Trouble in the Pipeline (10 page)

"This is perfect," Joe said. "We can get some sleep here, and we won't have to worry about being seen." He began to spread out his parachute.

"You mean you're going to try to sleep here?" Cindy asked in disbelief. "It's so rocky!"

"It's perfect. Protected, cozy — we've even got blankets."

Joe lay down on his parachute and then rolled himself up in it. Cindy reluctantly did the same. They were so tired that despite the rocks and the roar of the wind they were both sound asleep in a few minutes.

They were awakened in the morning by the whirr of an approaching helicopter. Crouching close to their rock, Joe and Cindy watched as the chopper landed on the desolate mountaintop a few yards away from them. Four men got out, including Spike Hammond. They stood around their silent copter, staring off into the sky.

A few minutes passed. Another chopper came rattling in from the north and landed even closer to Joe. He crept around the boulder to get a look inside the pilot's bubble. The pilot was alone— but Joe did see a MAC-10 submachine gun leaning up against the copilot's seat.

As Joe watched, the pilot grabbed a large leather bag off the floor and hopped out, leaving the engine on and the door open. Joe didn't recognize him. He walked over to Spike Hammond and shook hands. Joe tried to hear what they were saying, but the roar of the engine and the thrumming blades made it impossible.

Hammond and the pilot talked for a minute or so, then the pilot handed Hammond the bag. Apparently Hammond wanted to check it out. He set the bag down, undoing a buckle that held it closed. Joe took a chance. Leaning farther around the boulder, he tried to get a look inside the bag. When Hammond tipped it over, Joe got a glimpse. It was filled with money.

He decided to act.

"Stay down. If anything happens, hide out until the weather pilot sends someone to look for us," he whispered to Cindy.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, staring at him, eyes like saucers.

"I've got to stop them. I can't hear what they're planning, but it can't be anything good. I've got to do something."

Cindy grabbed his arm. "But, Joe, there's no one to help you!"

"I can't wait." Joe's face was grim as he pulled away.

Carrying his parachute slung over his shoulder, he ducked around the rock and sprinted for the nearest chopper. As he neared it he threw the chute up into the slowly rotating blades. The nylon caught in the rotors, fouling the engine. It sputtered to a halt, and Joe grabbed the MAC-10 inside. Then, coming around the fuselage of the chopper, he took command of the startled group.

"On the ground, all of you!" Joe shouted, pointing the submachine gun at them. The five conspirators froze in shock.

"Now!" Joe squeezed the trigger, sending a hail of bullets into the air just above their heads. They dove for the ground like soldiers in a drill.

Cautiously, Joe stepped out from behind the helicopter. He kept the gun level as he moved to recover the bag. Just as he was reaching for it he caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye.

Great, Joe thought. He could see a figure at the far end of the summit — a human silhouette moving against the gray of the sky.

Joe kept moving as if he hadn't noticed a thing, his eyes flashing from his prisoners to the bag to the oncoming figure.

His hand tightened on the grip of the MAC-10. He calculated he had about two seconds to whirl, nail the ambushers, then return to cover the men on the ground.

"DON'T SHOOT!" A familiar voice cried out as Joe whipped around. But Joe was already triggering the submachine gun.

At the last moment he jerked up the short barrel, and the figure flattened itself against the ground. The deadly spray of bullets flew into the blank silver sky.

"Hold your fire, Joe! It's me, Frank!" Joe would have a hard time identifying his brother. Frank lay flat with his cheek against the moss. But his voice was unmistakable.

"Frank, you maniac. I could've killed you!" Joe said, half-scolding, half-delighted. But this wasn't the time for a chat. As soon as his attention had been distracted from the prisoners, they had started for their revolvers.

"Hold it right there!" Joe ripped off another round of automatic fire, tearing up some of the tufts of moss between the prone figures.

"Don't anyone move a muscle," he ordered.

Frank stood up and approached Joe with the revolver he'd taken from the man on the iceberg. Virgil came over the lip of the mountain with Tanook at his side. When he saw the number of men on the ground, he looked amazed.

"How'd you get here?" Frank asked.

