The Arctic Patrol Mystery

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Joe stepped into a crevice

  “All right, Chet, are you satisfied now?” Joe asked, annoyed by the accident.

  “Okay, but I really—”

  “Baloney!” Joe replied, hobbling back to the jeep.

  Gummi smiled to himself as he started off again. As the road wound higher along the mountain, it grew soggier because of the recent melted snow. Soon they passed a broad lake which lay gray and forbidding in a small pass.

  “This whole place gives me the creeps,” Biff said. “I wish I could see some trees!”

  “That’s what I like about Oklahoma—the trees,” Gummi declared. “There were trees in Iceland centuries ago, but the early settlers cut them down.

  “Well, here we are,” he said finally as he pulled off the road onto a small trail with several inches of snow.

  “Somebody’s been here before,” Joe observed, pointing to tire tracks which led in and out.

  Soon they came to the place where the other vehicle had stopped. Footprints led from the spot over the brow of a small rise, but they did not come back!

  Beyond the rise a jet of steam, hissing like a gigantic snake, rose high into the air.

  “That’s coming from the sulfur pit over there,” Gummi explained, “and the steam hole, too.”

  Joe leaped out first and ran up over the brow of the hill.

  “Careful!” Gummî warned. “You don’t want to be cooked in sulfur!”

  Frank jumped down from the jeep and surveyed the terrain. He lingered behind the others so he could look for clues without being questioned.

  Several thoughts ran through his mind, “How could one astronaut have disappeared? No doubt the three were accompanied by government officials. Major McGeorge must have separated from the rest and been waylaid. But how could he have been carried off without anyone noticing it, and by whom and where to?”

  Finding no clues, Frank trailed after the other four. When he reached the rise, he looked down at the pit. It was about six feet across, bubbling and burping from the bowels of the earth.

  The atmosphere was filled with the smell of sulfur, some of which came from the steam shooting out of a huge pipe with an earsplitting roar.

  Frank suddenly noticed that only Gummi, Biff, and Chet were in sight. He raced toward the trio, standing beside the pit. No use shouting, nobody could hear. Frank glanced about wildly. A black leather glove lay close to the edge of the bubbling sulfur. Footprints were nearby.

  A chill ran down Frank’s spine as he looked from the glove to his friends. Gummi suddenly caught on. His face took on a look of terror. He gestured at Frank and the other boys, and all had the same thought. Where was Joe? Had he fallen into the pit?

  CHAPTER VI

  Tricked in the Sky

  FRANTICALLY the boys searched for Joe. Each shouted at the top of his lungs, but the thundering steam bursting out of the pipe like a hundred roaring jet engines muted every other sound.

  Frank suddenly gesticulated toward the standpipe, with an expression of utter relief on his face. Joe Hardy emerged from behind it. He hastened over to them as Chet picked up the glove from the snow, and they all moved off to a distance where they could hear each other.

  “Holy crow!” Frank sighed. “Joe, you had us scared to death. We thought you’d fallen into the pit.”

  “Sorry about that,” Joe replied. He had bent down to examine the rusted bolts at the foot of the standpipe. “The sulfur in that steam is corroding everything,” he said. “Someday the whole pipe is going to blow right up into the air.”

  “I wonder whom the glove belongs to,” Gummi mused.

  The Hardys and their two friends were thinking the same thought, but did not speak out in front of the Icelander. Did Ken McGeorge drop it while being kidnapped?

  The brothers lagged behind to talk in private, while the others returned to look at the sulfur pit. Frank said, “It stands to reason, Joe, that this place has been searched thoroughly by the authorities.”

  “That’s right. They would have found the glove long before we did.”

  “The only answer,” Frank went on, “is that the glove was dropped recently.”

  “By Major McGeorge?” Joe asked.

  “It’s a puzzler,” Frank admitted. He walked over to Gummi and asked when it had snowed last.

  “Early yesterday morning,” Gummi replied.

  The split-second glance that Frank exchanged with his brother was significant. If it were the astronaut’s glove, he must have returned to the pit the night before. But why?

