Trouble in the Pipeline (8 page)

"You mean a guy could come up here, bribe someone to get a job, make a living, and still save money?"

"Exactly. They do it all the time. It's not a comfortable life, but they can make a bundle, even with the bribes they have to pay."

"You said 'at first.' Do you think it's just a guy here and there paying Hammond for jobs?"

Cindy shook her head, her blond hair brushing her shoulders. "It's been happening too regularly. And the people all wind up getting the same job."

"What job?" Joe asked.

"I don't know exactly what they call it. Trans-Yukon has a contract to maintain parts of the pipeline. They cut brush, scrape ice off — even clean the inside of the pipes. It seems like that's the job that the bribes were about — the inside job."

"You mean people actually go into the pipe to clean it?"

Cindy nodded. "It's a really dirty job, but it's got to be done—to make sure everything's okay."

Pieces began coming together for Joe. "Millions of dollars of oil flow through the pipeline. Suppose somebody could go up in the mountains where no one is around and sabotage the whole operation?"

"There's a security system," Cindy said. "The pipe has to be guarded."

"Well, if I was going to pay Hammond for a job, I'd want to be a guard on the outside, rather than do the dirty work inside."

"There's one other thing. I heard about some kind of a deal between Hammond and White going down on Sawtooth Mountain tomorrow morning."

"Guess who'll be there to greet them," Joe said, curious.

They'd arrived in the business district of Prudhoe, just a few blocks from the waterfront.

"Would you like to walk over to the water?" Cindy asked.

"Fine," Joe said. He was still trying to figure how North Slope and Scott Sanders fit into the story.

The docks weren't pretty. They were a jumble of serious industrial equipment spread along a cold, flat, unfriendly coastline. Still, there was something exciting about walking past the huge tankers, pipes, and pumps. It gave the feeling of important business being conducted, even at the edge of the world.

Joe and Cindy stopped on the street that looked out over the busy port. The sound of engines and the heavy clang of hammers beat through the air. It was just past seven o'clock in the evening, but the sun was high and the light was reddish gold.

"I've lived here all my life," Cindy said. "My father is a descendant of the original Russian settlers. My mother was the daughter of an air force captain stationed here. She died a couple of years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Joe said.

"This is all I know. I'd really like to get out of here. You know, see the world. I feel as if I know next to nothing."

"Well, there's plenty to see," Joe said. "It seems to me you know a lot about things around here."

"Maybe too much," a rasping voice hissed from behind them. When they pivoted around, they were smack up against a huge, towering guy.

"Maybe Mr. Hammond should hear just how much you know about things around here." The man had a thick wool cap pulled down over a square, fleshy face. When he took his hands out of his pockets, Joe stared. These were the biggest hands Joe had ever seen, thick and broad, with bulging knuckles and callused skin. If this guy made a fist, it would nearly be the size of Joe's head.

"Come on, you two," the man growled. "We've got a date with Mr. Hammond."

One huge paw shoved at Joe's shoulder, forcing him to walk in front.

Joe's fists clenched. How could he not have known they were being tailed? He was furious.

"Don't try anything, pal," the thug warned. "I'm holding on to the girl's arm right now. But I could just as easily grab her neck." He laughed. "You wouldn't want that, would you?"

"PLEASE, JOE, DO what he says." Cindy sounded terrified. When Joe glanced back, he saw the tears that lined her eyes.

"Keep walking," growled the man. "Never mind what's going on back here." Joe forced himself to step out. He could hear Hammond's goon wheezing as he lumbered along behind.

Joe's mind flicked frantically from one plan to another. He had to nail this guy. But how? He was stuck out front, and the guy had Cindy for a hostage. Anything Joe might do to let Cindy get away would get him creamed. But he couldn't just run for it and leave Cindy. Nor would he be delivered to Spike Hammond, all wrapped up like a Christmas present.

Somehow, he had to get the edge on this guy. He'd have to watch and hope for an opportunity.

The streets they were on now, down by the docks, were narrow and gray. Low buildings, mostly warehouses, squatted under the arctic sky. Many of the roads were dirt—grass, moss, and lichen grew wherever cars and feet hadn't trampled them.

