Deathgame

by Franklin W. Dixon

  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 tho
ugh 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.

  Sand and dirt were spraying up everywhere as more and more guns joined in the firing. Mound after mound erupted with pop-up soldiers like a cardboard army of villainous jack-in-the-boxes. The roar of gunfire was continuous now. Bullets ricocheted off nearby rocks as Joe squirmed backward.

  Too late, he realized where he was.

  He was trapped in the middle of a target range—and he was the target!

  Chapter 4

  JOE HARDY SWEPT the back of his hand across his stinging cheek. A thin smear of dirt and blood rubbed onto his hand. He was already moving, rolling toward the nearest scrub grass-covered hill. Got to get out of here. Grab some cover, he kept repeating to himself.

  A new wave of gunshots smashed into the wooden figures. Bullets ripped through the dirt around him, even though he was clear of the clustered targets.

  He kept rolling, his world shrunk to that little hillock. A near miss sent sand spraying into his eyes. The noise was deafening. Keep moving! he urged himself.

  Joe heard shouting. It seemed very faint, under the staccato of gunfire. But he thought he recognized the voice — Brand's.

  "Ceasefire! Ceasefire!" Brand yelled, charging from the tour group toward the firing line. "Live target on range!"

  Only a few steps behind Brand, Frank Hardy raced toward the hill. They had reached the line of trainees now. The instructors had taken up the call of "Cease fire!"

  But Frank still heard shots. He knocked a rifle from one kid's hands.

  "Are you deaf?" he shouted furiously. "Can't you hear? You want to get somebody killed?"

  "Killed? What?" the kid asked, looking down at the gun in confusion.

  Brand strode off across the field. He shouted back to the counselors, "Secure all weapons from the trainees immediately. Make sure all weapons are unloaded."

  The counselors quickly followed his orders.

  "Sheriff, if you would kindly follow me!" Brand called without looking back.

  Frank didn't wait for an invitation. He followed in Sheriff Kraft's footsteps.

  Joe Hardy had continued to roll during Brand's cease-fire orders. That little hill has got to be near, he had thought, astonished that he hadn't been hit yet by a bullet.

  Then he realized that something had changed. The thunder had stopped.

  Joe was behind the tiny hill, flat on his back.

  He lay gasping as if he had run a marathon, blinking his sand-filled eyes.

  His vision slowly came back. The first thing he saw was a pair of combat boots striding toward him. Brand, Joe thought, shaking his head, trying to free his eyes of grit. I must be seeing things.

  But Brand was still there, towering over him. Joe stared up into dark eyes raging with fury. Brand's leathery fingers were curled into fists, ready to strike. But then the major glanced over the hill and forced himself to relax.

  He wanted to hit me. But not in front of witnesses! Joe thought.

  Frank and Sheriff Kraft rounded the hill.

  Brand spoke in a harsh, grating whisper. "Do you know you might have been killed?"

  Shakily, Joe got to his feet. If he had to have it out with this man, he'd do it standing up.

  "Sure, I figured that out right when I found out this wasn't the camp softball field. I didn't realize — "

  "Didn't realize?" Brand fumed. He looked at Sheriff Kraft. "I swear to you, Sheriff, we have never had an accident like this in the entire history of our camp. This area is cordoned off with barbed wire and is clearly marked as restricted — no trespassing allowed!" Brand looked back at Joe accusingly. "But, then again, we usually have only mature young men here, not lunatics!"

  "Say it!" Brand demanded. "Tell the sheriff. Admit that you saw the warning signs."

  "I did," Joe said quietly.

  "Then you purposely chose to disregard them. It isn't easy to get through that fence. You had to work at it to get yourself into such a dangerous situation. What could have possessed you?" Brand growled.

  Joe glared at him in frustration. I could say that I was looking for Biff, but that would sound phony. Especially since Brand just saved my tail.

  A counselor appeared beside Brand, removing his cap. He had wispy hair and on the right side of his scalp, a curved bald spot in the shape of a sickle. It was a scar from a very old wound — hair didn't grow over scar tissue.

  "All the weapons have been emptied and locked up, sir," he reported.