  The boys stayed a few minutes longer to look at the sulfur pit and the steam blowhole.

  Gummi explained that there were many such phenomena over the entire island. “Iceland probably popped out of the sea just like Surtsey,” he said, referring to the underwater volcano which had boiled up out of the sea a few years ago, causing the formation of a small island off the south coast.

  Frank took the leather glove from Chet and put it in his pocket. It was a clue that might prove significant, but they could not give it to the police without tipping their hand.

  First thing to do now, Frank thought, was to check the lone set of footmarks, which did not return to the spot where they had started. He and Joe followed them for a way, and realized that they were double prints, leading in a roundabout way to the road about two hundred yards distant. Apparently two men had approached the sulfur pit, one behind the other, the second one stepping in the first one’s footprints.

  “This is fantastic,” Joe remarked. “Maybe we should tell the police about this right away.”

  “No,” Frank replied. “Let’s first examine this glove and find out if it’s GI.”

  “And how are we going to do that?”

  “We’ll have to get another one from the U.S. base in Keflavik. Then we can compare the leather under a microscope.”

  The Hardys trudged back to the jeep, where the others were already waiting. As they drove back over the bumpy road toward the highway south of Reykjavik, fear gnawed at Frank. Had the astronaut’s captors disposed of him in the sulfur pit?

  Gummi dropped them at their hotel and left for home. At lunch the Hardys talked about their plans with Chet and Biff.

  “Listen, fellows,” Frank said. “You two stay here and watch out for any suspicious characters, while Joe and I take a taxi to Keflavik. We’d like to let Gummi in on this, but we’d better not.”

  After explaining that they would try to find a glove of similar manufacture, Frank and Joe left.

  Arriving at Keflavik, they obtained permission to enter the base. Frank spoke to a captain in charge of general issue and asked if he might borrow a leather glove used by officers. The captain was amazed at the request, but after the Hardys identified themselves as American detectives working on an insurance case, the officer gave them a glove.

  “We’ll return it,” Frank promised.

  “That’s all right. You can keep it.”

  “Thanks, Captain.”

  Back at the hotel, Frank asked the desk clerk if he could direct them to a medical laboratory.

  “Anybody sick?” the man asked in surprise.

  “No,” Joe replied. “We have another reason.”

  The clerk looked at them curiously, riffled through a sheaf of addresses, and came up with one.

  Although it was late in the afternoon, Frank and Joe took a chance. They called the lab and found that it was still open. “We would like to borrow a microscope,” Frank explained. He was told that no instruments could be taken from the premises, but was invited to come over and use one.

  “We close at six,” the man said in perfect English.

  “We’ll be right there,” Frank replied.

  The Hardys took a taxi to the laboratory, which was located at the center of town, not far from the Foreign Office. A courteous technician greeted them and directed the boys to a small room. A microscope stood on a table to the left. The man asked if they would be examining germ cultures.

 
; “Oh no,” Joe said with a smile. “We’re just comparing two pieces of leather.”

  “Go ahead,” said the technician and left.

  The research did not take long. First they examined the outside leather. Each glove proved to be of the same general quality. The stitching was made by similar machines, and the woolen linings were identical.

  “That does it,” Frank said. “This was lost by a military man.”

  “Should we tell the police now?” Joe asked.

  But Frank was adamant about following their father’s instruction. “Not yet, Joe. Not yet.”

  The Hardys thanked the lab technician and left. Returning to the hotel, they found Biff and Chet eagerly waiting for them in the lobby. Biff waved a letter in his hand.

  “Frank, Joe, you got an answer to your ad!”

  Frank took the envelope and tore it open. It was from Reykjavik’s leading newspaper, and inside was another letter. He read the message. It had come from Akureyri, a city on the north coast.

  A man signing his name Rex Hallbjornsson said that he was the one they were looking for. He requested that the boys come to see him.

  “That was easy,” Chet commented. “Our first swing’s a home run!”

  “Too easy,” Joe replied.

