Brother Against Brother

"Surprise!" Joe Hardy shouted, whipping an Uzi submachine gun from the cart he was pushing.

The two hijackers froze in the middle of the airplane aisle. A moment before they had thought he was one of them — a terrorist sneaking aboard the plane disguised as a food handler.

Now Joe and his brother, Frank, had dropped their disguises. They were really there to stop the hijacking and rescue Frank Hardy's girlfriend, Callie Shaw.

"We're all going to die!" a terrified passenger screamed.

"Not if I can help it," Joe Hardy said. "Drop those guns, you two."

But the terrorists didn't throw down their weapons. The dark-haired terrorist curled his lip, raised his Uzi, and began shooting. His blond comrade followed suit.

Screams rose, echoing wildly in the confined space of the plane.

Bullets came flying past Joe. It seemed as though an army was shooting. There were more bullets than two machine guns could fire. Miraculously, nothing hit him — in spite of the fact that he was right out in the open.

Joe knew he had to stop these guys. He leveled his gun in a firing position. But when he pulled the trigger, nothing happened. The Uzi was jammed!

More bullets tore past him — a storm of lead. Joe could hear screaming behind him — people were being hit. "Somebody help us!" a woman shouted. "Please!"

Joe couldn't help, though. He stood facing the terrorists, desperately trying to get his gun to work.

But his fingers were clumsy. He fumbled with the bolt of the gun, watching it slip out of his sweaty grasp.

Then a familiar voice cried out behind him. Joe did turn for a second and saw Callie Shaw staggering in the aisle. She had one hand over her shoulder — small streams of red ran between her fingers.

Joe stared at her dumbly, while his brother Frank was yelling, "Callie! You're hit!" Frank jumped to help her as the storm of bullets increased. Both Callie and Frank fell to the floor, chopped down by the enemy's fire. No!" The word was torn from Joe's throat. fNO!"

He threw away his useless gun, balled his hands Lata fists, and charged at the terrorists. They were still shooting, foot-long flames jeting from the muzzles of their Uzis. Yet none of their bullets touched Joe. Just as he was almost on top of them, the terrorists stepped aside, revealing a third man. He was middle-aged, with thinning hair and a pudgy face. Joe recognized him — the leader of the gang. The man grinned an evil smile and held out his right hand. In it was a bomb detonator! Joe leapt at him, but the head terrorist pressed the firing button.

; "Fool!" was the last word Joe heard before the plane exploded. It all made a terrible sort of sense to Joe. Frank and Callie were gone. And now he was going up in a ball of flame, just as his girl friend Iola had when a terrorist car bomb had exploded.

Joe stiffened and felt himself being flung into the air. And then ... "Sir, sir, wake up."

Joe's eyes opened to meet those of a young woman in uniform.

"Sir, please. We're about to land." Joe realized that every muscle in his body was rigid. His blond hair was damp with sweat. He forced himself to relax, shaking his hed. "What's going on?"

"Sorry to bother you. You must have dozed off. Please bring your seat to an upright position. We're about to land in Denver."

Joe looked down at his hands. They were still gripping the armrests. "Right!" he said, pushing the button to adjust the seat.

The flight attendant walked away. Joe shook his head again and yawned. What a weird dream he thought. I wonder if the airline food brought it on.

He tried one last time to shake the nightmare away. It was like a horror-show version of the - rescue of Callie from hijackers in a recent case: Hostages of Hate. So much could have gone wrong. ... Joe shuddered. He hoped the dream wasn't a bad omen for his present mission.

"That movie put you to sleep?" his neighbor - an overweight businessman, asked.

"Guess so," Joe said. "How did it turn out?

"Typical Hollywood ending. The guy killed about three thousand bad guys, then rescued pretty girl from hideous aliens just before 1 spaceship crashed into San Francisco Bay. Special effects were awful, just awful. The alien looked like a bicycle covered with cape!

The businessman put a small calculator notepad into his briefcase.

"What time is it?" Joe asked.

The man showed Joe an expensive Swiss watch. "Remember, though, we've traveled two time zones. Denver's on Mountain - two hours earlier than this." The businessman straightened his tie. "You have family onboard?"

"No," Joe told him.

"But here on business then?"

Joe eyed the man. Was he being friendly — or being a little too nosy? "It's mostly a pleasure," he finally said.

Well, the mountains are beautiful, that's for sure." Joe glanced out the window and saw beyond the blue foothills, and beyond them, white peaks of the majestic Rockies filling the horizon.

"I couldn't help but hear you mutter in your sleep," the businessman told Joe. "Is that right?"

The heavy set man nodded. "I couldn't make out what you were saying. But it sounded like a girl's name. Ilene. Elaine. Olive. Something like that."

Joe's breath came in with a little hiss. "Iola?" he said.

"Yeah, that sounds right. She your sweetheart?" the businessman asked with a nudge and a wink.

Again, the image of a ball of fire flashed through Joe's mind. This wasn't a nightmare, though. Iola had really disappeared when the Hardys' car exploded—and Joe had been helpless to save her. "Iola was—special," Joe answered almost in a whisper. "But she's no longer in my life."

"Well, girls are like buses," the man said. "If you miss one, another will pick along in a few minutes."

Not willing to set the guy straight, Joe tightened his seat belt, and as the plane began its gentle descent, leaned back in his seat.

He turned his head toward the window, trying not to think about Iola. About what a dangerous place the world had become. The skyscrapers of downtown Denver, surrounded by miles of streets and houses, filled his view. For a moment, as the plane descended, the mountains disappeared behind buildings and the horizon.

The mountains. What a perfect place to hide. He turned his head away from the window and thought about his mission. Later that day he'd be in the Rockies, searching for a man on the run.

