In Plane Sight Read online

  “Jack Meeker!” Jamal said angrily. “You are one first-class jerk!” He and the Hardys got up off the pavement and dusted themselves off.

  “Nice seeing you too, young Hawkins,” Jack Meeker replied. “Hey, I heard your pappy ducked out on this swap meet. Afraid of a little competition?”

  “Not from you,” Jamal shot back. “Dad’s taking care of some business that you can’t even dream about.”

  “That Asian charter tie-in?” Meeker said. “That hound don’t hunt, son! I turned it down last week. Your pappy will be lucky if they don’t sell him back the snake oil that they stole from him in the first place.”

  Jamal clenched his fists but said nothing.

  “Ben Hawkins is an honest businessman,” Frank said firmly.

  “Maybe you should just mind your own business, whoever you are,” Joe added.

  Meeker looked mildly shocked. “Ain’t you boys heard of me? You been livin’ in a barn? I’m the king of local air taxis. Hawkins Air has been eatin’ my dust for years.”

  “In your dreams, Meeker,” Jamal said.

  “Why do you think your pappy’s buying that new airplane and gallivanting all around the world?” Meeker said. “He’s trying to keep up with me, of course. Not doin’ too good a job of it, though.”

  “You don’t have to put up with this, Jamal,” Joe said, balling up his fists.

  Both Jamal and Joe seemed about to go after Meeker, but Frank stepped between them. “Take it easy, guys,” he said. Then he said to Meeker, “Maybe you should leave.”

  Meeker smiled broadly. “Now don’t get all riled up, boys,” he said. “I don’t mean no harm. I just came by to wish you a fine show. Good luck with that bucket of bolts I hear you’re picking up for your pappy.”

  “Thanks,” Jamal said, clearly not meaning it.

  “Why don’t you climb back into your own bucket of bolts and haul yourself out of here?” Joe added, indicating Meeker’s classic car.

  “I don’t mind if I do,” Meeker said. “I’m feeling a bit parched, if you git my drift. I’d invite you boys to join me, but I know you’re underage.” He hopped back into his car and roared away, blaring his horn as he went.

  “I didn’t know they made a car horn that played ‘The Yellow Jerk of Texas,’” Frank said.

  Jamal clenched his teeth. “That guy really burns me up.”

  “Anytime Meeker’s clock needs cleaning,” Joe said, “you just call me.”

  “So,” Frank said, changing the subject, “is this the airplane your dad bought?”

  Jamal gave the big blue-and-gold plane a good look, then shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “The serial numbers are wrong. Wrong set of doors too. This one looks like someone’s been modifying it from the original Sullivan customizing.”

  “Customizing a custom airplane,” Joe said. “What’ll they think of next?”

  “Well, I’m thinking that we should check in at the campground,” Frank said. “We can poke around the airfield and find the plane later. It might not even be here yet.”

  Jamal nodded. “Getting to the campground soon is probably a good idea.”

  “We wouldn’t want them giving our tiny patch of bare ground to someone else,” Joe said.

  “It’s getting pretty late in the afternoon too,” Jamal said. “We need to get ready for the big welcome dinner. You guys bring your tuxes?” He flashed a smile.

  All three of them laughed.

  “Come on,” Frank said. “Let’s get checked in.” They headed for the old motel.

  It took a surprisingly long time to get checked in. The teenager working behind the desk wasn’t very organized, and he’d misplaced their reservation information. The computer was down, and he had to check the records by hand.

  By the time the three friends got their tent set up and their gear stowed away, it was nearly dark. They used their cell phones to call their parents and confirm their arrival at the show, then hiked back across the pitted tarmac toward the buildings at the far end of the airfield.

  “They’re holding the banquet in one of the hangars near the control tower,” Jamal said.

  “Let’s hope they cleaned the place first,” Joe said, gazing at the ancient Quonset-style metal buildings. “This whole airport looks like it needs a year’s worth of industrial-strength service from Mighty Maid.”

  “The cleaning service that ‘Sweeps away your troubles and leaves you smiling,’” Frank said, quoting an old TV ad campaign.

