Trouble in the Pipeline (7 page)

"Who else do you know in Prudhoe?" Frank asked as Joe hurried to leave. "Wait a minute. Are you going to talk with Cindy?"

"That's for me to know, and you to find out." Joe grinned. "Catch you later."

He climbed into the helicopter. In a matter of minutes the chopper was a speck in the huge northern sky, and Frank was alone by the fire.

He stared into the flames, thinking. An image of buoys in some part of his mind kept insisting that this whole thing had something to do with the ocean.

Frank closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. But the fire and his rough day drugged him. Soon he was dozing. The flicker of the firelight played against his eyelids like a blinking light, like the safety buoys floating back home in Barmet Bay ....

Frank's eyes snapped open as he realized what was nagging him. He'd seen them twice. They'd found one on the plane, before they'd had to jump. Then there was the other one in the bunker at North Slope Supply.

He tried to call up an image of what they'd looked like. The one on the plane had a radio transponder. Well, that cinched it. That definitely explained why he kept thinking of the ocean. But why would anyone want or need a floating radio set?

Frank's head jerked back as he pulled himself totally awake. A floating radio could pinpoint the high-seas rendezvous for an airplane—or a submarine.

VIRGIL HAD HARDLY landed the chopper before Frank ran limping up to talk about his idea.

"You could be right," Virgil said. "Some of my friends think there's submarine activity up there."

"How would they know?" Frank asked.

"When things come out of a sub, they head up to the surface — oil, that kind of stuff," Virgil answered. "We'll see tomorrow."

They slept soundly and at midmorning set off in the helicopter for Virgil's fishing camp. The dogs were still there. Apparently someone came in to feed them every day while Virgil wasn't there. The boat was still sound and seaworthy, and soon they were chugging through the white-caps of the Arctic Ocean.

Virgil laughed as Tanook jumped aboard. "This dog loves fishing," he said.

The boat was sturdy, built more for endurance than speed. The engine was mounted on the back, and Virgil stored extra fuel and supplies under the seats. It was a craft made for the icy waters of the northern seas.

Frank sat in the center, Virgil at the stern, one hand on the tiller. Tanook took his station up front. He enjoyed the wind in his face, even though he did bark when hit by spray.

As they headed north Virgil tended to business, throwing out lines and catching fish. He threw them, dive, into the large wooden box in the middle of the boat. Some he would use for bait — others for food. One he threw to Tanook, who quickly gobbled it down.

"When autumn comes, all this will be dotted with pack ice," Virgil told Frank with a grin. "All the native people know. The best time to travel is in the wintertime Frank looked out over the black water. It was hard to imagine what it would look like a couple of months from then — white and frozen in the darkness of the Arctic winter.

After an hour of fishing Virgil pointed to a shiny spot on the water where the reflections from the sun were tinted with blue and red. "See that?" he called. "Oil. Not good for fish or seals!"

Frank had seen pictures of oil slicks in news magazines, but this wasn't the same. "It doesn't look very big," he said.

"Big enough," Virgil muttered bitterly. "This had to come from a big ship — a freighter or a submarine."

They continued north, past the slick, then past still another one. Virgil scanned the horizon silently. Frank, too, fell into silence, prickling with the feeling that they were not alone. Something was out there with them. But all he heard was the droning of their engine as they plowed north.

Virgil turned off the engine without warning. The complete silence was a shock to Frank. He looked at Virgil to see if everything was all right. Virgil just held up a finger to his lips to silence him. His ear was cocked into the wind and he was gazing at nothing.

"I think I hear something," he said after a moment. "Listen."

Frank caught only the sounds of waves slapping against the side of the boat and of the wind.

"What do you think it is?" Frank whispered.

"A boat, or maybe a plane," Virgil said. He remained perfectly still. "I think it's coming up from the south."

Frank was amazed at Virgil's hearing. At the fishing camp, he'd heard the approaching choppers minutes before anyone else. Now he'd picked out the sound of a distant engine over all the wind and water.

But Frank was the first to catch the glint of sunlight on the plane's wings. "There it is!"

