. They had to be miles inland, from the wide expanse of water they had seen from the air.

After gathering up his chute, Frank tucked it under a stone. Both boys scouted around for any shelter in the barren tundra. The only sounds were the constant hiss of the wind and the water as it tumbled over the rocks in the riverbed.