Typhoon Island (2 page)

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Frank cautioned. “We’ll be landing soon. That’s San Esteban, dead ahead.”

The Hardys and the girls peered through the windshield at the small, mountainous island on the horizon. San Esteban looked like an emerald rising from the turquoise water. Verdant jungles tumbled down the mountain slopes to bright white beaches.

“The town on the south is Nuevo Esteban,” Joe said, pointing to a collection of beige buildings near the seaside, at the base of a mountain.

“I wonder if we’ll be able to see our bungalows as we near landing,” Callie said.

“They’re supposed to be pretty secluded,” Frank replied. “We might be able to see the main hotel, though.”

“It all looks
wonderful,”
Iola said, sighing.

“I can see the landing strip next to the harbor,” Frank said. “Check the regular landing gear, would you, Joe?”

“Roger,” the younger Hardy replied. He flicked a switch on the control panel and a light came on. A moment later whirring electric motors extended the wheels below the airplane’s pontoons. “Landing gear: check,” Joe said.

The plane’s engine sputtered.

“What’s wrong?” Callie asked.

“I don’t know,” Frank replied. “We’re losing power. Joe, help me out here.”

The two brothers began methodically checking controls and throwing switches. Despite their efforts the engine’s coughing grew steadily worse.

With a final gasp the engine stopped. The small plane plunged toward the sea.

Frank fought desperately to regain control of the stalled airplane.

“Hang on, everyone!” Joe called.

“Can’t you land on the water?” Callie asked, her voice shrill with tension. “We have pontoons.”

“Having the regular landing gear down will make it tricky,” Frank replied. “I think I can pull off an ocean landing if we have to, but. . .” He continued wrestling with the steering yoke as Joe worked the instrument panel, trying to restart the engine.

“I thought Jose said the plane had passed inspection last week!” Iola said, panic creeping into her voice.

“Just stay cool,” Joe said. “We’re doing everything we can.”

Seconds felt like ages as the brothers worked frantically to regain control. Just when they seemed doomed to plunge into the waves, Frank managed to pull the old Stationair’s nose up.

“As a glider,” he said, sweat pouring down his face, “this plane makes a good boat.”

The girls giggled nervously and held on tight to their seats.

The Stationair leveled off at fifteen hundred feet, low enough for the teens to see individual dolphins darting through the white-capped waves below.

“How long can we glide like this?” Callie asked.

“Not long enough to reach the island,” Joe replied. He flicked a series of switches and turned to Frank. “Try the engine again.”

Frank hit the starter, and the engine sputtered back to life.

The teens let out a collective cheer. Frank moved the plane into a gentle climb, being careful not to stall the engine. He wanted to gain enough altitude so they could glide to their destination if the motor cut out again.

“Is the landing gear still down?” he asked Joe.

Joe nodded. “Do you want me to bring it up again?”

“And take a chance that it might not redeploy? No thanks.”

Joe got on the radio and let the control tower know their situation. The small airstrip gave them a
priority landing flight path and cleared the area of other traffic.

The teens sat on pins and needles for more than a half hour as Frank and Joe nursed the plane toward San Esteban.

Frank set the plane on final approach, while Joe checked through the systems one last time. “I’m worried about that landing gear,” he said. “The light’s on, but I can’t see the wheels clearly from the window.”

“The trouble seemed to start when we hit that switch,” Frank said. “There might be some kind of electrical short—but there’s nothing we can do about it now. Hang on to your hats, everyone. This landing could be a little rough.”

The elder Hardy directed the plane toward the end of the short landing strip. The airport at Nuevo Esteban wasn’t very large; it was little more than a patch of flat grass, a few buildings, and a low tower. A fire engine and ambulance stood ready at the side of the field.

All four teens held their breath as the plane dropped slowly toward the ground.

A shudder ran through the Stationair as it touched down. A loud screeching sound filled the air, and the plane tugged suddenly to the left. Frank pulled on the yoke and applied the brake. The plane careened across the runway, heading for the tall grass on the side of the narrow strip.

The plane veered right, responding to Franks controls. It slowed down quickly as it bumped over the unpaved runway. The engine sputtered and nearly died again as the plane ground to a halt.

