Danger Zone

by Franklin W. Dixon

  "He told us he would be in an important research meeting," Frank insisted. "I'm sure this is the place he mentioned."

  Straeger smiled. "Ah. He probably said the Center for Environmental Research. Often people confuse us. You see, we're not actually a research organization, but rather a clearinghouse of sorts. We evaluate research proposals for the government."

  Before Frank could reply, Straeger held up his hand. "It certainly isn't my job to make your search difficult, though. And in my advancing years my mind has been known to slip." He led them back to the desk, where he told Muldoon, "Let these two young men read the logbook."

  With a wink Straeger walked back to his office.

  Frank and Joe scoured the book's entries for the last week, but Straeger was right. Fenton Hardy had not signed in.

  "What'd I tell you?" Muldoon grumbled as the brothers turned to walk away.

  ***

  Next stop was Prometheus Computing, a small complex of squat brick buildings connected to one another. Over the entrance of the main building was a carving of a man chained to a rock on the top of a mountain. Above him vultures wheeled in the air, preparing to pounce. But the man was oblivious to them as he hunched over a computer and typed furiously. The word Prometheus was carved underneath him.

  "The Beast would be at home here," Joe remarked.

  As at Foreman Aerospace, the buildings were surrounded by a fence with a guard booth. Frank and Joe drove up to see a young uniformed guard fiddling with a laptop computer on his table.

  "Checkmate!" the man shouted, punching his fist in the air.

  "Uh, excuse us," Frank said.

  The man's face reddened when he saw Frank and Joe. "Sorry. I just beat the machine at chess for the first time in my life!"

  "Great," Frank said without enthusiasm. "Listen, we need to see a man named Fenton Hardy. Is he here today?"

  The guard fell silent for a moment. His eyes darted from Frank to Joe. "May I ask why you're here?"

  Joe practically lunged over to the driver's window. "He's here, isn't he?" he said, his voice charged with excitement and relief.

  The man stared back warily. "Uh, just a minute. Don't go away." Keeping his eyes on Frank and Joe, he picked up a phone and mumbled something into it. He nodded twice, then hung up.

  In front of them the gate swung open. "Take a right, then a left into courtyard B," the guard said.

  Frank followed the instructions, coming to a solid metal gate marked B that lifted slowly. A quadrangle of grass was revealed, surrounded by four ivy-covered walls. It was completely empty.

  From behind them another guard appeared as if from nowhere. "Go ahead," he urged. "Someone'll meet you inside."

  Frank gave his brother an uncomfortable look. Joe shrugged back, and they drove inside.

  The van jounced as it went over the grass. In the middle of the quadrangle Frank turned the engine off.

  "What is this?" Joe asked, looking around. "Where's Da - "

  They both spun around at a loud metallic boom behind them. The metal gate had crashed to the ground, sealing off the exit.

  Then came the slapping noises. Each window in the building was being thrown open, and from the second floor up long ropes flopped to the ground.

  "I think we have visitors," Frank said.

  Suddenly the walls of the building came alive. Clutching the ropes, a dozen people rappeled downward. Within seconds they dropped to the ground and surrounded the van.

  Frank gulped. The commando uniforms weren't very welcoming, nor were the flak vests and gas masks.

  But the worst - definitely the worst - were the submachine guns pointed at their heads!

  Chapter 7

  "Come out of that van with your hands up!" a voice bellowed out of a small black speaker behind them. Then the echo off the courtyard walls spoke the same words again.

  Frank and Joe reached for their door handles, but before they could open them one of the commandos had stepped forward. "What are you doing here?" he demanded."

  Frank and Joe turned toward the man as he ripped off his gas mask in one easy gesture.

  Joe's eyes widened. Frank felt his heart skip a beat.

  Frank opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a puny-sounding "Dad?"

  Fenton Hardy had a look that defied definition. It was amused and baffled and angry.

  "What are we doing here?" Joe repeated. He shifted uncomfortably. "Well, uh, to tell you the truth, that's what we wanted to ask you."

  A half smile crept across Mr. Hardy's face. He looked to his right and left and gave a hand signal. "It's all right," he said. "These are my sons."

