Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Survival Run (6 page)
***
The view was just as impressive the second time - and the cliff was just as sheer. "I don't see any way those two Assassins could have gotten down this wall without breaking their necks," Joe remarked. "And even if they could climb down, what did they do with the ATVs?"
"I don't know," Frank said, scanning the sea of green treetops below. "But it has to be more than coincidence that they disappeared at the same cliff where the locals think a bunch of mysterious strangers are working an abandoned gold mine. I think the Assassins are using the mine shaft as a secret base."
Joe looked over the edge, down to the forest more than nine hundred feet below. "So what do you suppose those two guys did? Fly?"
Frank suddenly dropped to the ground, pulling Joe down with him. "Maybe they did," he said in a hushed tone, pointing to the canopy of trees below.
Joe saw a section of the treetops near the base of the cliff flutter, falling away to reveal a small cargo helicopter. "Camouflage netting," he whispered. "That chopper's big enough to lift one of those small all-terrain vehicles."
"Come on," Frank said, backing away from the cliff edge and jumping to his feet. "They'll spot us out here in the open." He ran over to the dirt bike they had shared and pushed it back under the cover of the trees.
Joe stared down at the helicopter for a few more seconds. When the rotor blades started to turn, quickly picking up speed, Joe scrambled up and followed his brother out of the clearing and into the deep shadows of the forest.
The steady whup whup whup of the rotor blades chopping the air grew steadily louder, and the helicopter burst into view, rising above the cliff and then swinging toward the woods. Joe held his breath, waiting for the chopper to pass - but it didn't. Instead, it hovered overhead, as if it could see right through the thick foliage and knew exactly where the Hardys were.
Joe told himself that was impossible. He told himself the pilot would soon move away, off toward some distant objective.
But the helicopter didn't budge. The tree branches swayed in the stiff wind created by the spinning rotor blades. The deafening roar of the helicopter filled Joe's ears, drowning out all other sound - except for a rapid clatter that punctured the wall of noise in short, sharp bursts.
Joe jumped back in shocked surprise, flattening himself against a tree trunk as the ground around him abruptly erupted in a line of tiny explosions. A splintered tree limb fell to the ground at Joe's feet.
The machine gun in the helicopter chattered away, chewing up the earth all around the Hardys. Frank and Joe glanced at each other. They both knew there was no way out. They were surrounded by a deadly hail of bullets.
The shooting stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Joe pushed away from the tree, ready to make a desperate dash through the woods. Frank snagged his wrist and held him tightly.
"They might not know exactly where we are!" Frank shouted over the loud thrum of the helicopter swaying above the trees. "They could be trying to flush us out! If we run, they'll cut us down!"
"We know exactly where you are!" a sharp voice boomed from a megaphone overhead. "Do not attempt to escape! Walk out slowly into the clearing with your hands on your heads!"
Joe checked with Frank, who shook his head.
Another burst of machine-gun fire whizzed through the branches. One bullet hit the front tire of the dirt bike. Another one plowed into the rear tire a split second later. A third round punctured the fuel tank, and all the gas quickly drained out of the ragged hole.
"Move now!" the amplified voice barked. "We have the girl." The unspoken threat was clear. If the Hardys didn't follow orders, Gina would be killed.
"We got her into this," Joe said grimly. "We have to do whatever we can to get her out." He turned and trudged toward the clearing.
Frank didn't argue. He knew Joe was right. Besides, they weren't dead yet. As long as they were alive, they had a chance to get out of this mess. Raising his hands over his head, he followed his brother out of the woods.
The helicopter settled down in the clearing, and the big bearded Assassin who had attacked the Network camp got out. This time, instead of a rocket launcher, he was holding a large, belt-fed machine gun in both hands. Frank knew a single slug from that monster could make a hole big enough to throw a football through.
The Assassin had a sinister grin on his face as he jabbed the Hardys with the barrel of his weapon and herded them into the cargo bay. He and the pilot of the helicopter had a rapid exchange of words in a language Frank didn't understand, and the bearded man's fierce smile faded away. He glowered at the Hardys and slammed the sliding door shut.
"My friend doesn't think we need both of you," the pilot shouted over the noise of the engine and the whirling rotors as the helicopter lifted into the air. Frank couldn't detect any accent in his English.
"Boris would like to throw one of you out of the helicopter to see if you can fly," the pilot continued with a chuckle. "I told him the flying lessons would have to wait. Boris has very little patience and a great deal of anger - not very good traits for a man in our profession."
"Oh, sure," Joe responded bitterly. "It's important to stay cool and detached while you're murdering people."
"Quite so," the pilot said. The helicopter dropped rapidly. Trees rose up and shot past on both sides. Joe was sure one of the rotor blades would smack into a nearby tree, snap off, and send the chopper spinning out of control to a fiery crash. Instead, the landing was so smooth, Joe wasn't even sure they had landed.
"You must have cool nerves and steady hands to be an Assassin," the pilot said in a tone so casual it sent a chill down Frank's spine.
