Trouble in the Pipeline Read online

  Virgil dropped them on the outskirts of town before he flew off to check on his dogs.

  "Don't worry," he yelled out as the chopper lifted off. "I'm with you—and I've got friends." As he waved Tanook barked a goodbye from the seat next to him.

  Frank and Joe changed motels after picking up their things. The walls in the old room had been repaired, covering up any sign of a forced entry. It was obvious the motel management had been paid off.

  "So, what do you think?" Frank asked. "Do we march into North Slope Supply and ask why they tried to kill us?"

  "No," Joe answered, checking out the walls in the new motel. "But we do have to go there and snoop around. They must have a very good reason for trying to get rid of us."

  "Let me try something," said Frank, picking up the phone. "Could I have a number for Scott Sanders, please ? "

  "No such listing in Prudhoe," he mouthed to Joe. "Then could I have the number for North Slope Supply?" He dialed the number and got through to North Slope.

  When he asked for Scott Sanders, the company said they had no record of an employee with that name.

  "There has to be a connection," Joe said. "We go to Trans-Yukon, Hammond gets upset. Cindy warns us, but we still get kidnapped and almost killed. Then, when we escape, North Slope comes after us with half an army. They've got to be in on it."

  "In on what?" Frank asked, throwing up his hands.

  "I don't know. But I'm beginning to suspect Scott might be able to tell us."

  The boys stood outside the gate of North Slope Supply as the employees trooped out at closing time. They were showing their photograph of Scott and asking if anyone knew him. Some said he looked familiar, but not one person could identify him.

  When the men had all driven away, the gate guards beckoned the Hardys over.

  "Can we help you boys?" a guard with a beefy, friendly face asked. His big belly strained over his gunbelt.

  "Maybe," Frank said. "We're looking for a friend of ours. We thought he worked here, but we haven't been able to find him." He held up the picture for the guard to see.

  "No, don't think so," the fat guard said. "How about you, Smitty? Recognize this face?"

  He handed the picture to the other guard, who shook his head, but Frank noticed that his eyes continued to glare at the picture.

  "Tell you what," said the first guard. "Come on into the guard house and we'll look up his name on the computer."

  "Great! Thanks a lot," Joe said. They stepped into the small booth. Two chairs and a built-in table, with a computer and phone, filled most of one wall. Joe was surprised to see submachine guns hanging on the wall.

  "What was that name?"

  "Scott Sanders," Joe said.

  The heavy guard punched a few buttons on the computer, and Frank knew immediately that he was bluffing. Before he could say anything, Smitty moved up behind them to block the door, his hand on the butt of his revolver.

  "Okay, boys. How about telling us what you're really here for?"

  Chapter 7

  THE FAT GUARD whirled around and slapped a hamlike fist into his open palm. "Answer the man!" he snarled.

  "We told you the truth," Joe said, trapped between the two guards. "We're looking for our friend Scott Sanders."

  "Yeah? What else?" It seemed Fatso was taking over the interrogation.

  "Nothing else. We just want to make sure he's all right."

  "You expect us to believe that? Two kids come all the way to Alaska — "

  "How do you know about us?" Frank asked.

  "Never mind. We know. What are your names?"

  "I'm Frank Hardy, this is my brother Joe, and we're friends of Scott Sanders. Does he work here? That's all we want to know."

  Fatso laughed. "A lot of people work here, kid. And it's none of your business what their names are. Especially when you're trespassing."

  "How can we be trespassing when you invited us in?" Joe asked as innocently as possible.

  The guard's face tightened and became masklike. "It's time," he said, nodding to Smitty.

  Joe was ready and ducked when Smitty swung. While the guard was off balance, he landed a solid blow to Smitty's solar plexus. The shocked guard doubled over with a gasp. But when Joe moved in to follow it up, Smitty rapped a nightstick across Joe's knee.

  The sudden pain made Joe totter, and Smitty threw the stick around Joe's throat. Joe swung his elbows wide and rammed them into Smitty's stomach. Whoosh! The air rushed out of him. Joe whirled around and landed one punch that reduced Smitty to an unconscious heap on the floor.