"Turn here," Hammond's goon commanded.

Joe followed his directions. They were walking away from the waterfront and toward the center of town. It was quiet and deserted, but not too far off they could hear the sound of music and men's laughter. Maybe there was a chance after all.

To set things up, Joe decided on a little distraction. "So tell me," he said over his shoulder as he continued to walk, "does Hammond give you a piece of his action?"

"None of your business."

"Hammond's raking it in with his bribe scam," Joe went on. "I hope you're getting some."

"I do all right. I'm on retainer," the goon said in a proud voice.

"Like a lawyer," Joe said. "But I bet he doesn't pay your medical expenses."

"Why should he?"

"Because someday someone will knock your stupid head off, and the doctors are going to have to sew it back on."

Joe had timed the zinger perfectly. They'd just reached an area with fast-food joints, stores, video-game parlors, and a movie theater. Man-mountain couldn't do anything to him here.

He could hear the thug's teeth grinding together. "Just keep your mouth shut, punk. I'll take care of you later."

They were passing a video-game parlor as a crowd of men came spilling out onto the sidewalk. They were laughing and cheering as two of them broke into a sparring match. The fighters held their fists high and danced in circles around each other, ducking and weaving, flicking hard knuckles toward grinning faces. It was all in fun — none of the jabs were connecting. But the crowd made a big thing out of each near-miss.

One of the fighters lost his balance and bumped into Joe. A chance! Joe spun the off-balance boxer back into Cindy and the goon. The guy found himself with his arms around Cindy, and before he could get loose, Joe jumped in.

"Keep your hands off my friend's girl," he yelled, taking a huge wind-up with his right hand. The punch was more like a slap. Everyone in the street heard the crack of Joe's hand on the boxer's cheek.

The crowd became quiet — too quiet. They were mad. It was one thing to have a friendly sparring match with a buddy. It was another to see some stranger haul off and slug that buddy in the face.

"Get him!" somebody yelled, heading toward Joe. "Fix that punk's face for him!"

Joe stood his ground in front of Cindy as the crowd surged forward. He took some punches but also threw a few good ones, to keep these guys good and angry. Retreating a bit, he risked a look back toward Cindy. Hammond's goon still held her arm in a tight grip.

Jumping behind the confused thug, Joe yelled, "Come on, pal, I'm not fighting them all for you. She's your girl, after all."

Figuring the goon was with Joe, the crowd began to jostle him. Man-mountain shoved them away, but they shoved back and then began throwing punches. It was perfect. He lost his temper, dropped Cindy's arm, and waded into the crowd, slugging at everybody.

While the thug was busy getting mobbed, Joe grabbed Cindy by the wrist and pulled her down the street. "Come on! Now's our chance!"

As they ran the yelling and groaning faded behind them. Joe glanced back as they rounded a corner and saw that the goon had belatedly realized what was going on. He was pulling out of the fight.

Joe and Cindy ducked around another corner and found themselves in a narrow back street, barely wide enough for a single car. Joe led the way, running as fast as he could while towing Cindy. He tried the first door they came to, hoping to duck before Hammond's thug could see where they'd gone. The door was open, so they stepped inside, yanking it shut behind them.

Their hiding place was dark, with flickering light glistening in the air behind them. Joe stared around in confusion until it hit him. They were standing behind a movie screen. The flickering light came from the film being projected onto the thin silvery sheet in front of them. They were standing in the back of the movie theater, looking at the reverse images of the film.

"We'd better get away from the door," Joe whispered. "Follow me."

They tiptoed along the back wall to a dark corner on the far side of the stage. As soon as they reached it the outside door banged open, and the thug peered in.

Joe looked around for an escape route. An iron ladder, mounted on the cinder-block wall, was just to his left. He silently motioned for Cindy to climb up. As soon as she reached the catwalk at the top, Joe followed.

Once they were on the dark catwalk, he whispered in her ear, "We had to make our move before his eyes adjusted to the dark."