  “I think you’re right,” his brother said. “We’ve got to be careful about this.”

  Chet scratched his head. “Always suspicious.”

  “Just cautious,” Joe said.

  Biff agreed with the Hardys. “After all, it’s kind of fishy that the guy won’t come here. If somebody offered me money, I wouldn’t mind picking it up myself!”

  It was agreed that Frank and Joe would fly to Akureyri the next day, leaving Chet and Biff at the hotel to guard their radio and decoding equipment.

  “I’m going to Flugfelag Islands,” Frank announced after breakfast the next morning.

  “What?” asked Chet.

  Frank handed him a travel folder which he had picked up at the desk.

  “Flugfelag Islands,” Chet read. “I wonder where they are.”

  “Listen, dummy,” Biff Hooper said, giving Chet a mock stiff-arm, which his buddy parried with a karate chop. “Flugfelag Islands means Iceland Airlines.”

  “Attaboy, Biff!” Joe grinned. “You’re learning the language.”

  The Hardys recalled seeing a Flugfelag office in the hotel lobby. Joe had noticed a dark-haired woman behind the desk the day before, but when the Hardys went to the office, it was empty. A few seconds later a man came in and sat down.

  Frank approached him. “We’d like to take a plane to Akureyri,” he said. “Today.”

  “Sorry,” the man replied with a slight accent. “There are no scheduled flights to Akureyri until tomorrow. I would suggest that if you want to go today, you take a small private plane—it is cheaper, too.”

  “Will you make the arrangements?” Joe asked.

  “Of course. What are your names?”

  When the boys had given him all the information, the man said, “Be at the Flugfelag terminal at twelve noon. It is quite near the hotel, you know.”

  “Okay,” Frank said. “Please charge it to our room.” He gave the man the number. Then the boys hastened to the elevator and went back upstairs.

  Chet was sprawled on Frank’s bed, while Biff sat looking out the window. “I’d like to see Akureyri, too,” he grumbled. “Can’t we just leave Chet here to guard the equipment?”

  “What’s the big idea?” the stout boy said, rising. “I can tackle two, perhaps three guys, but no more. And they might send half a dozen here, you know!” He cleaved the air with a couple of karate strokes.

  “All right, I’ll stay,” said Biff. “But get back soon!”

  “Sure.” Frank grinned. “And just so your job won’t be too demanding, I’ll put this in the safe!” He took the codebook and went down to the lobby.

  At eleven-thirty Frank and Joe stood in front of the Saga, where a taxi drove up to get them. Ten minutes later they reached the airfield. As they stepped inside the terminal building, they were met by the agent.

  “I thought I would be here to help,” he said. “Follow me.” He led them out onto the field, where they saw a small twin-engine plane warming up.

  “The pilot does not speak very good English,” the agent explained, pulling open the cabin door against the propeller’s slipstream. “But he will bring you to Akureyri in less than an hour.”

  Frank and Joe climbed in, fastened their seat belts, and glanced toward the pilot’s cabin. The door was shut. Outside, the agent waved to them, then the plane taxied for take-off. Soon they were airborne, and the boys looked down on the bright-colored roofs of Reykjavik.

  “Well, let’s find out where Akureyri is, exactly,” said Frank after a while and pulled a map of Iceland from his pocket. Both studied it, then sat back to watch the mountainous terrain unfolding before them.

  Frank, who was sitting next to the window on the starboard side, glanced up at the sun.

  “Hey, Joe, this is funny. We’re supposed to be heading north, aren’t we?”

  “Sure,” Joe replied. “That’s where Akureyri is.”

  “But look! We’re going east. See the position of the sun?”

  According to the boy’s reckoning, they were flying in the wrong direction. Frank’s fears were confirmed when he glanced down and saw the jagged south coast of Iceland far beneath them.

  “What’s going on with that pilot?” Joe asked, annoyed.

  “We’d better find out.”

  The boys slipped from their seats and approached the cabin. Joe opened the door and cried out in alarm. The pilot was their blond enemy!