  The three friends passed by a number of interesting planes on their way to the opening banquet. None of them was the plane that Jamal was looking for, though. As they neared the banquet hall hangar, he spotted another plane at the far end of the field.

  “Hey, maybe that’s it,” he said, pointing.

  “The maroon-and-magenta job?” Joe replied. “I can’t say I think much of the color scheme.”

  “We can check it out later,” Frank said. “Unless you want to be fashionably late to this dinner.”

  “And miss the first course?” Jamal said. “Never!”

  They entered the hangar through a double door near the front. The big open space inside had in fact been nicely cleaned up. The metal walls still looked a bit dingy, but the concrete floor practically shone. Star-spangled bunting and big banners with pictures of historic aircraft hung from the rafters. The brothers quickly spotted the Wright brothers’ plane, Lindburgh’s Spirit of St. Louis, and Chuck Yeager’s rocket plane, which was the first to break the sound barrier.

  The hangar floor held several rows of long tables. They all faced a small speaker’s platform at one end of the building. Behind the podium rested a fully restored World War II Spitfire. The vintage plane looming in the background lent a nice atmosphere to the proceedings.

  More than three hundred people were already in the room. They didn’t fill the immense space but clustered around the tables in the center. The aviators gathered in small, tightly packed clumps, exchanging tips. Dinner had not yet begun, but the places had been set.

  Amy Chow and Clevon Brooks were talking on one side of the room, near the big hangar door. Jack Meeker had Elise Flaubert cornered by the podium. The airport administrator smiled politely as they spoke, but her eyes seemed to be looking for an exit.

  The Hardys and Jamal checked their table assignment and discovered, somewhat to their relief, that they were near the back of the assembly.

  “If things get slow,” Jamal whispered to his friends, “we can duck out early.”

  “Good plan,” Joe said, nodding.

  As they edged their way through the crowd toward their places, someone bumped into Frank, nearly knocking the elder Hardy over.

  “Hey! Watch it!” barked a burly man in a battered flying jacket with a fleece collar.

  “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” Joe countered.

  “No harm done,” Frank said, stepping between the man and Joe.

  “Hey, aren’t you Dale ‘Rock’ Grissom?” Jamal said to the surly flier.

  “Yeah. So?” the gruff man replied.

  “I saw you do some stunt flying at a show when I was a kid,” Jamal said. “You had some great reflexes.”

  “Still do, kid,” Grissom replied. “Still do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I gotta see a man about some work.” He continued pushing through the crowd.

  “Not much for fans, is he?” Joe said, scowling.

  Jamal shrugged. “Another hero with feet of clay, I guess. He was something when I first saw him, fresh out of the air force’s secret test programs. Lightning response time.”

  The teens moved past a few intervening groups and found their place settings. As they arrived, a balding man sporting a goatee and wearing a blue jumpsuit intercepted them.

  “Are you Jamal Hawkins?” he asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “Thought so,” the man said, shaking hands with Jamal. “You look a lot like your dad. I’m Steve Davidson. I’m supposed to deliver a plane to you.”

>   “Yeah,” Jamal said, his face lighting up. “Where is it?”

  “Outside,” Davidson said. “It’s that maroon-and-magenta baby near the end of the line.”

  “We spotted it coming in,” Joe said.

  Davidson pulled out a stack of papers and laid them on the table. “I need you to sign for the plane,” he said, picking up one of the sheets and placing it in front of Jamal. He handed Jamal a pen. “Sorry for the rush. I’ve been trying to track you down for a couple of hours.”

  “We couldn’t have been that hard to find,” Frank said.

  “To tell you the truth, kid,” Davidson said, lowering his voice, “this show isn’t very organized. If I hadn’t found you now, I was gonna come back tomorrow. The office of my service is just down in Jewel Ridge.”

  “The plane’s not yours?” Joe asked.

  Davidson shook his head. “Nah. I’m just a middleman, mostly as a favor to Ben Hawkins. How’s his China trip going, by the way?”

  “Pretty well, I guess,” Jamal replied. “He’ll be back next week.”