They both stared down as their pursuer searched the backstage area. The images from the film swam across his clothes. Music blared loudly from speakers placed directly behind the screen. The thug reached the dark corner where they'd stood a minute before. And Cindy gasped out loud. Too loud. The guy glanced up.

Joe climbed over the railing and dropped on top of the man standing below. He made a perfect landing, knocking the guy flat to the floor. Immediately they began to grapple. But thanks to his huge bulk the thug quickly got the upper hand, pinning Joe to the floor.

With a quick jerk Joe managed to get his hands free, and he clapped them together hard over the thug's ears. The pain threw the guy off balance, and Joe took advantage of that to shove him back onto the floor again.

Leaping to his feet, Joe jumped on him. But the thug was a born street fighter. He rolled aside and lunged toward the wall, where a large flashlight hung from a hook. Grabbing it, he swung it viciously at Joe's head, catching him on the ear.

Joe staggered, his ear ringing, his vision going red. He was two seconds from being out cold— but he was also madder than he'd felt in a long time. Ignoring the pain, he waited for the guy to swing again, and when it happened, he ducked. The flashlight passed over his head, leaving the goon wide open.

Putting all his weight behind a solid uppercut, Joe caught the guy right on the chin. He toppled slowly to his knees, the fight knocked out of him.

Joe yanked the flashlight from the man's hand, pushed him to the floor, and sat on his chest. "Now talk," he whispered angrily. "What's Hammond up to?"

"I don't know," he groaned.

"You'd better stop stalling," Joe warned, his voice covered by the soundtrack from the film.

"Unless you want to be swept up by the ushers after the midnight show."

"All right. We're getting a big payment up on Sawtooth Mountain in the morning. That's all I know. The boss wants everything to go smoothly," the goon mumbled.

"Who's giving you the money?"

"I swear I don't know. Different people every time."

"You'd better be telling the truth," Joe growled. "Now get over there by the ladder."

The man crawled across the floor and leaned against the wall. Joe motioned for Cindy to come down. They undid the goon's belt to use to tie him to the iron bars of the ladder and shoved a handkerchief into his mouth.

TUrning on the flashlight, Joe escorted Cindy around the edge of the screen, down the steps, and up the main aisle of the theater.

"We look official, don't we?" he joked. "Just like an usher and a customer."

There was no one in the lobby out front. They left the light on the ledge outside the box office and stepped out into the bright night.

"I've got to get in touch with Frank. Do you know anyone with a ham radio?" he asked.

"Yes — my father," Cindy said excitedly. "He keeps it in the basement."

He grinned. "Great. Let's go!" Once again they were running through the streets.

Cindy's father wasn't home, but Joe was able to get the set going. He put out a call every five minutes for over two hours, but there was no response.

"This isn't good. I know Virgil keeps his radio on." He tried a few more times, but he was getting anxious. "We've got to get ahold of them."

Cindy left him twiddling dials on the radio set. "I'll make some supper." But she'd hardly reached the kitchen when Joe came bounding up the stairs.

"We've got to go to the airport. I just talked to the guy who flies the weather plane. He's a friend of Virgil's, and he'll take us out over the ocean to find them."

Cindy turned off the stove and got the keys to her dad's car. She drove like a pro to the airport, where they found the pilot sipping coffee in front of the hanger.

In less than ten minutes they were in the air, scouting the gray waters of the Arctic Ocean. Joe's eyes were getting tired when he saw something floating in the water.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing.

The pilot glanced over. "First iceberg of the season." He dipped the plane for a closer look.

But floating behind the ice was a boat. Joe trained his binoculars on it. Yes, he recognized that boat — it was Virgil's.

And it was empty, drifting aimlessly on the cold vastness of the silent sea.

SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER Frank and Virgil had been speeding through the rough waters, trying to outrun the inflatable speedboat.

"There's no way we're going to outrun these guys," Virgil shouted over the noise of the churning engine. Ice-cold water sprayed up from the bow of Virgil's little fishing craft as it bounced over the waves. Tanook, who'd been lying peacefully on the floor of the boat, was up now, his nose pointing anxiously into the wind, his ears flattened against his head.

Frank looked back. Their pursuers seemed to be flying over the water.