It showed only as a tiny speck against the white of the overcast clouds. But it became clearer as it drew nearer. "It's a seaplane," Frank said, "with pontoons."

"Not many planes come out here prepared to land on the water." Virgil cranked up the engine again, pointing the boat due north and opening the throttle. The bow rose out of the water as the propellers bit into the sea.

"How can we race a plane?" Frank asked.

"We're ahead of it already, and we can keep an eye on it for quite a while," Virgil said. "If we line up with its course, sooner or later we're bound to come across it when it lands."

They continued on in silence. Virgil no longer fished—he wrapped up all his lines and stowed them.

A thought occurred to Frank. "Do we have enough fuel?"

Virgil glanced down at the tanks. "Depends on how long we have to go. We can keep on for a couple more hours."

Frank sat back to enjoy the ride. What more could he want? His leg was feeling better, he had the smell of salt water and the wind—and maybe answers for a lot of questions.

The plane was long out of sight, but after two hours of following its course they caught up with it. There it was, bobbing on the water in the middle of nowhere.

Frank tapped Virgil's arm. "Better turn off the engine. We don't want them to think we're spying on them."

"What if we're fishing?" Virgil said with a grin. "That shouldn't be suspicious." Throwing out some fishing lines, Virgil handed Frank a parka. "Pull the hood up," he suggested. ' 'They may have binoculars." ' Looking innocent and busy, Virgil started the engine, and they trolled slowly, moving constantly toward the seaplane. There was no sign of life either in or around it. Where was the pilot? As they got closer Frank's eyes narrowed.

"Hey, Virgil, that plane isn't moving around. I think it's anchored."

Virgil steered around it in a wide circle. After several minutes they were able to see the other side of the plane and they got a glimpse into the cockpit. Two men were inside, deep in conversation. They obviously hadn't seen the little fishing boat.

Bobbing up and down in the water, next to the plane, was a sea buoy with a radio transponder on it.

Frank grinned in triumph. "That could be the buoy they had on the plane we fell from, or one exactly like it. We may have tied these guys into the attempt to kidnap us. Now all we have to do is see what they're waiting for."

Virgil cut the engine and drifted. Because they were so low in the water, they were hidden by waves most of the time. They sat still with poles in their hands, but with both eyes on the plane.

Their work was soon rewarded, for the sea suddenly erupted yards from the plane. And a black hulking form lifted out of the waves like some sea behemoth. Frank and Virgil watched in stunned silence.

Shedding tons of seawater, the metal sea monster revealed itself to be the superstructure of a submarine. A hatch opened, and a man clambered along the sub's deck, holding a chain.

One of the men on the plane tossed a line to him, and he towed the plane up next to the sub.

A second man emerged from the hatch. Frank could see right away who it was. The sun picked out his blond hair, marking him as Sandy White.

"That's the guy who wired us to the polygraph," Frank whispered. "He's the president of North Slope Supply."

"Are you sure?" Virgil asked.

"Positive," Frank said. White was giving orders to the man who'd fastened the ropes. Then he stopped, his eyes scanning the horizon. Frank had the uncomfortable feeling that White had spotted them.

White moved to the plane and reached out. The pilot tossed him something. For a second White held his hands up to his eyes. Then he turned to the sailor, who quickly turned and disappeared down the hatch.

White's hands went back to his eyes. This time, sunlight reflected off the polished lenses. "Binoculars!" Frank said. "He has spotted us!"

A crew of four came tumbling out of the hatch, dragging something. Frank recognized it as an inflatable boat and an outboard motor.

"We'd better get out of here," he said. "If they catch us, White will recognize me."

"Okay, here we go," Virgil said.

He gunned the motor, turning the boat south as they heard another engine ripping into life behind them. "That sucker inflates fast," Virgil said.

Frank looked around, his mouth set in a straight line. "It moves fast, too."

The inflatable craft was tiny but high-powered. And it was gaining on them with every second.

WHEN JOE ARRIVED in Prudhoe, the first thing he did was change hotels once again and get some sleep. Then later that day he set himself up on a stakeout.