"It's a long story. Hammond had a tail on Cindy. Some thug of his tried to bring us in—I got him to talk. What happened to you? I saw your boat bobbing out on the ocean."

"That's the least of it," Frank said. "We saw lots of interesting stuff, including Sandy White on a submarine. I think you might call North Slope an offshore company."

"I guess so, if the head office is in a submarine," Joe joked. "But it begins to explain why he was so interested when we mentioned the Network. That might make a foreign agent nervous."

Frank nodded. "Especially if the foreign agent was spreading bribe money around and kidnapping people. But we still don't know what he's up to or how Scott fits in. Maybe we can find out from the guy who brought the payoffs."

Joe pointed to the skinny, dark pilot with the stubbly beard who'd stepped out of the chopper. "He's the one. I fouled his rotor with my parachute and, uh, borrowed this gun from his copter. That bag over there is full of money."

"Keep me covered," Frank said. "I'm going to ask a few questions." He took a step, limping slightly, but suddenly spun around. Something had moved behind a boulder on the edge of the summit. He dropped into a crouch, aiming his revolver.

"Don't, Frank. It's Cindy. I forgot to tell you she was with me."

Cindy came out from behind the boulder, looking nervously at Frank.

"Joe, you should have told me. I almost shot her! Sorry, Cindy," he said, apologizing. She smiled weakly. "Maybe you can help us fill in some details."

"I'll do my best," Cindy said, looking at Spike Hammond, whose face had gone beet red.

But Frank ignored the construction boss, concentrating on the man who'd brought the money. Leaning over the guy, he asked, "Are you ready to talk?"

The man continued to lie facedown on the ground. "I have nothing to say."

"We'll see about that," Frank said. "What are you doing here?"

"What does it look like? I'm giving this man some money."

"What for?" Frank asked.

"It's my job," the man snarled into the dirt. "I fly a chopper and make deliveries."

"Where's Scott Sanders?"

"Who's that?"

"We saw him in the office building at North Slope headquarters."

"If you saw him, why ask me where he is?"

Frank was getting nowhere. This guy wouldn't give away anything. In fact, he didn't even look at Frank. He kept his gaze flat on the ground.

Time to change tactics, Frank decided. "What about you, Mr. Hammond?" he asked, turning to the large, redheaded man. "Guess you can't keep pretending you don't know what's going on, can you?"

"I'd like to know what you think you're doing," Hammond blustered, "bursting in on an innocent business meeting, hijacking — "

"Innocent?" Frank cut in. "Do you usually hold meetings on mountaintops—with people delivering bags of money?" He looked around the bare slope. "Or maybe this is the Bank of Sawtooth, and this fellow is the head teller."

Hammond said nothing. He was obviously feeling very uncomfortable.

"Do you know who this guy is?" Frank prodded Hammond, pointing at the skinny bag man.

"No, I don't," Hammond snapped back.

"If you want to keep lying on this cold ground, that's fine with me," Frank said. "But you might try being a little more helpful. So you don't know this guy personally. How about the people he's working for? I'd guess you'd check out an organization before doing business with it — even if it's dirty business. Who are they, and what are they up to?"

Hammond shifted his gaze warily. "I — uh, we tried, and got no—" Then his face hardened. "I don't see why I should tell you anything, just because you come along with a cock-and-bull story about a submarine."

"A submarine that I saw Sandy White, the president of North Slope Supply, climb out of. He saw us, too, and sent a couple of thugs after me and my friend here," Frank said.

"Well, that doesn't mean anything!" Hammond's voice was loud, but his tone was worried.

"Come on, Hammond. White isn't using that sub to set up underwater oil wells. He's using it as a base. And if he can afford a submarine, it means there's a pretty big organization behind him—like a government. How many unfriendly governments are close to Alaska?"

The big businessman's face went pale as this sank in.

"So, we've got a foreign agent handing around lots of money. What does he get in return?"

"North Slope asked if we could put some of their guys on our payroll, that's all. We were hurting, and they gave us a cheap loan—in several installments. What's the harm in that?"

"No harm, except to the guys you had to fire— and to the morale of the rest of your workers, who hoped for promotions," Frank said.