Frank, Joe, Callie, and Iola let out a collective sigh of relief. Frank taxied the old plane across the grassy field toward the buildings on the far side of the airport. As they went rescue teams ran out onto the runway. Frank gave the rescue workers the thumbs-up. The workers kept their distance until the plane had stopped near the control tower.

As the teens opened the door a thin, dark-haired man ran up to greet them.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “I am so sorry about this. I am Pablo Ruiz, owner of Ruiz Rentals.” The four friends could see the resemblance to his brother, Jose—though Pablo was taller and more handsome.

“We’re fine,” Joe said.

“Just a few rattled nerves,” Callie added.

“I think there might be some kind of short circuit in the landing gear,” Frank said. “We didn’t have any trouble before throwing the switch to bring it down.”

“And the left wheel screeched something awful when we landed,” Iola said.

Frank nodded. “The plane pulled that way when we landed, too.”

“I’ll check right into it,” Pablo said.

As the teens and the plane’s owner chatted, the rescue service team came and checked the plane. Finding no fires, leaking fuel, or other obvious hazards, they soon packed up their gear and headed for another call.

Pablo scratched his head. “I am very glad none of you were hurt,” he said. “But why did you choose to fly
this
aircraft rather than the one the travel agency requested?”

“Jose said the Sullivan Brothers amphibian had engine trouble,” Joe replied.

Pablo Ruiz rolled his eyes. “My brother, Jose!” he said. “I wish he would tell me as much as he tells my customers.”

“Is he unreliable?” Frank asked.

“He is a very good mechanic,” Pablo said, “but not so good behind a desk. Office help is so hard to find around here. I will have a temp working on Kendall Key later today, but until then . . .” He shrugged. “Our assistant quit last week. I hope to hire someone new soon—someone who will call and tell me when problems happen. Jose tells me when it suits him. He will get an earful later tonight.” He tried a smile. “Let me help you with your luggage.”

Pablo and the Hardys quickly unloaded the plane. The rental owner then checked the landing gear. “It is hard to tell because of the pontoon,” he said, “but that wheel definitely looks stuck. I’ll have
Jose work on it when he comes back to the island tonight.”

“I’m sure your next customers will appreciate it,” Joe said.

Pablo frowned. “Please do not go away angry,” he said. “Because of this trouble there is no charge for today. I will refund your money to your credit card. Plus I will give you a free afternoon rental of any of our boats or planes, or a free guided tour of your choice.”

“That sounds fair,” Frank said. “For now, though, I think we need to get to our hotel.”

“Can I use your phone?” Iola asked Pablo. “I need to arrange for my cousin to meet us.”

“Sure thing,” said Pablo. “The phone is on the desk in my office, over there.” He pointed to a prefab metal building near the water. A big
RUIZ RENTALS
sign hung over the door. The building looked somewhat more reputable than the branch office on Kendall Key.

Pablo got in the crippled plane and taxied it to a hangar near his office while Iola went and made the call.

When she returned, she said, “Angela will be here in a couple of minutes. She’s coming from her job in the open-air market, and it’s not too far from here. The shuttle bus to our hotel leaves from there, too.”

“That’s convenient,” said Joe. He and Frank hefted the heavier travel bags over their shoulders, while
Callie and Iola grabbed the rest. They all walked to the airport’s front entrance. A few minutes later a teenager in a long, brightly colored dress and white blouse rode up on a bicycle. She had long, wavy black hair and brown eyes. Her complexion was darker than Iola’s or Chet’s, but it was still easy to see her resemblance to the Morton family.

“Hi, Cuz!” Iola called to the girl. She stopped next to the teenagers, got off the bike, and gave Iola a hug.

“You must be Angela Martinez,” Callie said, shaking the girl’s hand. “I’m Callie Shaw, and these are our friends Frank and Joe Hardy.”

“The famous Hardy boys,” Angela said, a twinkle in her eye. “Iola’s written me a lot of e-mails about you two.” A friendly Caribbean accent tinged her voice—which sounded very much like Iola’s.

Joe grinned and shook Angela’s hand. “At least you didn’t say
infamous,”
he said.

Frank shook hands as well. “We’re not really famous,” the elder Hardy added.

The warm breeze tossed Angela’s wavy hair. “So, Iola, which one is yours?”

“The blond,” Iola replied. She gave Joe a quick hug. “Isn’t he a hunk?”