When quitting time came for Trans-Yukon, Joe was reading a newspaper, sitting on a low wall across the street from their offices. He kept his face covered while keeping an eye on the workers. Finally Cindy Velikov opened the heavy glass door and stepped out into the late-afternoon sunshine. She buttoned her coat as she strolled across town on foot.

Joe followed her, but it wasn't easy to keep his distance. Her steps were small compared to Joe's normal impatient stride. He had to force himself to maintain a leisurely gait and stop frequently, as though he were basking in the warm weather.

She went into a grocery store, but Joe didn't dare to go inside. When Cindy came out she had a small brown bag of groceries in her arms. She continued to walk, now into a residential area.

After a few more turns she walked up to the back door of a small red ranch house. Joe walked past. He went to the end of the block, checking to make sure he wasn't being tailed. Then he walked around to the back door and knocked.

She stood behind the screen, staring out at him. For a minute she didn't know Joe. Then, after she recognized him, she smiled broadly and opened the door.

"Joe Hardy!" She grinned.

Joe smiled back. "That's me," he said. "I hope you don't mind. I followed you home because I want to talk to you."

"No, I don't mind," she said. "Come in."

Cindy opened the door, and Joe stepped into the kitchen. The floor was terra-cotta tiles, and the appliances were all new. White cafe curtains covered half the window above the sink.

Cindy laughed. "What are you staring at?"

"Sorry," Joe said. "I guess I was a little surprised—your kitchen looks so modern."

"I guess you were expecting a log cabin with a water pump in the kitchen and an outhouse." Her eyes twinkled as she spoke. "We are part of the United States, you know - just bigger and better." She made a sweeping gesture with her hands, reminding Joe of what he'd said about New York City. They laughed.

"So, what would you like to talk to me about?" she asked.

Joe came straight out with it. "I want to find out about what's going on with your company."

Cindy nodded. "Okay," she said. "But I think we'd better take a walk. My father will be home soon, and I don't want him to hear this."

She picked up her coat, and they left through the kitchen door.

"Oops," Cindy said, turning around. "I'd better leave my dad a note, so he doesn't worry." She ducked into the kitchen again and was back a moment later.

They headed out to the street, both with their hands in their pockets. Joe spoke first.

"I never thanked you for warning us that night," he said. "Did you hear anything from your side about what happened to us?"

Cindy shrugged. "No. I thought you'd left the state."

"We almost did—the hard way. A bunch of guys jumped us and threw us on a plane. We barely escaped."

"You should have left when I warned you." Cindy turned to Joe. "My boss isn't a very nice man."

"So why do you work for him?"

"Jobs aren't so easy to get up here. I've had this one for a few years, and I'm saving money to go to college." She shrugged. "And Mr. Hammond wasn't always this way."

"What way? He seems friendly."

"Sure, he's friendly. But I think he's involved in something crooked. He's been hiring weird people we don't need, and firing men who've worked for him for years. The place has really changed over the last six months."

"How do you know all this?" Joe asked.

"I update the personnel records, so I see. everything that's going on. Mr. Hammond thinks I don't pay any attention, but I do. We were letting people go because of money problems, then all this weird hiring began.

"But I can't prove that anything wrong is going on," Cindy continued. "And also, no one who's suspicious wants to be labeled as a trouble maker. This is a small town," she said, glancing around at the little houses that lined the streets. "And we have just a few big companies. Mr. Hammond is a powerful person here. He knows all the other bosses. If the men who got fired grumble too loudly, they won't get any work."

Joe saw what he was up against. "You said it wasn't always like this — so who changed things? Who's spreading the bribes around?"

"I have no idea." Cindy shook her head. "At first I thought it was just a trickle of guys from the lower forty-eight states, up here looking for work. In hard times, they'll pay for their first job."

"Does that make sense?" Joe asked, trying to imagine how anyone could afford to do such a thing.

"For some of them, it does. When jobs are scarce up here, people are willing to do just about anything. See, the pay is very high. If you're willing to live cheaply here, you can save quite a bit."