  “Too bad I can’t hang around until then,” Davidson said. “In fact I can’t even stick around for dinner. My ride’s waiting outside. So, if you’ll just sign here and take the keys . . .”

  “We should check out the plane first,” Frank said.

  “Don’t worry, guys,” Jamal said. “Davidson’s an old friend of Dad’s. If he says it’s okay, I’m sure it is.”

  “The Hawkins family knows where I live,” Davidson said, smiling. “I wouldn’t even try to put one over on them. I had the airport mechanic check the plane earlier, just in case. He says it’s ready to fly.”

  “Great,” Jamal said. He signed the delivery receipt and gathered up the keys and ownership papers. Davidson handed him a pouch to put the paperwork in. As he did, a waiter appeared on the other side of the table and laid down some bowls of pastry-topped French onion soup.

  “Too bad I have to miss the chow,” Davidson said. “Good luck with the plane, kid. You’ve got my office number if you need me. You’ll find everything in order, though. She’s a beaut.”

  “Aside from the paint job,” Joe said.

  Davidson laughed. “Yeah, aside from that.” He shook hands with them and headed out the door.

  “Smooth talker, that guy,” Frank said.

  “Yeah. He went to college with Dad. You should hear some of the stories about him.” Jamal arched his eyebrows.

  “Maybe after dinner,” Joe said.

  The teens took their seats and started the first course. Soon they were joined at their table by Clevon Brooks on one side and a businessman named Tony Manetti with his personal assistant, Rita Davenport, on the other. Manetti was a tall, solid-looking man with slicked-back hair. He wore a dark suit with thin pinstriping. Davenport was a pretty woman, with an attractive face and dish-water blond hair. Rose-tinted glasses, which almost matched the color of her dress suit, partially obscured her gray eyes.

  “You guys seem pretty young to be attending the show,” Ms. Davenport said after they’d finished their salads. “Are you shopping or showing?”

  “We’re picking up a Sullivan custom plane,” Jamal said.

  “Oh, yeah?” Mr. Manetti replied. “You’re not another dot-com millionaire, like that Chow girl, are you?”

  The Hardys and Jamal laughed. “No,” Frank said, “we’re just helping out Jamal’s dad.”

  “Good,” Manetti said, relieved. “I’m getting sick of meeting kids who’re richer than me! That Sullivan job you’re picking up—is it a good plane?”

  “One of the best,” Jamal replied.

  “Mr. Manetti’s shopping for smaller planes at this show,” Ms. Davenport said, “but maybe we’ll check out a Sullivan sometime.”

  “This would be a good place for it,” Joe said. “We’ve seen quite a few at the show already.”

  The rest of the dinner was excellent, though the conversation flagged during the main course, stuffed pork chops. As dessert arrived, the presentation began. Opening remarks by Elise Flaubert gave way to a lecture on the future of aviation by Dr. Sirkin, a former space shuttle mission specialist and professor from Cal Tech.

  Brooks abruptly excused himself during the speech. “Old rival,” Rita Davenport whispered to the teens. She and Manetti didn’t stay much longer, though. “Long day tomorrow,” Manetti explained.

  The professor gave a good speech, and Jamal and the brothers sat in rapt attention. After Dr. Sirkin finished, though, the talks quickly became less interesting and more technical. The Hardys noticed Jamal’s eyes straying toward the exit.

  “Let’s head out,” Frank whispered, “and check out Jamal’s new plane.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Jamal replied.

  Joe nodded his agreement, and the three boys quietly left the big hangar. The air outside was nippy, and their breath hovered like ghosts over their heads.

  “Maybe we should stay in the plane rather than on the campground,” Jamal said, zipping up his old fleece-collared aviator jacket.

  “Where’s your sense of adventure?” Joe kidded him.

  “Frozen, I think,” Jamal replied.

  “That new Sullivan custom will get your heart beating again, I bet,” Frank said. He jogged across the airfield toward where they’d seen the maroon-and-magenta plane parked. Joe and Jamal followed.

  As they passed by the brick administration office, though, Joe suddenly stopped.

  “What is it?” Frank asked.

  “I just saw a flashlight beam across those frosted windows,” Joe said.