  Around him the black-clad figures slowly lowered their guns.

  Frank and Joe nodded awkwardly to them as they climbed out of the van. Many of the guards mumbled greetings as they turned back toward the building.

  "Special security force," Mr. Hardy said to Frank and Joe. "Not bad for a few days' training, eh?"

  Before either of them could answer, another voice boomed in the courtyard. "May I ask what on earth's going on?"

  To their left, an overweight man in a three-piece suit trotted awkwardly toward them on obviously flat feet. His face was red with exertion, and the bottom of his white shirt bulged from under his vest.

  Mr. Hardy exhaled with resignation. "That's Winthrop, the security chief. He's still sore because the Prometheus top brass went over his head to hire me as an independent contractor." He turned to face the approaching man.

  "False alarm, Mr. Winthrop. My boys decided to come for an unexpected visit."

  "I see," Mr. Winthrop said, giving Frank and Joe a cursory nod. "Perhaps, Mr. Hardy, your little SWAT team is being a bit overzealous. Besides, I thought your agreement was to remain incognito."

  Joe blurted out, "This is a family emergency, sir. Something has happened to our mother. We'll explain in a minute, Dad," he said, trying to reassure his father.

  Fenton Hardy cocked an eyebrow at his son and wrinkled his forehead, but he knew he had to wait until Winthrop left for his explanation.

  Mr. Winthrop fidgeted, looking from Fenton Hardy to his sons. He seemed to be trying to decide whether to be suspicious or sympathetic.

  He made up his mind quickly when he saw the van.

  Narrowing his eyes at Joe, he said, "It looks like you had a little trouble on the way here."

  Joe looked back and cringed. In the haste to reach his dad he hadn't thought of the van's appearance. Its side, riddled with bullets from the previous evening's attack, looked as if it had come through a war zone.

  While he searched for an alibi Mr. Hardy stepped in. "I'm surprised at you, fellas. When you said you bought a van at an auction, I didn't think it was going to look like this!"

  "Sorry, Dad," Frank said, taking his lead. "We're still waiting for the shop to give us an estimate."

  "Well, never mind," Mr. Hardy replied, urging his sons toward the van. "There are more important things to think about. Excuse us, Mr. Winthrop."

  "Wait - you're not going to - just a minute!" Mr. Winthrop sputtered as the three Hardys jumped into the van. "I can't be responsible for all your personnel! Why, I don't even know them!"

  "Introduce yourself!" Fenton Hardy called from the van with a grin. "I'm sure you'll all get along. I'll be back as soon as I can."

  "This is highly irregular!" Mr. Winthrop shot back. "It's not in my contract to play nursemaid to your - your commando troops!"

  Mr. Winthrop's final words were lost in the van's engine noise as Frank did a quick U-turn and headed toward the metal gate. Mr. Hardy pulled a remote-control device out of his pocket and aimed it out the windshield. As Frank sped through the opening gate he caught a final glimpse of a furious Mr. Winthrop in his rear-view mirror.

  ***

  " ... So we figure they jabbed glass into our tire so they could get Mom." Frank and Joe had just finished detailing their mom's kidnapping and the events surrounding it. The van was on the highway heading south now. Th
e boys had taped clear plastic over the open window so the trip back would at least be warm.

  "All we can do is get back on time and hope for the best," Fenton Hardy said, looking at his wristwatch. "We'll make it if we don't hit traffic."

  "Does any of this make sense to you, Dad?" Frank asked. "Could it have anything to do with whatever you're doing up here?"

  Mr. Hardy nodded. "I'm sure it does. Prometheus is sitting on something very hot right now. One of their teams has devised a revolutionary computer chip using a new super conductive material. It'll make the most powerful chip of today look like a rusty abacus - and it'll be smaller and cheaper. 'Battlechip,' they call it. Hard to believe, but the future of artificial intelligence is right here in Marfield."

  "And it was being guarded by good old Mr. Winthrop. No wonder the company hired you," Joe said, trying to get his dad to talk and keep his mind off his wife's kidnapping.