The pilot led the Hardys out of the helicopter, and the man he called Boris hauled the camouflage netting over it.
Joe didn't even see the entrance to the mine - the old McDonald mine, he presumed - until they were right in front of it. Decades of brush had grown up around the opening, and the Assassins had been careful to maintain its covering.
Inside it was all transformed. The old rafters had been shored up with new timbers, and electric lights, strung along the ceiling of the low, narrow tunnel, glared harshly against the bare rock. A distant hum told Joe there was a generator someplace, cranking out power for the lights.
The Hardys followed the pilot through the tunnel. At a fork in the underground maze the pilot led them off to the right.
"I don't think we've been properly introduced," Joe said to the pilot as they walked. "I'm Joe Hardy, and this is my brother, Frank. What's your name?"
"You can call me Bob," the pilot answered.
"Uh - huh," Joe responded. "Bob the Assassin. I like it. It's kind of catchy."
The pilot chuckled as he stopped in front of a door embedded in the stone wall. "You have a sense of humor," he noted, sliding back a steel bolt to unlock the door. "An admirable trait for one in your situation."
"What situation is that?" Frank asked as the pilot ushered them through the doorway.
"A situation that could easily lead to your untimely death," the pilot said nonchalantly. He stood in the doorway for a moment, gave the Hardys his bone-chilling smile, and then slammed the door on them.
Frank heard the bolt slide home, and then the echo of the pilot's footsteps fading away as he went back down the tunnel. He turned to check out their surroundings. They were locked in a small room carved out of solid rock. A single folding cot in one corner was the only furniture. A dim light bulb hung from the ceiling and bathed the room in a sickly yellow glow.
"That's the last time I let you make the reservations," Joe declared. "I've heard of no-frills hotels, but this is ridiculous."
The room suddenly went dark. Joe heard something smash on the floor, followed by a crunching noise.
"Okay, I think it's safe to talk now," Frank said. "I ripped out the fixture. If there was a mike in there, what's left of it is now on the bottom of my shoe."
"Terrific," Joe muttered. "It wasn't gloomy enough in here before. This new lighting scheme really cheers me up. I've seen brighter tombs."
The door burst open then, and light from the tunnel flooded into the room. A large shadow fell across the floor, obscuring the shattered remains of the light fixture.
"Boris! How are you?" Joe greeted the scowling, bearded man.
The Assassin waved the Hardys out of the small room with a stubby black submachine gun and marched them back to the main tunnel, then down the other branch of the fork. The shaft slowly twisted downward. They passed several more featureless doors. Frank noticed that they were all made of new, unpainted lumber, which meant they were a recent addition. The Assassins had apparently spent time modifying the old mine for their secret purposes.
"Halt!" Boris barked as they came to the fourth door. He pushed Frank aside and knocked on the door. It was a light, polite knock, not the fierce pounding Frank would expect from the angry Assassin. Somebody important was on the other side, somebody Boris feared.
The door swung open, and the pilot - Bob - stood there, regarding the Hardys impassively. "I had hoped to learn more about you - indirectly - before having this little chat. Unfortunately, you made that impossible."
"Looks as if you were right about that bug," Joe said to his brother. "It was in the light fixture."
Bob stepped aside to let them into the room, where Gina was sitting on the edge of a folding chair.
"I tried to tell them we could deliver the plans," she said, her tone brash. Joe could see an urgency in her gaze.
"Ah, of course we can," he responded with absolutely no idea what they were talking about.
"I told them how we all stole luggage," Gina said rapidly, the words rushing out in a torrent. "I told them how we found Stavrogin's plans in the fishing rod case and took them because we thought we could sell them back to him or the highest bidder.
"That's right," Frank said, catching on. "Stavrogin's real notes are in a safe place. If you kill us, you'll never find them."
"Your story is interesting," Bob responded. "I'm not saying I believe it, but it is interesting." He paused for a moment and then called out in the foreign tongue that Frank couldn't identify. It might have been Hungarian or Russian or any of a dozen other languages.
Boris stomped into the room and listened while Bob issued terse, mysterious commands. The bearded Assassin nodded, then abruptly grabbed Joe with one beefy hand and dragged him out of the room.
"Hey!" Frank heard his brother cry out from the passageway. "Get your hands off me! I can walk fine by myself!"
The Assassin who called himself Bob smiled almost imperceptibly at Frank and Gina. "I'm afraid I cannot offer you any money for Dr. Stavrogin's papers. I can only offer you your friend's life."
Two Assassins and Bob marched Frank and Gina back to the helicopter. One of them was the man who had been with Boris during the rocket attack on the Network camp. Frank hadn't seen the other one before. That meant there were at least five terrorists using the old mine as a base: Bob, Boris, the cab driver, and these two. Frank wished he could find out if there were more. Knowing the exact number of the enemy could make the difference between life and death for Joe.
The helicopter might be able to carry six or seven at the most, Frank guessed, and Bob appeared to be the only pilot, as well as the leader of the group. Assuming they would use the chopper for a quick getaway, Frank hoped that meant there weren't more than six Assassins stationed in the mine.
