Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Deathgame (2 page)
***
Georgia in July was hot, very hot.
Joe and Frank sat on either side of Biff's father in the back of a black-and-white police car. Mr. Hooper was a tall, slender man, not given to showing emotion. He sat silently, dabbing at his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief. Biff's mother sat in the front, her blond hair awry. She was silent, too.
Sheriff Kraft, from the town of Clayton, drove them over the dirt road that cut through the lush, low mountains. Periodically, he would try to start a conversation, without success. The air-conditioning in his car was broken, but he didn't seem to mind a bit.
Frank Hardy studied his brother's set face. Joe usually wasn't so quiet. He'd been like that once before—when Iola Morton, his girlfriend, had died in a car bombing. He feels guilty, Frank realized. He knows he should have tried to talk Biff out of going but he didn't.
Joe ignored the hot wind blowing in the window. What if he were responsible for the injury — maybe even the death—of Biff Hooper? Joe knew he couldn't live with himself until he found Biff— healthy and in one piece.
Sheriff Kraft pulled up to the outer perimeter of the Ultimo Survival Camp. Ahead was a mesh fence topped with heavy, rusted barbed wire. At a small guardhouse, a young man in camouflage fatigues stopped and asked for identification, and then waved them through.
"Was that a rifle on that young man's shoulder?" asked Mrs. Hooper.
Nobody answered. The M-16 on the kid's back was answer enough.
They drove past areas where instructors were drilling groups of teens in vigorous calisthenics. Beyond them, where gray stone cliffs thrust up, an instructor was demonstrating rappelling techniques.
Joe's attention was caught by a squat blockhouse half-hidden by a stand of maple trees. It looked like a military command center, built out of cinder blocks, with bars on the windows, a satellite dish in the yard, and an antenna poking out of the roof.
As the sheriff's car pulled up to the front of this building, a man stepped from the doorway.
"We've had no problems before this with the Ultimo Survival Camp," Sheriff Kraft said gently to Mr. Hooper. "But they do rough it out here, make no mistake about that. Do away with all the modern conveniences. Part of their appeal, I guess.
"Today, I couldn't personally get hold of Orville Brand, the guy who runs this place. There aren't any phones on the premises, and as you can see, they're pretty isolated out here. I sent my deputy ahead to tell them we were coming, though."
Let's get on with it, Joe thought. He opened the back door and stepped out. Frank watched him, then glanced at Mr. Hooper.
As Joe walked around the back of the car, Sheriff Kraft opened his door. The man who had emerged from the building stopped near him. "Sheriff Kraft."
"That it is. Good to see you, Major Brand." Sheriff Kraft extended his hand, and the two men shook.
"And you, too," Brand answered with a slight smile. His hair was shaved to the scalp, which appeared white in contrast to his sun-weathered face. His skin seemed to be too tight over his face, a thin layer covering muscle and bone, so lean that it was almost skeletal. He had hard, high cheekbones and dark, deep-set eyes.
He walked briskly around the front of the car and opened the door for Mrs. Hooper before she could do it herself. He even bowed slightly.
"I'm sorry to hear of your trouble, Mrs. Hooper." Brand's voice sounded better suited to barking orders than to soothing people. "Whenever one of the boys in my outfit went missing — "
Joe stalked up to Brand and stopped in front of him, the door between them. "Thanks for your concern, but just tell us what's going on, will you?"
Brand was silent for a moment, staring at Joe. The skin over his face seemed to stretch almost to the breaking point. Large teeth showed behind his pencil-thin lips.
"I'll forgive your bad manners," Brand said.
He reached a hand into the car to help Mrs. Hooper out. "I am saddened to hear about your son. But, as I telegrammed, I checked our records thoroughly, and I even had the entire camp searched."
His dark eyes were unreadable as he paused to consider his next words.
"But nobody here," he announced, like a juror delivering a death sentence, "has ever seen or heard of anyone named Biff Hooper."
THE EXTERIOR OF the Ultimo Survival Camp command center might look like a wartime bunker, but inside it was a startlingly modern office.
Fluorescent lighting made the big room shad-owless. Against one wall stood a series of computers, their screens glowing with green letters.