  "Actually, Winthrop is one of the best around," Mr. Hardy said, "so when an intruder managed to get by his people in the research building, the head office got nervous. They called me the next day, and my arrival turned out to be just in time. We got there in the middle of a raid. We sent the goons running. They didn't know what had hit them."

  "Did you find out who they were?" Frank asked.

  Mr. Hardy shook his head. "As soon as they knew the odds were against them they left in a hurry. It was obviously a well-planned operation. The only clue we have is a couple of phone calls from the same voice that called you. He sounded like Frankenstein in a blender."

  "That's the guy," Joe replied. "And whoever it is has been on our tail since we left Bayport. We did our best to shake him - ripped out his bug, took all kinds of crazy routes - "

  "I guess it isn't too tough to track down a van with a left side that looks like Swiss cheese," Mr. Hardy said.

  He fell silent for a moment, drumming his fingers on the dashboard. Above them loomed a large green-and-white sign that said "Springfield Next Four Exits." "Get off here," he whispered.

  "In Springfield?" Frank asked, perplexed. "Dad, we don't have a whole lot of - "

  "Never mind, Frank, just get off - now!"

  The exit was only thirty yards ahead, and the van was in the center lane. Frank flicked on his turn signal, changed lanes, and leaned into the exit ramp.

  Behind them a fanfare of car horns heralded a silver Toyota doing the same thing.

  "Uh - oh," Frank said under his breath.

  "You can never be too careful," Mr. Hardy replied as the van plunged into the heart of the city.

  "Now what?" Frank asked.

  "Hang a left toward the train station," Mr. Hardy said.

  Frank did as he was told and found himself in the middle of a traffic jam. Horns blared, and shoppers threaded their way between the stalled cars.

  Unfazed, Fenton Hardy said, "I'll meet you in the parking garage across the street." He grabbed the door handle.

  Frank glanced at a four-story building to the right, which had a sign reading "Train Parking." "We're taking the train?"

  "No," Mr. Hardy answered. "Just try to shake this guy. Maybe he'll follow me, and I can lead him away from you. If you have to leave the van, do it. I'll find you."

  With that, he opened the door and climbed out into the traffic.

  "But, Dad - " Joe protested.

  It was too late. Fenton Hardy had disappeared into the crowd of pedestrians. At that moment the traffic began to move. Frank inched into the right lane and rolled slowly toward the parking garage entrance.

  As they turned into the driveway a mechanized gate swung open. All the spaces on the first floor were taken, but the lanes between the parked cars were wide open. Frank stepped on the gas.

  They spiraled to the second level, then the third. Frank peeked into the rear-view mirror.

  Coming around the last turn was the Toyota, its windows tinted black.

  "Can you make out the driver?" he asked Joe, who was looking in his side-view mirror at the Toyota.

  "Not a chance," he said.

  Frank accelerated as he took the turn to the fourth level - right into the path of a station wagon in the wrong lane.

  Frank yanked his steering wheel to the right. With a screee of brakes the station wagon slammed into a ninety-degree skid.

  It just missed the van, but now it sat broadside to the lanes, almost blocking both of them.

  The Toyota roared around the last corner, and the driver slammed on his brakes. Joe gritted his teeth. Frank felt his eyes squint, anticipating a crash.

  Spinning wildly, the Toyota smacked against the right wall and came to a dead stop. Its left rear bumper nicked the front of the station wagon.

  "Hey, what's going on here?" a voice shouted. The driver's door of the station wagon flew open.

  Taking advantage of the situation, Frank took off. At the end of the lane was a down ramp marked by an exit sign with an arrow.

  "I guess it's downhill from here," Joe said.

  "Yeah, right into the traffic again," Frank replied. "You know, that Toyota isn't going to just hang back, and I'm definitely not in the mood for a Shootout in crowded downtown Springfield."

  Joe suddenly pointed. "There's a parking place!"

  "So?"

  "Let's ditch the van."

  "What?"

  "Remember what Dad said," Joe pressed. "It doesn't make sense to me, either, but you know Dad. He must have a reason."

  Frank thought of protesting, but he knew Joe was right. He pulled into the spot. In an instant he and Joe were out of the van and sprinting down a nearby stairwell that led to the street.