  "Thank you, Sergeant Collins," Brand said succinctly.

  As Collins did an about-face in the sand and started to return to the firing line, Joe caught a glimpse of something attached to his utility belt. It hung from a strap and slapped against his thigh as he walked — a pair of goggles.

  Dark rubber goggles with oddly shaped lenses.

  Octagonal? Was that a suggestion of silver on the dark rubber?

  Brand stepped in front of Joe, cutting off his sight line. "Come along."

  Joe moved to try to get another look at Collins, but by then the counselor was too far in the distance. I want another look at those goggles, he thought. He remembered the aftermath of that wild survival game, how Biff had slapped his thigh with his night-vision lenses, how the silver initials had glinted.

  Brand led them back toward the area where Mr. and Mrs. Hooper were still standing. He and the Sheriff were far enough ahead of the Hardys so that Joe could quickly tell Frank about the glasses on Collin's belt.

  "I wanted to demand to see them," Joe said. "But how could I? Brand's already got everyone convinced that I'm a dangerous hothead."

  "You gave him some help on that," Frank said, "blundering onto the target range."

  In fact, Brand was already pouring it on as they arrived. "Fortunately, most of our charges here understand the dangerous nature of weapons," Brand was saying. "They know that rifles are not toys. And they follow the strict rules that are laid down for their own safety."

  As they reached Mr. and Mrs. Hooper, Brand turned to Joe and attempted a smile. "I'm sorry if I was harsh with you," he said reasonably. "But you must understand that that was a foolish thing you did."

  "It's a mistake I won't make again," Joe promised.

  "Ah! I'm glad!" Brand said. He was really smiling now.

  "We've taken up enough of your time," Sheriff Kraft said. "Thanks for being so understanding. You can see how concerned the Hoopers are."

  "Certainly, Sheriff," Brand answered. "I only wish I could do more. Come, let me escort you back to the car." Brand walked off the firing line.

  Mrs. Hooper stopped and looked up at Joe, her eyes bleak.

&
nbsp; "Biff's not here." Her voice was hoarse. "I wish you hadn't been so certain we'd find him." Then she walked away blindly.

  Frank and Joe both stared at her back, wishing there was something they could say.

  "We'll find Biff," Frank called after her. "Whatever it takes."

  "Very admirable."

  Brand's voice startled the Hardys. They had not been aware that he had returned.

  "I like a man who doesn't desert his friends," Brand said as Frank and Joe followed him down the slope in the direction of the command center.

  They passed the blockhouse, then walked in silence to the police car. Before Joe climbed into the backseat, he stopped and looked back at Brand. He knew it wouldn't be the last time he'd tangle with that guy.

  If those were Biff's goggles, Joe told himself, then Brand knows Biff was here. And if Biff is or was here and then disappeared — well, then it looks like this place isn't all fun and games!

  "That was a real interesting tour," Sheriff Kraft said. "Much obliged."

  "Feel free to drop by again," said Brand as one professional to another.

  "Hey, maybe you'll see me again, too," Joe said blandly.

  "I'll look forward to it," Brand replied.

  Both meant more than they were saying. Under their words was a promise—and a threat.

  For a long moment, Joe met Brand's hard, cold stare. So this guy teaches people how to survive, he thought. The only question is, how well did Biff learn his lessons?

  Chapter 5

  "I'M NOT ARGUING with you, Joe," Frank Hardy said, sitting on one of the beds in their hotel room. He did not look up at his brother, who was pacing furiously. Instead, he tapped the Access key on his lap computer.

  "Well, then, you're not agreeing enough," Joe countered, stopping at the one window in the room.

  It was only nine-thirty that night, but the whole town of Clayton had shut down. There were neither cars on the street nor people on the sidewalks. Joe noticed a black van parked just beyond the glow of light thrown by the nearest street lamp.

  Frank tapped GRUNTS and then, ACCESS TO ROSTER FILE on the keyboard. "I know you feel responsible for Biff's disappearance." He was speaking almost absently as he worked on the computer. A grim smile appeared on his face as the first roster sheet of the Ultimo Survival Course appeared.