Trouble in the Pipeline Page 2

  "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.

  Chapter 3

  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.

  Frank found a smooth, flat place at the foot of a huge rock. It was out of the wind and close to the river, so they'd have plenty to drink. Joe ran back for the parachute and, using his pocket-knife, cut it in half to make a tent. The remaining material would serve as bedding—on a mattress of moss, parachute wouldn't be a bad blanket.

  "What's for breakfast?" Joe asked once their shelter was set up. He looked at his watch. It was three o'clock in the morning, and the sky was still filled with light.

  "Well, you can have moss with water, or lichen with a few roots shredded on top," Frank joked. They stood for a moment, looking for a place to search out something to eat.

  "Look over there," Joe said, pointing upstream. "See that bunch of bushes? We've got firewood, at least."

  Frank turned to see a cluster of dead alders by the river's edge. "Great," he said. "Now all we need is something to cook."

  "How about fish?" Joe smiled.

  "But how are you — ?"

  "Wait. A little trust, please. Genius at work."

  Joe whipped his belt off, cut the buckle away, then pried its pin free. He began to rub the small piece of metal back and forth until he'd sharpened it into a point. With another rock he gently hammered the pin into a hook shape.

  "There you go — one grade-B, size-ten fishhook," he declared, proudly holding it up for Frank to see.

  "All right," Frank said. "Now let's tie some string to it and — uh - oh, no string."

  Joe held up a finger. "It's a good thing I'm here." He yanked up some clumps of sparse grass and began braiding it into a few feet of line.

  While Joe was busy, Frank hunted for bait. Among the alders he found grubs.

  Joe dropped the baited hook into the stream and it quickly disappeared under the swift water.

  The line twitched almost instantly. Then, in a flash, there was a fierce tug, and the line was pulled tight.

  "I've got a bite," Joe yelled excitedly.

  "Get him in fast," Frank called. "Don't give him time to bite the line or rub it on a rock!"

  Joe walked straight back from the edge of the ' river, holding his hands high above his head. The fish followed and flopped onto the rocky bank — a huge, fat northern pike.

  Frank scooped up the fish in his bare hands. Removing the hook, he held it up.

  "Must be at least four pounds," Joe gloated, coming over for a closer look. While Frank built a fire, Joe cleaned the catch, casually tossing the guts toward the stream.

  After building a little grill out of wet alder sticks, they roasted the fish quickly. The meat was moist and flavorful and hot enough to burn their fingers as they picked it apart. Just as they were finishing, the quiet of the sunlit night was interrupted by the sound of someone splashing along the river's edge. A large brown bear.

  "Got the revolver?" Joe whispered. "In the tent," Frank said, not taking his eyes ' from the lumbering beast. "I'll get it." He moved quickly and silently and returned holding the gun down by his thigh. "I don't know if it'll do much damage in this case."

  "You may be right." Joe kept his eyes on the bear, who continued waddling downstream toward them. "It'd probably do just enough to make him mad. Is it a grizzly?" "Looks like it," Frank answered. "It's got that kind of silver fur around its throat." He glanced at the fire. "It probably smelled the fish. Where'd you put the guts?"

  "I threw them in the — " Joe stopped suddenly, staring. The fish guts had landed on a nearby rock. "Uh - oh."

  "Nice going," Frank said. "Let's sneak into the tent. Maybe he'll eat the guts and go away."

  They inched backward toward the tent. The bear came right up to the fish guts. In one gulp, he licked them up. Then, twitching his nose, he headed for what was left of the fish beside the fire.

  "He's coming nearer," Joe whispered, eyes wide.

  The bear had obviously caught Joe's and Frank's scents. Abruptly it rose up on its hind legs, throwing a shadow thirty feet long that fell like night over the boys. No one breathed. Time was frozen for a second.

  Then Frank raised the gun. The movement attracted the beast, and the unnatural silence was shattered with one giant roar as the grizzly began its charge!

  Chapter 4

  FRANK STOOD HIS ground and, arms extended, took careful aim before squeezing off a single shot. Nothing! Only a click — the gun was jammed. The bear kept coming.

  Then a second later a gunshot blast cut through the air. Frank and Joe didn't stop to think where it had come from because their eyes were still on the bear. It quit its attack, stood on its hind legs, and rolled its massive head to find the distraction. Coming up the riverbank were a man and a dog. The man had a rifle in his hands, pointed straight up. Another gunshot, and the bear whoofed once and fled.