Bob flew them to the motor home, which had been driven to a campsite at the end of a dirt road several miles from Stavrogin's cabin.
"This is as far as I got when I ran for it," Gina told Frank.
"You have six hours to deliver Stavrogin's notes," the pilot called out as Frank and Gina climbed out of the helicopter.
"Six hours?" Frank reacted in dismay. "That's not enough time!"
The Assassin shrugged. "It's all the time your friend has."
Frank started to protest, but the chopper was already lifting off, swinging around as it rose in the air. A few seconds later it was whisking back the way it had come.
Frank turned to Gina. "We have to find the Gray Man right away. He's the only one who can help us rescue Joe."
"Yes," Gina agreed. "If Stavrogin was working on a government project, the Network might have copies of his notes. If we could get the copies from the Gray Man, the Assassins would let Joe go."
Frank stared at her. "That's not what I meant."
"But that's the only way to save Joe," Gina said.
"There has to be another way," Frank insisted. "There's no telling what the Assassins might do with the information in Stavrogin's papers."
"What other choice do we have?" Gina responded. "I'm sure the Gray Man would like to send in his crack team of commandos - but at the first sign of a Network agent, Bob, or whatever his name is, will kill Joe." She shivered. "Behind that smiling mask is a coldblooded killing machine."
"There's no point in arguing now," Frank said, reaching for the door to the motor home. "The first thing we have to do is find the Gray Man."
Frank stepped inside and froze. Someone was there waiting for them, sitting comfortably in a swivel chair.
"Come in and have a seat," the Gray Man said mildly. "We have a lot to talk about."
***
After Boris had thrown him back in the dark, dungeonlike room, Joe stumbled over to the cot and sat down heavily on it. No doubt about it, this was not one of his better days. He had no idea what the Assassins had done with Frank and Gina, and it was just starting to sink in that maybe they were in over their heads this time.
He shook his head and told himself to concentrate on his current problem: How was he going to escape? He touched the wall behind him. It was cold, damp, rough, and carved out of solid rock. There was no escape through that.
Then his eyes were attracted by thin streaks of light that seeped in around the door frame. The door was the only way out. He remembered it had a simple lock. Joe figured the room had probably been a storeroom, and the Assassins hadn't planned on running a prison, so they wouldn't have installed a fancy lock.
That was fine with Joe.
He moved over to the door, knelt down, and unlaced one of his high-top sneakers. Running his eye along the left edge of the door, he located the spot where the bolt crossed the narrow gap between the door and the frame. Digging in his pocket, he found a dime, which he carefully tied onto one end of the shoelace. He removed the gum in his mouth and applied a tiny bit to the dime to hold the shoelace in place. Holding the other end above the level of the bolt, he swung the shoelace slowly back and forth, making sure the dime slipped into the gap just below the bolt on each swing. He swung a little harder each time, the weight of the dime acting as a pendulum.
When Joe had the momentum and the timing just right, he gave the shoelace a sharp snap. The dime zipped through the crack, whipped up and around the bolt, and then sailed back through the gap and into Joe's free hand, bringing the other end of the shoelace with it.
Joe tugged the shoelace tightly over the bolt and then slowly pulled back on the top half of the lace without allowing any slack in the lace. He felt the bolt slip out of the notch.
He took a deep breath and tugged the line to the right. The bolt moved a fraction of an inch. He tugged again. The bolt moved a little more. Carefully he worked the bolt back until it cleared the lock plate on the door frame. Joe pushed the door open an inch and peered out into the tunnel. He couldn't see anyone in either direction. So far, so good. He stepped out of the room and started moving cautiously up the passageway.
When he reached the fork in the tunnel, he heard footsteps and low voices coming from the direction of the mine entrance. He had to get out of sight quickly. There was a door a short way down the other branch. He padded over to it, slid back the bolt, and opened the door just wide enough to slip inside. He pulled the door shut and held the handle tightly, hoping no one would notice or care that the door was unlocked.
"What do you want now?" a weary voice with a heavy Russian accent called out from behind him.
Joe spun around to see a tall, bony man hunched over a table littered with papers. He had a long face topped with a cloud of wavy white hair, and there were deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.
He leaned forward and studied Joe. "You are not one of them," he stated flatly.
"I'm not?" Joe responded, not sure if that was good or bad. This guy sure didn't look like a terrorist. The tan vest and rust red corduroy shirt he was wearing made him look more like a retired teacher on a fishing trip. Then Joe realized who he was. "Dr. Stavrogin?" he ventured in a hushed voice.
The white-haired man nodded. "And you are?"
Joe held a finger up to his lips and cocked his ear to the door. He didn't hear anything outside and decided he was safe for the moment.
"I'm Joe Hardy," he said as he walked over to the table. He glanced at the array of papers covered with equations, Greek letters, and symbols - none of which he could understand. He looked up at the physicist. "Would you mind telling me what this is all about?"
Stavrogin smiled weakly. "It's a long story."
"That's okay," Joe replied. "I've got plenty of time - I hope."