  While Smitty was trying to dispose of Joe, Fatso had gone for his gun.

  Frank snapped off a karate kick to jar the gun out of the guard's hand just as it cleared the holster. The kick landed perfectly, ramming the revolver into Fatso's hip. But then the guard raised the gun to aim it point-blank at Frank.

  Frank couldn't believe the man was still holding the gun after the kick he'd delivered.

  But before Fatso could pull the trigger, Joe was flying across the room and landing spread-eagle on top of the man. His gun jerked up and discharged into the ceiling. The thunder continued to bounce off the walls for several seconds. Joe grabbed the downed man's wrist and pried the gun out of his hands. A quick chop to his fleshy jaw and Fatso was out cold.

  "I thought I was a goner," Frank said. "Thanks."

  "It all evens out," Joe said with a quick grin. "Let's tie these bozos up. I want to get inside and see what's going on."

  They handcuffed the guards, then cut the phone wires. After borrowing their guns, the boys walked through the main gate to North Slope Supply and closed it after them.

  'Think anybody's here?" Joe asked.

  "Doesn't look like it," Frank whispered, looking around the empty yard.

  North Slope Supply consisted of a collection of small buildings surrounded by a chain-link fence. Two Quonset huts stood side by side along the western edge of the compound. A concrete bunker and a cluster of old sheds were scattered on the eastern side. In the middle of the lot stood a modern, one-story office building, its shiny white walls in direct contrast to the tired buildings around it. Long rectangular windows of tinted glass started at ground level and ran up to the roof. The entire place was deserted.

  "It is after hours," Frank muttered, trying to convince himself that everything was normal.

  "Let's check out one of these huts," Joe said.

  They headed across the hard-packed dirt and ducked into the unlocked door of the first hut. It was hot inside. The air smelled of mildew, as though wet cardboard had been decaying there for years.

  "Nothing here," Frank said. "This is weird. The company is called North Slope Supply, but there aren't any supplies."

  "It is spooky," Joe agreed. "This is a company that can afford three helicopters, and their plant looks like it could barely buy three wheelbarrows."

  "Come on. Let's check out the rest." They walked through the Quonset hut and out the other end. Continuing through the second hut, which was also empty, they came to the concrete bunker. This door was bolted shut.

  Joe found a rusty iron bar and pried the bolt off the door. Frank hesitated at the entrance, looking behind him. "I have the feeling we're being watched," he said.

  Joe shrugged. "From where? I haven't even seen a squirrel." He stepped into the bunker, and into pitch-dark. But as his eyes adjusted, he could make out a dim shape. "There's something over there," he said.

  "What is it?" Frank had his back to the room, still scanning the quiet yard.

  "I can't really tell — it looks like some kind of buoy."

  Frank wrinkled his brow. A buoy? Where had he seen a buoy recently?

  Joe came out. "Nothing else." He closed the door, leaving the bolt hanging.

  Frank continued to mull over the strange emptiness of the place. "I can't believe there's nothing here. No equipment, no office supplies, no uniforms, no files — no nothing!"

  "I don't see why it's so strange. Look, the o
ffice building is new. Maybe when it was built they moved everything in there."

  "I can't see them storing backhoes, bulldozers, and graders in there." Frank shook his head. "It looks like this is a dummy company. But whose dummy?"

  "Maybe it's Hammond's," Joe suggested. "Cindy heard him talking about getting rid of us, so I think we can assume that he sent the guys to mail us into the wilderness, right?"

  "I'm with you."

  "But when we escaped, who came looking for us?"

  Frank nodded. "North Slope! So Trans-Yukon and North Slope might be connected somehow." He frowned. "But remember in the hut how Virgil was surprised North Slope was still around? Maybe they went bankrupt and sold off their equipment — choppers and all. That would explain all this empty storage space."

  "But it wouldn't explain how the guys at the gate knew us." Joe headed for the office building. "What I want to know is, where does Scott fit in?"