“The dark-haired one isn’t that bad either,” Callie added, putting her arm around Frank’s shoulder.

Angela laughed. “We better get going,” she said,
“I need to get back to my job. Do you need a hand with your things?”

“We’re fine,” Frank replied.

Joe adjusted one of the bags on his shoulder. “Unless your job is a long way off,” he said.

“No,” Angela replied. “Both the marketplace and the shuttle stop are close by. Nothing in Nuevo Esteban is very far. Our city is not very large. Follow me.”

The four teens walked out of the airport and through the bustling streets of Nuevo Esteban. They followed Angela as she walked her bike. Most of the people they saw seemed to be local residents going about their daily business. Bicycles, rather than cars, were the main means of transportation. Traffic moved at its own pace, largely without the aid of traffic lights.

None of the buildings they saw were more than two stories high. Most were painted white and had a storefront on the first floor. Colorful hand-painted signs hawking all manner of goods adorned the store windows. Small groups of tourists milled through the streets. Some stopped in the shops and were buying souvenirs and other items unique to the small island. The percentage of sightseers seemed to grow larger as the teens approached the open-air marketplace.

Just as Angela had said, the market wasn’t very far from the Ruiz Rentals office. The marketplace
occupied the same jutting cape of land as the airstrip, with only a few busy streets in between the two. Brightly colored banners and tentlike stalls occupied nearly every inch of the wide, open square that formed the market. Tourists and local people bustled between the businesses, buying, selling, and trading wares.

“This is quite a place,” Iola said, glancing around at all the things for sale.

Nearly everything under the sun seemed to be offered in the market. Clothing, jewelry, fresh food, tourist knickknacks, and even live animals were for sale. Men wearing advertisements on sandwich boards wove through the shoppers. Numerous sales-people loudly hawked their wares, and a white-hatted man seemed to be shaking hands with nearly everyone in the square. The sounds of shopping and music, both live and recorded, filled the air. The peaceful green mountains on the other side of the nearby bay formed a serene backdrop to all the commotion.

“You can find almost anything you want to buy here,” Angela said, speaking loudly to make herself heard above the din.

“If you don’t get lost looking,” Callie observed.

Angela deftly steered the group through the hustle and bustle toward a clothing stall near one side of the square. To the left of the shop stood a pay phone stall. To the right stood a cluster of live-animal
retailers. Most sold chickens and other animals. One shop, though, featured a live bull in a large wooden pen. The sign above the pen read
EL DIABLO.
The bull, a huge, jet-black brute, seemed to deserve his name. He pawed the ground, snorted, and bellowed before pacing around his cage.

“Nice neighbors,” Joe said wryly as Angela settled in behind her sales table.

“Every day it’s something new,” Iola’s cousin replied. “Last week it was big snakes. The bull is a nice change. If you want to buy some of our clothing, I can get you a good price.” She smiled.

“These things are all lovely!” Callie said, holding up a flower-print skirt.

“I think for now we’d better check in at our hotel,” Frank said.

“We’ll come shopping later, though,” Iola added.

“Which way is it to the shuttle bus stop?” Joe asked.

“Just over there,” Angela said, pointing toward the far side of the market. “You can almost see the sign from here. It’s right behind the stand that sells the big kites.”

“Got it,” Frank said. “Thanks. We’ll check back with you later.”

“Maybe we could go somewhere tonight?” Iola suggested.

“I have to work pretty late,” Angela said. “But we’ll see.”

“Thanks again,” Joe said.

As the four friends turned to go they bumped into the tall man in a white hat and coat. The man grabbed Iola’s hand and shook it. “I’m Jorge Tejeda,” he said to a surprised Iola. “I would appreciate your support in the upcoming election.”

“B-But I’m just a tourist,” Iola said.

“Really?” Tejeda replied in a suave voice. “I thought I had seen you around before.” As he glanced over Iola’s shoulder his face brightened. “Ah! I see,” he said. “You must be visiting your sister.”

“Cousin, actually,” Joe replied, looking the politician over carefully. Tejeda’s white suit was clean and well pressed, his goatee perfectly trimmed. His hands were large and callused, as though he’d spent much of his life working hard with his hands. His dark eyes sparkled. His smile was the practiced grin of someone who’d spent long years wooing constituents.