  On the first floor was a metal door with a long horizontal handle. Joe flung his body against it. The door crashed open onto the sidewalk.

  "Which way?" Joe said.

  Frank pointed right. "I think Dad went that way."

  Frank and Joe both began to run on the sidewalk back toward the entrance to the garage.

  Joe stopped short. Frank almost crashed into him. It took only a split-second to regain his balance. But when he did, his eyes widened in shock at the sight of the silver car lurching to a stop inches from them!

  Chapter 8

  Frank's instincts took over. He spun around and grabbed his brother's arm. "Come on!" he shouted.

  Before they could take off they were stopped by the sound of a familiar voice. "Get in!"

  They turned back to the car. Waving from the front seat was Fenton Hardy.

  "Dad!" Joe said. "It's you!"

  "Sorry if I scared you," Mr. Hardy said with a smile. "Silver was the only color they had. If you were on your toes, you'd have recognized that this is a Mazda, not a Toyota."

  "Oh - right," Frank said, too relieved to be embarrassed. He ran around to the passenger side while Joe climbed in the back.

  With a hum of acceleration Mr. Hardy pulled into the traffic. "That's a great place," he said, nodding in the direction of the car-rental agency across the street. Above the front door was a sign that said "Mendez Rental: SpeeDee Check-Out." "You just give them your credit card number, and by the time they fill out the form, that car's waiting."

  "I'll have to remember that for future reference," Joe remarked.

  Mr. Hardy laughed as he inched toward an intersection and turned right. "Any sign of our friends?"

  Frank cautiously looked out the back window. A grin spread across his face. "Guess who just came to the intersection."

  Joe turned just in time to see the silver Toyota turning left at the light, moving away from them.

  The traffic was thinner on this street. They were finally moving faster than they could by walking. "I don't know what they're so nervous about - why they're trying to stop us," Fenton Hardy said with a bitter edge to his voice. "We're doing exactly what they want us to do."

  Frank settled back in his seat. His dad was right - much as he hated to admit it. They were playing into the plan of a sadistic stranger. Someone who quite possibly held their mother's life in his han
ds.

  At least they were out of danger now, Frank thought. All they had to do was get out of Springfield, get back on the highway, and make tracks for Bayport. He looked at his watch. It was half-past noon. The voice had called at five-thirty, so there were five hours left.

  He sighed with relief. Judging from the ride up, five hours would probably do it.

  At the end of the street an orange sign said "Construction Detour to Highway." It pointed to a narrow road on the right - a road brought to a standstill with stopped cars and trucks.

  As their car ground to a halt Frank felt beads of sweat form at his hairline. He couldn't help looking at his watch again. Only thirty seconds had passed since the last time he checked, but this time the sight of it made his heart sink.

  Five hours suddenly didn't seem like a whole lot of time.

  ***

  When Fenton Hardy turned into the family driveway Joe almost fell out. In his eagerness he had pressed the door handle early.

  On his watch the liquid crystal display read 5:41.

  He managed to stay inside until Mr. Hardy braked to a sudden halt. Wordlessly, the three Hardys bolted out of the car and up the front lawn.

  Joe fumbled for his keys, then unlocked the door and pushed it open, nearly knocking it off its hinges. Another time the fact that the door had been fixed would be foremost on his mind. Another time he would have noticed that the house had been put back together. He should have been amused that Phil, Chet, and Biff were still there, gorging on a dinner cooked by Aunt Gertrude.

  But none of those things registered much as he and Frank stormed into the kitchen. The words "Did anyone call?" flew out of his mouth.

  "Nice to see you, too!" Phil said, his mouth full of spaghetti with white clam sauce.

  "You're here, Fenton!" Aunt Gertrude exclaimed. "Thank goodness. I've been worried sick."

  Biff let out a groan of mock disappointment. "You mean we're going to have to share the spaghetti?"

  "Biff, this is important," Mr. Hardy said, entering the kitchen behind his sons. "We were expecting a call at five-thirty."

  Chet looked at Phil, who looked at Biff. "Well, we were outside until just a minute ago. If the phone rang - "