The workers at the consoles, desks, and filing cabinets wore the same green fatigues as Brand. They worked as silently and efficiently as robots. Slit windows looked out on wide lawns and clusters of maple trees. Beyond these rose rugged, thickly wooded mountains.
Brand moved like an officer among his troops. He led Frank, Joe, Mr. and Mrs. Hooper, and Sheriff Kraft to one of the console operators. "Marsha, could you key in our roster file for these good people?"
The young woman nodded, her reddish blond hair in striking contrast to her green fatigues.
Frank, who was quite adept at operating a computer keyboard, admired the woman's expertise as her fingers moved briskly over the keys.
Letters appeared on the screen. Mrs. Hooper leaned forward anxiously, her pale face acquiring an eerie green glow. Her husband stood behind her, his face pinched and white.
The access code into Ultimo's computer roster system flashed onto the screen. The code letters read: GRUNTS.
"Cute," Frank whispered to Joe. "It's slang for soldiers," he told the Hoopers. He wondered if the entrance code was Brand's idea of a joke. He didn't seem the humorous type.
Marsha quietly punched other keys, and page after page of personnel and attendee rosters flashed on the screen. They all leaned toward the screen, watching anxiously for Biff's name. It did not appear.
"These rosters go to all squadron section leaders every morning, so they know exactly who is in their groups that day. The rosters come directly from this entrance computer list. I hand deliver them, first thing after breakfast." Brand's thin lips barely moved as he spoke.
Joe meandered away from the screen and the drone of Brand's voice.
Okay, he told himself, it's a foregone conclusion. We aren't going to see Biff's name on that list. So, what exactly does that mean? That Biff was never here? Or that his name has been eliminated from the computer memory?
He could still hear Brand speaking over the quiet click of the computer keyboards. He stopped before a bank of filing cabinets on the opposite side of the room. Above them was a large photograph framed in ornate, carved wood. Funny, he thought, an old-fashioned frame in this ultra-sophisticated office.
In the picture were two soldiers in combat fatigues, both carrying weapons, both with grease-smeared faces. Commandos, Joe realized. One of the men was Brand. The other was— unbelievable. His huge, muscular body dwarfed Brand. Even his hands and fingers appeared too thick, making the pistol he carried seem like a child's toy. Joe looked more carefully. That "toy gun" was a Super Blackhawk pistol. Its barrel was seven and a half inches long.
The man wore a bandanna knotted about his forehead, but it was hardly to hold back his hair, which was cut as short as Brand's.
What stood out most clearly was a tattoo of a snake twisting about a human victim on the man's rippling biceps. The body of the snake traveled down the arm. The head, etched upon the biceps, had its fangs sunk into its helpless captive.
Brand had noticed Joe's departure and walked across the room toward him.
Joe crooked a thumb up at the photograph.
"Who's this guy? He looks like a real gorilla."
"That is our camp founder," Brand answered. "I served under him in 'Nam. He saved my life."
He leaned toward Joe, and something seemed to spark deep in his dark eyes, just for an instant. "If it weren't for him, I'd have been left for dead out in the jungle. I had three bullets in me. He stopped my bleeding and carried me to the medics — seven hard miles. He felt every step of it. I was unconscious, but others told me what he'd done, how he'd saved me." The spark in the dark eyes died.
"Hey, I didn't mean any disrespect," Joe said. Maybe he'd simply gotten a bad first impression of Brand. Yet, as helpful as Brand appeared to be, there was something about him that was just wrong.
A smile stretched Brand's thin lips. He clapped Joe's shoulder heartily.
"So, Joseph, if I were you, I would be careful about making light of the colonel. He is much revered and loved. A lot of people here might take—offense at any offhanded or untoward comments about him."
Brand turned to the rest of the group. "Speaking of my staff, you'll have the chance to observe them—and how they put the colonel's philosophy to work—as you tour our facilities."
"Wait a minute, Major Brand," Mr. Hooper said, his voice sharp. "We don't want a tour of this infernal camp. We want our son. We think you accepted a minor here for training without getting parental consent. Now he's disappeared, and it's your responsibility to help us find him."
"I told you," Brand said testily, "your son has never been here. He doesn't show up on our computer records, and our records are never wrong."