  “You think there’s a power outage?” Jamal asked.

  Frank shook his head. “The exit light’s working. Power’s working. So I’m thinking someone’s sneaking around.”

  3 Unscheduled Appointment

  * * *

  “Check the front door,” Frank said. They moved quickly to the main entrance of the administration building.

  “Locked,” Jamal said, trying the door.

  “It could be a security guard,” Joe remarked.

  “We won’t know unless we check it out,” Frank said. “Let’s try the back.”

  “I’ll stick around here,” Jamal said, “in case whoever it is comes out.”

  “Good plan,” said Joe. “Stay alert.”

  “Shivering will keep me awake.”

  Frank smiled. “I’m betting your aviator jacket is warmer than our letterman jackets.”

  “I’ll take that bet after you catch this guy,” Jamal said. “Now get going before I freeze to death!”

  The brothers quickly hiked around the side of the building to the rear entrance. The window where Joe had seen the light was on the second floor, which occupied only the rear corner of the building. A flat roof near the front doubled as an observation deck, with a patio table, chairs, and—incongruously, considering the time of year—a big lounge umbrella in the middle.

  The Hardys passed beneath the window as they went, but they saw no more lights. They quietly tried the lock on the rear door.

  “Taped open,” Frank whispered.

  The brothers crept into the darkened building and quickly found an exit stairway leading up. After cautiously mounting the steps, they entered a short corridor running between two pairs of second-floor offices. The offices had frosted glass windows and doors. ELISE FLAUBERT—ADMINISTRATOR was painted on the glass of one door. A slender beam of light peeked out from under that door.

  Frank and Joe each stood on either side of the door, and Frank put his hand on the doorknob. On a silent count of three, he pushed the door open, and both brothers barged into the darkened office.

  “Hold it!” Frank said, speaking to a figure lurking in the dark shadows on the far side of the room.

  “What’s going on here?” Joe asked, trying to make out the identity of the black shape behind the desk.

  Instead of answering, the intruder doused his flashlight and dashed his hand across the desk. Papers filled the air. The plastic in-o
ut box sailed past the Hardys and smashed against the far wall. As the brothers ducked to avoid the impromptu missile, the burglar opened a sliding door behind the desk and ran out onto the rooftop terrace.

  Skidding on the spilled papers, the brothers scrambled across the room and out the door after him. The burglar ran across the roof, grabbed on to the ledge, and lowered himself onto the side of the building.

  “Jamal!” Joe called. “Cut him off!”

  “Cut who—ow!” Jamal’s startled voice drifted up from below.

  The brothers reached the side of the building and lowered themselves just as Jamal got to his feet again. “I didn’t see him coming,” he explained. “He knocked me down. Took the wind right out of me.”

  “Who was it?” Joe asked.

  “I didn’t get a good look,” Jamal replied. “He was dressed in black and was wearing a ski mask.” He leaned against the side of the building and tried to catch his breath.

  “Call security!” Frank shouted back to him. Both Hardys took off after the rapidly disappearing figure.

  The burglar moved quickly. He darted between two of the planes lined up along the edge of the tarmac and went into one of the dark hangars.

  The Hardys opened the hangar door, then jumped back as a falling metal bucket clanged onto the floor.

  “Nice makeshift trap,” Joe said, eyeing the big metal pail on the floor.

  “You can compliment him after we catch him,” Frank replied.

  Careful of more traps, they moved quickly into the interior of the hangar.

  “Shoot! I can’t see anything in here,” Joe said.

  “I think I hear him toward the back,” Frank said, heading in that direction.

  The old metal hangar housed a number of planes, their hulking shapes obscuring the room beyond. Large, rectangular shapes loomed out of the darkness—toolboxes, the brothers assumed from their silhouettes. Air and water hoses and power cords snaked across the floor. The Hardys had to move cautiously so as not to trip.

  “There’s a door in the back,” Joe said.

  “I see the exit light,” Frank replied, “but I don’t see anyone.”

  “He couldn’t have gotten out any other way,” Joe said. He moved to the door while Frank kept watch behind them.