Trouble in the Pipeline (3 page)

Frank found a smooth, flat place at the foot of a huge rock. It was out of the wind and close to the river, so they'd have plenty to drink. Joe ran back for the parachute and, using his pocket-knife, cut it in half to make a tent. The remaining material would serve as bedding—on a mattress of moss, parachute wouldn't be a bad blanket.

"What's for breakfast?" Joe asked once their shelter was set up. He looked at his watch. It was three o'clock in the morning, and the sky was still filled with light.

"Well, you can have moss with water, or lichen with a few roots shredded on top," Frank joked. They stood for a moment, looking for a place to search out something to eat.

"Look over there," Joe said, pointing upstream. "See that bunch of bushes? We've got firewood, at least."

Frank turned to see a cluster of dead alders by the river's edge. "Great," he said. "Now all we need is something to cook."

"How about fish?" Joe smiled.

"But how are you — ?"

"Wait. A little trust, please. Genius at work."

Joe whipped his belt off, cut the buckle away, then pried its pin free. He began to rub the small piece of metal back and forth until he'd sharpened it into a point. With another rock he gently hammered the pin into a hook shape.

"There you go — one grade-B, size-ten fishhook," he declared, proudly holding it up for Frank to see.

"All right," Frank said. "Now let's tie some string to it and — uh - oh, no string."

Joe held up a finger. "It's a good thing I'm here." He yanked up some clumps of sparse grass and began braiding it into a few feet of line.

While Joe was busy, Frank hunted for bait. Among the alders he found grubs.

Joe dropped the baited hook into the stream and it quickly disappeared under the swift water.

The line twitched almost instantly. Then, in a flash, there was a fierce tug, and the line was pulled tight.

"I've got a bite," Joe yelled excitedly.

"Get him in fast," Frank called. "Don't give him time to bite the line or rub it on a rock!"

Joe walked straight back from the edge of the ' river, holding his hands high above his head. The fish followed and flopped onto the rocky bank — a huge, fat northern pike.

Frank scooped up the fish in his bare hands. Removing the hook, he held it up.

"Must be at least four pounds," Joe gloated, coming over for a closer look. While Frank built a fire, Joe cleaned the catch, casually tossing the guts toward the stream.

After building a little grill out of wet alder sticks, they roasted the fish quickly. The meat was moist and flavorful and hot enough to burn their fingers as they picked it apart. Just as they were finishing, the quiet of the sunlit night was interrupted by the sound of someone splashing along the river's edge. A large brown bear.

"Got the revolver?" Joe whispered. "In the tent," Frank said, not taking his eyes ' from the lumbering beast. "I'll get it." He moved quickly and silently and returned holding the gun down by his thigh. "I don't know if it'll do much damage in this case."

"You may be right." Joe kept his eyes on the bear, who continued waddling downstream toward them. "It'd probably do just enough to make him mad. Is it a grizzly?" "Looks like it," Frank answered. "It's got that kind of silver fur around its throat." He glanced at the fire. "It probably smelled the fish. Where'd you put the guts?"

"I threw them in the — " Joe stopped suddenly, staring. The fish guts had landed on a nearby rock. "Uh - oh."

"Nice going," Frank said. "Let's sneak into the tent. Maybe he'll eat the guts and go away."

They inched backward toward the tent. The bear came right up to the fish guts. In one gulp, he licked them up. Then, twitching his nose, he headed for what was left of the fish beside the fire.

"He's coming nearer," Joe whispered, eyes wide.

The bear had obviously caught Joe's and Frank's scents. Abruptly it rose up on its hind legs, throwing a shadow thirty feet long that fell like night over the boys. No one breathed. Time was frozen for a second.

Then Frank raised the gun. The movement attracted the beast, and the unnatural silence was shattered with one giant roar as the grizzly began its charge!

FRANK STOOD HIS ground and, arms extended, took careful aim before squeezing off a single shot. Nothing! Only a click — the gun was jammed. The bear kept coming.

Then a second later a gunshot blast cut through the air. Frank and Joe didn't stop to think where it had come from because their eyes were still on the bear. It quit its attack, stood on its hind legs, and rolled its massive head to find the distraction. Coming up the riverbank were a man and a dog. The man had a rifle in his hands, pointed straight up. Another gunshot, and the bear whoofed once and fled.