  "Think," said Frank. "The only thing we've said to these people is that we want to find Scott. And they keep trying to kill us. Somehow we represent a big threat to them—or Scott does."

  They reached the side of the building. Standing between two long windows, Joe leaned over and tried to peer inside.

  "Can't see a thing. The glass is tinted," he said.

  Frank joined him, cupping his hands around his eyes as he pressed his face against the glass.

  "You can see a little if you block out the light. I think ... yeah, I do see someone in there."

  "Does he look like that picture of Scott?" Joe asked.

  Frank looked again. The figure was seated at a desk in profile. He seemed to be assembling some kind of electronic device. "Kind of. It could be him."

  He grabbed Joe's arm before he could bang on the window. "Scott doesn't know who we are. And we don't know if he's alone."

  "There's only one way to find out," Joe suggested. "Let's go in."

  "Are you nuts?" Frank whispered. "These guys have tried to kill us at least three times, and you want to walk right into their nest?"

  "How else are we going to talk to Scott? If that's him, it's worth a try."

  Against his better judgment, Frank agreed. Stealing around the corner, they approached the thick glass door. Joe tested it, and it opened easily. He motioned for Frank to follow him in. Holding a gun ready, they walked cautiously into a brightly lit corridor.

  "I don't see any security cameras, do you?" Joe asked.

  "No, but they could be hidden. I don't like this, Joe. It's too easy."

  "Well, I'm sorry I couldn't make it any harder," Joe said. "Come on. He's in there." He pointed to a door at the end of the hall.

  About ten feet from the door they heard a strange hissing sound. They stopped. Nothing. "Heating system, I guess," Joe whispered.

  A few more steps and they tasted something in their mouths — a strange tang. "Gas!" Frank yelled.

  They tried to run back down the hall to get outside, but their legs became leaden. They staggered, and then their legs turned to rubber.

  Frank watched the floor swim up to meet his eyes. Then there was nothing but darkness.

  Chapter 8

  JOE HARDY STRUGGLED to consciousness and out of his drugged sleep. The muscles he needed to open his eyes weren't able to do their job. Even when he did force his eyes open, he felt as if he were looking at the world from somewhere in the back of his head.

  He reached up to rub his eyes, but his hands wouldn't move. At first he thought that, like his eyes, they were just heavy and taking their time , to wake up. Then the awful realization dawned that he was strapped down—his wrists, chest, ' and ankles all immobilized.

  With horror he decided he was strapped to an electric chair. There were wires attached to his arms, and other wires emerged from under his shirt.

  Straining against the leather straps, he only exhausted himself pulling against them. It was hopeless. Whoever had tied him up had done a professional job. He couldn't even remember what had happened to him. His mind couldn't focus on a single event.

  "Mr. Hardy. I see you're with us again. How was your little nap?"

  Joe tried to focus and eventually saw a short, blond man framed in a doorway. He was wearing a business suit and carrying a sheaf of papers under his arm.

  "Where am I?" Joe asked. He didn't recognize the man or the room he was in. Maybe he was dreaming, he decided. None of this made sense.

  "You are on the property of North Slope Supply," the man said gently. "How are you feeling?"

  "Not good," Joe responded. "What happened?"

  "Perhaps I should ask you the same question."

  What had happened? Then slowly it dawned on him. They'd been stealing down the hallway on their way to see Scott, when — "I can't really remember," he lied, playing for time.

  The blond man laughed. "Let me refresh your memory. You were sneaking along one of our hallways last night, and you triggered one of our security mechanisms. Do you remember now?"

  Joe pretended to try to remember. "Oh, yes," he said, as if it were a great relief to know what had happened to him. "Who are you?"

  "My name is Sandy White. I'm president of North Slope Supply. I'm sorry I can't shake your hand." Joe glanced at the man's face to see if he was toying with him. But White merely smiled, and Joe couldn't read the cryptic smile.

  "Why do you have me tied up like this?" Joe demanded, staring the man right in the eye.