The man had been in a witness protection program. But his cover was broken, and he had been running from hit men ever since. His only contact was Fenton Hardy, Joe's private investigator father.

The witness trusted only Fenton Hardy. They maintained a thin line of contact — one that Fenton had to use right then. Apparently, the underworld killers were getting very close to their target. Joe's job was to deliver a coded warning to the witness while Fenton pursued the killers.

The jet's wheels touched down, screeching as rubber hit the concrete runway. Joe felt himself lurch forward slightly. The engines roared as they were reversed to slow the jet. Then the airplane began to taxi toward its gate. "Ladies and gentlemen," a flight attendant said over the P.A. "Welcome to Denver's Stapleton International Airport. We hope you've had a comfortable flight. And we wish you a pleasant stay here in Denver or wherever your eventual destination will be. Think of us the next time you need air travel, and have a good day."

The airplane rolled to a stop. Passengers leapt to their feet, scrambling to reclaim coats or baggage from overhead compartments. Several people delayed for connecting flights, pushed toward the exit.

Joe waited for the bulk of the people to clear out, quietly tapping a finger against the rubber heel of his hiking boot. Hidden inside it was a small plastic capsule housing the message he had to deliver.

The plan was not without danger. Joe was to drive to a remote spot in the Rockies to meet the witness, a man he had never seen. What if Joe did his part, only to be met by hit men?

Maybe it was a hangover from his nightmare, but Joe suddenly felt anxious . He glanced around the cabin. Could the hit man possibly be on the plane?

At the airport Joe picked up a rental car, which Fenton had reserved. "Typical," Joe grumbled as he revved the motor. "They stick me with the least expensive—and least powerful—car in the lot. I'll probably have to push this thing uphill!"

Still, it was a beautiful, clear afternoon, a perfect day for cruising toward the Rockies.

The air was dry and a bit thin. Joe noticed that he had the slightest bit of difficulty in breathing because he was almost a mile above sea level. He remembered reading a newspaper article on how more and more athletes were coming to Colorado to train their bodies—and lungs—for the Olympics and other events.

Leaving the airport, Joe got on the interstate heading west and drove past Denver's downtown area. Not as impressive as New York or Chicago, he decided. Still, a dozen or so skyscrapers glistened in the sun.

West of the city limits, the flat plains crowded with suburban houses gave way to rolling hills. As he drove on, the road gradually inclined. Heavy trucks had to downshift to maintain their speed, and Joe passed them, pressing the accelerator pedal to the floor.

Joe noticed a sign for a point of interest just ahead. He checked the car clock — he was ahead of schedule, so he decided to pull off and see it.

Apparently, to build the highway, a large hill had been blasted. The remaining slopes on either side of the road were laid bare as if a piece had been sliced out of a cake.

His car rolled to a stop, and Joe looked up at the impressive road cut. Layer upon layer of geologic history lay exposed. A section of sandy-colored rock was wedged up against a black coal vein, which was wedged up against a thick level of brown stone.

A display explained that the site was an excellent example of the upturning of sedimentary layers, which happened some sixty-five million years before, when the present Rockies were formed.

In the background Joe could see Red Rocks Park. It was composed of gigantic monoliths that looked like ancient, landlocked ships, sandy red and eroded.

Just looking at them Joe knew they were old. But the display told him they were part of the Ancestral Rockies, the first mountains in the area. And they had been formed three hundred million years ago!

Joe shook his head and returned to the highway, which wound through the foothills, gaining altitude quickly. The car began to lose momentum, and Joe had to move to the slow lane as more powerful cars whizzed by.

As he traveled farther and farther into the high country, the car radio picked up more and more static, eventually losing the local stations altogether. Joe shrugged. Guess the signals can't penetrate these hills, he thought.

Ahead of him, he saw a tourist shop shaped like an Indian tepee. Joe pulled off the highway, deciding to get a snack.

After he walked past shelves of Indian pottery and jewelry, candy bars and peanuts, polished rocks and souvenirs, Joe came to a rack of postcards.

A grin lit up his face. I'll send one to Frank, he decided. A little reminder of who's stuck at home in Bayport and who's in the Rockies.

Joe looked through the postcards, staring at one that had a strange-looking creature on it. It had the body and head of a jackrabbit but the antlers of an antelope. He turned the card over and read the inscription.

"The jackalope is a very shy animal found in the high mountains. Hunters covet its beautiful antlers, but the jackalope hops so quickly that it is nearly impossible to trap." "Sell you that, son?"

Joe looked up to see an older man wearing a cowboy hat and western shirt grinning at him— obviously, the owner of the shop.

Joe grinned back. "Nice piece of trick photography on this card," he said. "Did you ever see one of these?"

The shop owner broke into laughter. "Well, most flatlanders, knowing no better, swear that they've seen jackalopes crossing the highway."

"Maybe I'll send this to my brother Frank," Joe said.

"Hold on—you may find a better card. We have lots of strange critters running around." The owner chuckled again. .

Joe checked out some more postcards and found a whole weird menagerie. One card touted the "Rocky Mountain Furry Trout," a thick-haired fish that survived in the Coldest mountain lakes. Another told about the "Gargantuan Grasshopper," which was larger than the two humans posed beside it. Colorado's a strange place, Joe concluded.

He bought the postcard of the jackalope and a stamp. On the back of the card he wrote: Dear Frank,

Having the best time ever! Wish you were here! The sights are beautiful, and the girls love to party! How are things at home? Having a good time with Dad and Mom?

Your brother,

Joe

"The postman is outside," the owner told Joe. "Catch him now, and that card will be on a plane tonight."

"Thanks." Sure enough, Joe found a postman emptying a mailbox near the road and handed him the postcard.