The man waved, and the Hardys managed a quick nod of their heads. Holding his rifle casually at waist level, the man trotted toward them with the dog at his side.

"Hello!" the man greeted the boys. "You had a little scare there, eh?"

As he got closer Frank and Joe could see that he was a native Alaskan. His face was a perfect circle of copper-colored leather that had to have taken many years outdoors to acquire. Squinting in the sunlight, his shiny black-pebble eyes were surrounded by deep lines.

"I thought we were dead. Thanks," Frank said simply, and extended his hand in greeting. "Boy, were we glad to see you."

The man laughed and then shook his head. "Not much you can do when a bear's hungry."

"I guess not," Joe said, glancing upstream to make sure the bear had really gone. He saw only the river and the endless barren hills.

"Are you hunting?" the man asked, looking them over skeptically.

"Uh, not exactly," Frank said.

"I hope not. Not in those clothes," the stranger remarked, pointing to their sneakers. "Need some help?"

They nodded eagerly. "Guess you could say that. We don't even know where we are. We had an emergency and had to jump from our plane."

The man scanned the area without speaking. He thought he might see the wreckage of a crash. "Too bad. You both okay?" was all he said. He obviously didn't want to pry.

"Yeah, we're okay. Just a little tired. We'd like to get to Prudhoe," Joe said. "Do you know the way?"

"No problem. I'm a hunting and fishing guide. My name's Virgil Asuluk."

Frank and Joe breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm Joe Hardy, and this is my brother, Frank."

"Pleased to meet you. This is Tanook. He's a lead dog. Very good animal." Tanook was a large, silvery husky, with the big chest and broad head characteristic of his breed. When Virgil began to walk off, Tanook sprang to his side.

They picked up their parachute and followed Virgil along the river. He explained that one of his fishing camps was at the mouth of the river. "My helicopter is there. I'll fly you back to Prudhoe."

"Helicopter?" Joe asked.

"Times have changed. We have planes and snowmobiles. But we also keep our good friends, like Tanook."

The dog barked once at his name, and a helicopter circled them lazily.

The Hardys explained why they were in Alaska as they trudged along.

"Those companies are not good," Virgil said, shaking his head when he'd heard their story. "Often they won't hire the Aleut or the Athapas-kan, and we make complaints." He explained to the Hardys about the different tribes of Indian and Eskimo peoples in the north. "Sometimes you have to pay to get a job." His eyes were open wide to emphasize the shock.

"That's what our friends found out. And one got chased home, and the other one has disappeared. Now we've been kidnapped and almost killed. It looks as if it might be more serious than just kickbacks for jobs." Frank was grim as he marched along, matching his pace to Virgil's.

"Not good, not good." Virgil shook his head and paused. "You must find your friend."

An hour later they came to a small flat plain at the mouth of the river. Across the open space a dozen tethered dogs barked happily to greet their master. Strips of raw fish were hung out on large wooden racks to dry in the sun. A fishing boat lay on its side in the grass, and a red and white helicopter stood off by itself like a giant, futuristic insect.

Virgil led the Hardys to the chopper. He climbed up on the strut and put his rifle inside. Then he turned the ignition key to activate the battery. Rock music boomed out of the open door. Virgil grinned. "New speakers—put them in myself."

"Great." Joe's eyes shone. The thought of whipping through the sky on the wings of full-blast rock 'n' roll was kind of exciting.

"I have lots of tapes. You can pick what you like for the trip later." Virgil shut down the system. "But right now let's get you something warm to drink."

He led the way toward a small sod hut that had grass sprouting on its roof. Some rough wooden beams framed the door and the small windows on each side of the structure. A chimney seemed to grow out of the roof.

"Come in, come in," Virgil said, ducking through the door and gesturing for them to follow. Inside it was dark but warm and comfortable. The floor was hard-packed dirt. Hunting and trapping equipment hung on the dried mud walls, along with beautifully carved fishing spears. Six cots were stacked neatly on top of one another in one corner. Virgil went to the cast-iron stove and opened it up.