  The man waved, and the Hardys managed a quick nod of their heads. Holding his rifle casually at waist level, the man trotted toward them with the dog at his side.

  "Hello!" the man greeted the boys. "You had a little scare there, eh?"

  As he got closer Frank and Joe could see that he was a native Alaskan. His face was a perfect circle of copper-colored leather that had to have taken many years outdoors to acquire. Squinting in the sunlight, his shiny black-pebble eyes were surrounded by deep lines.

  "I thought we were dead. Thanks," Frank said simply, and extended his hand in greeting. "Boy, were we glad to see you."

  The man laughed and then shook his head. "Not much you can do when a bear's hungry."

  "I guess not," Joe said, glancing upstream to make sure the bear had really gone. He saw only the river and the endless barren hills.

  "Are you hunting?" the man asked, looking them over skeptically.

  "Uh, not exactly," Frank said.

  "I hope not. Not in those clothes," the stranger remarked, pointing to their sneakers. "Need some help?"

  They nodded eagerly. "Guess you could say that. We don't even know where we are. We had an emergency and had to jump from our plane."

  The man scanned the area without speaking. He thought he might see the wreckage of a crash. "Too bad. You both okay?" was all he said. He obviously didn't want to pry.

  "Yeah, we're okay. Just a little tired. We'd like to get to Prudhoe," Joe said. "Do you know the way?"

  "No problem. I'm a hunting and fishing guide. My name's Virgil Asuluk."

  Frank and Joe breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm Joe Hardy, and this is my brother, Frank."

  "Pleased to meet you. This is Tanook. He's a lead dog. Very good animal." Tanook was a large, silvery husky, with the big chest and broad head characteristic of his breed. When Virgil began to walk off, Tanook sprang to his side.

  They picked up their parachute and followed Virgil along the river. He explained that one of his fishing camps was at the mouth of the river. "My helicopter is there. I'll fly you back to Prudhoe."

  "Helicopter?" Joe asked.

  "Times have changed. We have planes and snowmobiles. But we also keep our good friends, li
ke Tanook."

  The dog barked once at his name, and a helicopter circled them lazily.

  The Hardys explained why they were in Alaska as they trudged along.

  "Those companies are not good," Virgil said, shaking his head when he'd heard their story. "Often they won't hire the Aleut or the Athapas-kan, and we make complaints." He explained to the Hardys about the different tribes of Indian and Eskimo peoples in the north. "Sometimes you have to pay to get a job." His eyes were open wide to emphasize the shock.

  "That's what our friends found out. And one got chased home, and the other one has disappeared. Now we've been kidnapped and almost killed. It looks as if it might be more serious than just kickbacks for jobs." Frank was grim as he marched along, matching his pace to Virgil's.

  "Not good, not good." Virgil shook his head and paused. "You must find your friend."

  An hour later they came to a small flat plain at the mouth of the river. Across the open space a dozen tethered dogs barked happily to greet their master. Strips of raw fish were hung out on large wooden racks to dry in the sun. A fishing boat lay on its side in the grass, and a red and white helicopter stood off by itself like a giant, futuristic insect.

  Virgil led the Hardys to the chopper. He climbed up on the strut and put his rifle inside. Then he turned the ignition key to activate the battery. Rock music boomed out of the open door. Virgil grinned. "New speakers—put them in myself."

  "Great." Joe's eyes shone. The thought of whipping through the sky on the wings of full-blast rock 'n' roll was kind of exciting.

  "I have lots of tapes. You can pick what you like for the trip later." Virgil shut down the system. "But right now let's get you something warm to drink."

  He led the way toward a small sod hut that had grass sprouting on its roof. Some rough wooden beams framed the door and the small windows on each side of the structure. A chimney seemed to grow out of the roof.

  "Come in, come in," Virgil said, ducking through the door and gesturing for them to follow. Inside it was dark but warm and comfortable. The floor was hard-packed dirt. Hunting and trapping equipment hung on the dried mud walls, along with beautifully carved fishing spears. Six cots were stacked neatly on top of one another in one corner. Virgil went to the cast-iron stove and opened it up.