  “Where are you taking us?” Joe demanded.

  The man motioned the boys away. “No speak!”

  “Of course you speak English!” Frank said angrily, realizing that every pilot had to be versed in that language.

  Joe pulled his brother out of the cabin so they could speak without being overheard.

  “Frank, what are we going to do about this guy? You know what’s happening—we’re being kidnapped.”

  “We’ll have to take over,” Frank replied tersely.

  Both boys were skillful pilots. Although they did most of their flying in single-engine planes, they felt sure they could handle the twin-engine job.

  “Where’ll we land?” Joe asked.

  “Once we have control of the plane, we can radio Reykjavik for instructions,” Frank stated, glancing out the window. Below, a huge glacier came into view. The boys had studied the map carefully and realized that they were over Vatnajokull, the largest and most forbidding glacier in all of Iceland.

  “We’ll go in and I’ll drag him from behind the wheel,” Frank said. “You grab the yoke on the copilot’s side. Okay?”

  “Let’s go!”

  They approached the pilot. Frank reached forward to get a headlock on him, but the man swung a quarter way around and clipped him on the chin. As Frank staggered back, the portside engine began to sputter. Seconds later the starboard engine conked out. And all at once the pilot spoke perfect English!

  “Let me handle this!” he said. “We are going to have to land on the glacier!”

  CHAPTER VII

  A Harrowing Blizzard

  STILL groggy from the blow on the chin, Frank dropped into the copilot’s seat. He grasped the wheel as Joe, his eyes flashing anger over the brazen kidnapping, swung a hard right at the pilot. The fist caught him at the side of the jaw, and the man slumped unconscious.

  Wind whistled eerily over the wings as the plane glided toward the gigantic sheet of white ice beneath them.

  Closer and closer it angled down toward Vatnajokull. Now the boys saw that much of the glacier was serrated with jagged knife-edged ridges. Small hills of ice and crevasses came into sharp focus.

  “Frank, we’ll never make it!” Joe cried out.

  His brother sat grim-lipped and silent. Skillfully he guided the descent so as not to lose flyi
ng speed. His feet firmly on the rudder bar, Frank banked the plane and headed for what appeared to be a smoother spot in the sloping glacier about half a mile away.

  Landing on the slope would be tricky enough for the most skilled pilot. With the wheels now inches above what proved to be bumpy ice, Frank pulled back on the yoke.

  The whiteness rushed up to meet them! Their plane bounced with a terrifying crunch, lifted into the air, and settled again with tires squealing.

  The aircraft slid back a few feet before finally coming to a halt. Joe felt limp. “Thanks, Frank,” was all he could say. “That was the greatest!”

  Both boys felt lucky to come out of the crash landing alive, but were furiously angry with the man responsible for their dire predicament.

  The pilot was now conscious. He lifted his head and looked about dazedly.

  “Okay now,” Joe said, shaking him by the shoulder. “Who are you? And what’s your racket?”

  “Help—we need help,” was the weak reply.

  “You know the ropes!” Frank said impatiently. “Get on the radio and call for aid!” He climbed out of the copilot’s seat and looked about the plane.

  Meanwhile, the man picked up the microphone and slowly transmitted their position. There was silence for a minute or two, then he signed off.

  “Someone will come for us,” he reported.

  “Okay—but that doesn’t explain who you are!” Frank resumed their interrogation. But the man remained mute, shaking his head as if still in a stupor.

  The Hardys were both aggravated and frightened. “Here we are, wrecked on top of the world,” Joe muttered, “and this dummy won’t tell us anything!”

  He pulled the man from his seat and pushed him to the plane’s door. Frank frisked the pilot to make sure he had no weapons.

  The icy air blanketing the glacier hit them like a bucket full of cold water as they stepped onto the slippery surface. They looked the plane over. Both propellers were bent, and even if the engines could have been repaired, a take-off looked impossible.

  Despite continued questioning by the Hardys, the pilot remained silent. As they were about to give up, they suddenly heard the distant sound of a helicopter.