"It happens all the time," Hammond said. "You have a friend whose nephew needs a job, so you help out—knowing he'll help you out on a deal down the line. That's the way it works."

"I guess White must have quite a few nephews," Frank shot back. "You're accepting money for these guys, and you don't even know who they are!"

"I don't need to know," Hammond replied. "They aren't hurting anybody."

"Oh, no? They attacked and threatened a friend of ours, kidnapped another, and tried to kill us. Remember how you called White to tell him about us?"

Hammond glared at Cindy when he heard this.

Frank stepped in front of him. "Your pals from North Slope grabbed us and stowed us aboard a plane heading into the Arctic Ocean. It was going to drop the signal buoy for the sub's rendezvous." He stared hard at Hammond. "And you know what? They were going to drop us right along with it."

"I — I didn't know," Hammond said, still more shaken.

"He can't prove a thing," the bagman suddenly spoke up. "Who would listen to this wild story about submarines and spies?"

"How about you, Hammond?" Frank asked.

"Are you beginning to have your doubts about your friends? What jobs are you selling to them?"

"Little stuff," Hammond finally answered, his face torn with doubt. "Cleaning, inspection, pipeline security—stuff like that."

"These all sound like pretty menial jobs," Frank said. "Do you really believe a company would want to stick their people in them?"

Hammond's face showed he didn't think so— now. "I didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth," he admitted. "And we needed the money."

Now it was the bagman's turn to glare. "If you had kept your mouth shut — "

"No, I just kept my nose shut," Hammond said. "This whole deal stank, but my managers and I went along with it. Well, now I've got an idea where you come from — so what are you guys up to?"

"Your guesses are still far off," the man said, his sneer taking in both Hammond and Frank. "It doesn't matter. Your greed and foolishness have allowed us to get in place for our task."

"You dirty little — " Hammond lunged for the bagman, but Frank stopped him.

"Okay, that's enough. Everybody up. We'll get the whole story soon enough, after we get to the authorities and — " He stopped in midsentence. The bagman was writhing in convulsions on the ground.

"You'll never stop us!" he hissed. "And your authorities will never question me!"

Frank dropped to his good knee. But the bagman had already stopped moving—he lay rigid. Frank pried open the man's mouth, recoiling from a sharp stink. What looked like a dental filling fell out, a big piece — the whole crown of a tooth.

"Look at this!" Frank picked up the filling and held it up. Joe came forward cautiously, his weapon still trained on Hammond and his men.

His eyes opened wide in disbelief. "A hollow tooth!" he whispered.

"Obviously, it was holding a suicide pill," Frank said, his face grim.

"More spy stuff," Joe said, shaking his head.

But Frank Hardy's face grew grimmer. "Think for a second, Joe. What group has standing orders for its people to die rather than be captured?"

Joe looked even more unbelieving. "You're not thinking — the Assassins?"

They'd run into the Assassins before. In fact, this group of terrorists-for-hire had sent the Hardys on the most painful case of their career. An Assassin bomb had wiped out Iola Morton, Joe's girlfriend, in a ball of flame.

"Assassins—in Alaska?" Joe muttered. "Hard to take. But if you're right, we've got big trouble."

"Not just us," Frank said. "The whole country could be in for a bad time."

"What do you mean?"

A shiver ran down Frank's back. "Think about it. We all depend on the oil from the pipeline. And right now the whole maintenance staff— security and all—has been infiltrated by terrorists."

SPIKE HAMMOND ROSE up on his knees, staring at the dead bagman. The businessman was obviously upset — he was terribly pale.

"Terrorists?" he mumbled. "Attacking the pipeline?"

Hammond looked as if someone had kicked the world out from under him. "You know, I always prided myself on being a working man, successful in business, going for the American dream. I started out as a roughneck in an oilfield, then worked my way up in the construction business. I thought I'd made it. . . ."

His voice tightened. "Then things went bad. The company lost money, we needed cash. And this deal came along." Hammond looked down again at the lifeless terrorist and then buried his face in his hands. The rest of his men looked on in stunned silence.

"I can't believe this," Hammond muttered through his hands. "I never thought ... "

"That's just it," Joe said. "You never thought! Now what do you think? Do you realize the size of your mistake?"