"Well, then, where is he?" countered Mr. Hooper. "He told his friend Joe here that he was coming to your camp. Biff doesn't lie."
Major Brand met Mr. Hooper's gaze calmly. "Obviously, he never got here. Maybe he stopped on the way. Maybe he changed his mind and never came to Georgia at all."
And maybe, thought Joe, there's something you're trying to cover up.
"We're checking into those possibilities," the sheriff said soothingly.
"Since we're here, we might as well get the tour," Mrs. Hooper said wearily. "That way we can satisfy ourselves that Biff really isn't on the camp's grounds."
"That's better," Brand said smoothly. "I don't often give tours myself, so you're getting the red-carpet treatment. Now, if you'll wait here for a moment, I'll go get the necessary keys from my office."
He saluted the group and pivoted toward the door. Mrs. Hooper put her arm through her husband's, and they walked over to a window to look out.
"Charming guy," Frank said sarcastically.
"He's done something with Biff. I know it, and I'm going to get him," Joe said, pounding his fist in his palm.
"Cool it," Frank said. "Sure, he's a slimy creep. Who knows more than he's letting on. But a confrontation won't get you anywhere. We need a technological edge—like a trusty portable computer."
"Where can we get one out here?" Joe asked.
"Mine is waiting for us back in the hotel room," Frank replied, smiling devilishly.
Brand was like a top salesman or politician as he conducted the tour. He knew how to talk a lot, tell lots of little anecdotes, yet say absolutely nothing.
Brand led them in a vast circle around the office, which was at the center of the grounds. At the base of the mountains was a series of barracks, built up on wooden planks, with crawl spaces beneath them. Each building had a placard by the door, stenciled with the name of the counselor in charge.
They passed a number of teens eating their lunches from mess kits, talking about what they had learned that morning, or telling "war stories" of previous survival games. They were almost fanatically clean-cut and in top physical condition.
No one had heard of Biff Hooper. Nor did anyone have a single bad word to say about the camp. As Brand led the way toward the area where mountain climbing techniques were taught, Joe lagged behind.
He quickly picked out several of the camp counselors, all in pressed, tailored fatigues. He wanted to question them, away from Brand. He described Biff to several of the counselors, but no one had seen him.
Joe started back toward the group, hoping Brand hadn't seen him disappear. He followed them up an incline that led into a wooded area. Running through the trees, Joe spotted something to his left. He stopped for a second and stared.
Barbed wire.
Should he continue to try to catch up with the group? It would only mean a slight detour to check the wired area.
Joe ran quietly over to the wire fence. A large sign was attached to a fence-post, and he saw several other signs in either direction. The signs read: No Trespassing Allowed Beyond This Point. Restricted Area. DANGER.
Why isn't this on the guided tour? Joe wondered. Maybe it's something Brand doesn't want us to see. I think I'll take a look.
He took out his Swiss Army knife and snipped out two sections of wire. Even though he stepped through carefully, a twisted barb snagged his pants, leaving a small rip at the knee.
Joe set off through the trees at a fast clip. Got to get in and out as fast as possible, he thought.
He scanned the area, trying not to miss anything.
He had not gone far when the trees began to thin. He reached a wide, hilly area, overgrown with long golden grass. There were thickets, some trees, something else he couldn't quite figure out—about two dozen dirt mounds. Something must be hidden just beneath the surface, but what?
Joe calculated for a moment. Brand would have noticed his absence by now and would probably be looking for him. He'd be easily spotted if he stepped into the open to check out those mounds.
Shrugging, he dashed out, stooped over and using available bushes for cover, he reached one of the mounds and started scooping away the dirt and sand. What was buried under the surface?
He had just hit something hard when the ground beside him erupted, spraying dirt into his eyes. Joe fell back, half-blinded, as something burst from the ground. "What the — ?" he said.
He was facing a life-size wooden cutout of a man carrying a gun. The figure, which was masked, had just been thrust up from the mound.
Then a shot thundered through the air, and a bullet ripped through the painted chest of the wooden man looming over Joe. It tore a jagged hole in the figure and sent a shard of wood flying that hit Joe in the face.