  "Why were you trespassing on the grounds of my company?"

  "We — I was looking for a friend of mine." Joe changed the we quickly. In case Frank had gotten away, he didn't want to incriminate him.

  "Who might that be?"

  Joe had to think fast. By now, the guards must have come to and told their boss whom he and his brother were looking for.

  "I don't think I have to tell you that," Joe told the man.

  "You're right," Sandy White said, standing in front of Joe's chair and staring down at him. "You were looking for someone named Scott, weren't you?"

  Joe glared at him. "Then why did you ask? What are all these wires for?"

  Sandy White dropped his papers on a table and slipped his hands into his pockets, leaning back against the table. "Why don't you tell me what you know about North Slope," he coaxed, examining the shine on his shoes.

  "I don't know anything," Joe said. "All I know is that Scott worked for Trans-Yukon. They say he doesn't work there now. Maybe he went to work for North Slope. All I'm doing is trying to find him."

  "Are you aware that North Slope does top-secret work for the government?"

  Joe rested his head against the chair back. "Really? Does that give you license to kidnap people and try to kill them?"

  White chuckled. "The powers of government can run pretty far. And I have big plans."

  "So what are you saying? That Scott's working for the government?" Joe kept staring at the older man, trying to get any clue from his reactions.

  "I didn't say that. As a matter of fact, I don't think I've ever heard of this Scott person."

  This guy was giving absolutely nothing away. Joe wished that Frank was around. He squirmed against his straps.

  "So you don't know anything about North Slope?" White continued.

  "Nothing, but I'm learning."

  "So you are," White said mildly. "You may learn a few more things shortly."

  "I think I know more than I want to already." Joe told him.

  "I wouldn't say that, if I were you," White said. "You asked what the wires were for."

  Joe looked down again. He saw now that the wires ran across the floor and into a hole in the wall. A tinted glass panel was framed into the wall at window height just above the hole.

  "I'm curious why you've been so persistent," White remarked. "You've had to overcome pretty tough obstacles so far."

  "I have to keep trying," Joe said flatly.

  "You don't represent any larger organization?"

  "Me? No. I told you—I'm only looking for my friend." />
  "I see." White paused. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. You know what a polygraph is, don't you?"

  Joe nodded. "Of course. It's a lie detector."

  "That's correct. The wires attached to you right now are hooked up to a polygraph machine in the next room. I'm going to turn it on, and then I'm going to ask you a few questions. Is that all right with you?"

  "I don't think I'm in a position to refuse," Joe said, but his words were aimed at Sandy White's back. The man hadn't even waited for an answer.

  White paused just inside the doorway and rotated his body to face Joe again. "Be back in a moment." He gave Joe another enigmatic smile. Joe wondered what kind of guy would stick someone in a torture chamber and then tell him to have a nice day.

  Joe's mind was racing. What was he going to do? He really didn't know anything. Maybe that makes it better. I'll just tell the truth, he decided.

  Who knows? Maybe I can even pick up some info from the questions they ask. I just wish Frank were around.

  The door opened, and White returned with the polygraph machine on a little cart.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting," he apologized. But his next words turned that politeness on its head. "Here are the ground rules. I ask the questions, you answer them. If you don't answer them, or if the machine shows you're not being truthful, I'll kill you. Is that clear?"

  Joe took a deep breath and nodded. White's true colors were finally revealed.

  "Fine. Shall we begin?"

  "My time is yours."

  "What's your name?"

  "Joe Hardy."

  White watched the machine as a mechanical arm swung a pen point over a rolling sheet of paper.

  "You didn't think I'd lie about my own name, did you?"

  White stared. "How old are you?"

  "Seventeen."

  "Where are you from?"

  "Bayport. It's a town — "

  "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" White cut in.

  "Yes. One brother."

  "What's his name?"

  "Frank Hardy."

  "What does your father do?"

  Joe stopped. He'd been spitting back the answers as quickly as he was questioned, but this one caught him off guard. He tried to mask his hesitation with a cough.