"I'll get this going a little better. Tea okay?" They both nodded.

"I bring folks here for the fishing," Virgil explained as he busied himself with the tea. "Every month in the summer I have a new group."

He chatted about his copter and the fish and game as the Hardys quietly sipped the hot, sweet tea.

Abruptly in the middle of a good fishing story Virgil stopped, his head bent toward a window and his eyes unfocused. He was listening. "Someone is coming." Frank and Joe heard nothing, but they followed Virgil outside. The dogs were all standing up and looking in the same direction. Virgil stared off into the sky.

"What are we supposed to be hearing?" Frank asked.

"A chopper — maybe more than one," Virgil said. "Maybe someone looking for you?" He looked at them intently.

Frank shrugged. "Could be," he said. He and Joe exchanged nervous glances.

"I hear it now," Frank said. They watched as Virgil lifted his arm to the sky.

"There they are, three of them!"

The dogs began to whimper with excitement, but Virgil didn't seem to notice. He kept his eyes on the choppers.

"Are they coming here?" Joe asked.

"Don't know," Virgil said, shading his eyes. "Looks like they're flying a search pattern. They're moving slow and low to the ground."

The distinctive shuddering whirr of helicopter rotors, grew louder and louder. The choppers were zigzagging back and forth, but Frank realized they were probably following the path of the river.

"Hmm," Virgil said, slightly surprised. "I think I recognize them." He squinted into the sun. "Yes—North Slope Supply. I thought they went out of business."

"What are they?" Joe asked.

"A small company," Virgil replied, still keeping his head raised to the approaching craft. "Small construction projects — they work for larger companies as subcontractors."

Frank and Joe nodded. The choppers must have noticed the camp, since they were coming toward them. The hovering machines couldn't have been more than a hundred feet above the ground.

Frank and Joe could see the North Slope Supply logo emblazoned across the sides of all three copters. The noise became almost unbearable as the choppers came closer. The wind from the whirling blades felt hard and unpleasant against their faces.

When the copters were about forty feet above the ground, the side door on one of them slid open abruptly. A man stood framed against the interior darkness. In his hands was a submachine gun with a string of shiny brass cartridge cases flying from the chamber.

Flaming death was spitting from the gun's muzzle, and it was aimed at the boys and Virgil.

FRANK AND JOE lunged directly under the hovering chopper to get out of the line of fire. Virgil sprinted for the sod house, zigzagging across the open space. Unable to take aim at the Hardys, the man in the chopper followed Virgil with his heavy weapon.

His bullets stitched the earth, but because of the position of the chopper and Virgil's quick and erratic movements a hit was impossible. The Hardys could hear the gunner yelling at the pilot to spin the copter around.

As the bird began its turn Joe pointed to the fishing boat lying on its side. They dashed from under the shadow of the chopper, ducking and weaving as Virgil had. Halfway to the boat they were hit with clods of earth as bullets ripped up the ground behind them. The chopper was zeroing in—and fast. The sound of the copter got louder, and they could feel the shadow on their backs.

"Hit the dirt," Joe yelled. They dove apart, belly-flopping on the ground and rolling away as a burst of fire marched between them. The chopper overshot, and they sprang the last few yards to the cover of the fishing boat.

Catching their breath, they peered around the craft to see what was happening. The choppers must have been talking to one another by radio. The machine gun was silent as the chopper hovered nearby. The other two were hovering out of firing range.

Suddenly the copter on the attack flashed toward the sod hut. Frank and Joe saw Virgil running around to the back of the house with a fishing spear in his hand. The attack chopper was stalking him.

Keeping the house between himself and the enemy above, Virgil was playing a cat-and-mouse game with the machine gunner. He ran, luring the chopper this way and that. Then he'd duck inside or leap through a window just as the gunner must have thought he had a clear shot. Once Virgil disappeared, the pilot had to guess where he'd jump out next and maneuver the helicopter into position.

Virgil burst through a window and rolled across the ground with a spear.

The chopper was caught out of position, and Virgil jumped up and ran to its blind side. In a split second he snapped the spear forward. The razor-sharp projectile left his hand with the force of a missile and pierced the fiberglass housing on the chopper's engine, burying itself in the gearbox.