The Pentagon Spy

by Franklin W. Dixon

  The wild pursuit led far out into the country, where the man ahead tried to shake the boys by driving down country lanes and across open fields. He kept glancing over his shoulder to see how close they were. At one point they got near enough to see sunlight glinting off his dark glasses.

  “He’s our man all right,” Chet said. “If he had nothing to hide, why would he try to get away from us?”

  Joe stuck grimly to the trail, narrowing the gap whenever he could. But another turn by the fugitive made him lose ground on a cow path. Then he had to slow down because an Amish farmer in a buggy came between the two cars. The boys saw the black beard shoot along a bumpy dirt road into the woods and disappear among the trees. Joe followed as fast as he could, whipping past country lanes and down more cow paths.

  “I hope this is the right road,” he grated. “If you see that big black car, tell me.”

  “Will do,” Frank said, shading his eyes with his hand and gazing into the distance.

  “I wish that guy would stick to the freeway,” Chet protested. Their rotund companion was sore from being bounced up and down in the back seat.

  A moment later they rounded a curve at top speed. A large black car stood in the middle of the road, blocking their passage, and they were hurtling toward it!

  Twisting the steering wheel violently to one side, Joe narrowly avoided a collision. His car flipped up on two wheels, as if it were going to turn over, righted itself at the last moment, and halted jolt ingly in a ditch.

  The next moment the door on Joe’s side was wrenched open and a harsh voice snarled, “Okay, you punks! The chase is over. This is the end of the road for you!”

  11

  Boys in Trouble

  “Get out!” the voice commanded. “Resistance will get you nowhere!”

  Frank, Joe, and Chet emerged from the car and found themselves confronted by two state police officers.

  “Is this your car?” the older one demanded in a stern tone.

  “No, it isn‘t,” Joe replied.

  “So you stole it!” the officer accused them. “We had a tip you guys were operating in this area. Figured you’d be coming down this road and set up our block in just the right place.”

  “Where have you stashed the other stolen cars?” the policeman demanded. “Of course you don’t have to answer. You have a right to remain silent.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Frank said evenly. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “No, we’ve got it dead right! You’re the gang that’s been stealing cars all over the county. We’re taking you in. The charge is grand larceny.”

  Interrupted by the radio in the unmarked patrol car, the policeman walked over and answered the call, while his partner kept the boys covered. When the officer returned to the group, he shook his head.

  “The stolen-car gang was arrested a few minutes ago up the road,” he revealed.

  “Then who are these guys?” his partner wanted to know.

  The boys quickly identified themselves, and the officers were impressed to learn that Frank and Joe were the sons of Fenton Hardy, who was known to lawmen throughout the nation.

  “We’re sorry about mistaking you for the thieves,” the older officer said. “But you did come down the road lickety-split, as if you were trying to get away as fast as possible.”

  “Actually, we were following a suspect,” Frank said. “That’s why we were going at such speed.”

  “Are you on a case?”

  Frank mentioned the stolen weather vane mystery and inquired if the officers had seen a tall man in a black beard and dark glasses driving a big black car. But the policemen had not seen the suspect.

  “He must have turned off this road onto a side lane before he reached our roadblock,” the younger one said. “He could be in the next county by now.” He promised to let the Hardys know if they encountered the suspect, then the three boys continued their drive to Washington. They managed to pick up Route 222, which took them past Pennsylvania’s Brandywine Battlefield Park and across the Susquehanna River to Route 95. When they crossed an arm of Chesapeake Bay near Baltimore, they were set on a direct course toward the Potomac River.

  After driving through Maryland and down the long Baltimore-Washington Parkway, they reached their destination.

  “I could use some chow,” Chet suggested.

  “So could I,” Frank admitted.

  “That makes it unanimous,” Joe said with a grin and wheeled into the parking lot of a diner.

  The boys went inside and sat at a table by the window, where they could watch the flow of traffic outside. After a quick meal, Frank decided to call Joseph Wickerson’s office. A secretary informed him that Wickerson could see them in about two hours. Then Chet telephoned the airport and made reservations on a flight from Washington to Bayport later in the afternoon.

  The three agreed to kill time by doing some sight-seeing on their way to the Pentagon. They paid the cashier and were walking toward the exit with Chet in the lead, when a glint of dark glasses reflected momentarily in the plate-glass window and then vanished.

  “That’s the guy we’re after!” Chet exclaimed. “I’m sure of it! Come on!” He wedged himself through the revolving door, helped by pressure from Frank and Joe who were behind him. They caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure turning the corner of the diner, then a car door slammed shut in the parking area.

  “I’ll stop him!” Chet declared and hurried to the strip of drive leading to the street. He raised his hand as a large black car approached. The Hardys ran up to him. They had not seen the person Chet was after but assumed that he knew what he was doing.

  The black car stopped in front of Chet and the driver rolled down the window. She was a pretty brunette, who now pushed her sunglasses up on her head. “Why are you stopping me?” she asked curiously.

  Chet turned beet red. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I mistook you for someone else.”

  He stepped aside and let the car pass. “Don’t kid me,” he begged the Hardys.

  Frank suppressed a smile. “We won’t kid you, Chet. A detective has to move fast sometimes, and mistakes do happen.”

  Chet recovered from his embarrassment and they returned to their car. Soon they were driving up Capitol Hill to the juncture of Pennslyvania Avenue and Independence Avenue. They passed the Library of Congress and swung around the Capitol building.

  “That’s where Congress holds its meetings,” Chet pointed out. “I’ll bet they’re helping the Hardys in there right now.”

  “They are?” Frank raised his eyebrows.

  “Crime laws!” Chet explained. “Making it easier for you to nab the bad guys.”

  “Thanks a lot for the compliment, Chet.” Frank laughed. “But I think Congress is more interested in helping the FBI than in helping us.”

  “Well, there’s the FBI,” Joe said and pointed toward the Justice Department. “Boy, what a crime lab they have!”

  The Hardys had visited the FBI lab while working for their father. They had checked fingerprints in the FBI files, tested firearms in the ballistics department, and consulted the bureau’s cryptographers on the best methods of breaking codes.

  “Too bad we don’t have time to drop in and say hello,” Frank commented. “Maybe we will on our next trip to Washington.”

  “I’d like to drop in on the president,” Chet declared. “I’d tell him a thing or two on how to run the country.”

  “Like bows and arrows for the infantry,” Joe joked. “Well, we’d better be getting to the Pentagon.” He swerved onto Seventeenth Street, swung around the Washington Monument, and drove down Fifteenth Street past the Tidal Basin and the Jefferson Memorial across the Potomac to the south parking area of the Pentagon.

  He pulled into a public parking lot, and the boys could see the famous military building beyond hundreds of parked cars lined up in double rows. An open space with grass, trees, and driving lanes led up to the broad facade of the Pentagon on their side. They got
out and the Hardys escorted Chet to a bus stop.

  Their friend was downcast. “I wish I could go with you,” he lamented. “I’d like to stay on the case.

  “You’re still on the case,” Joe reassured him. “You’re just taking time out to shoot some arrows in Bayport.”

  “And if we haven’t solved the mystery by the time the archery contest is over, we’ll send you an SOS,” Frank added.

  Chet cheered up as he climbed into the bus. He grinned at them from the window, then the vehicle pulled away to go to the airport.

  Frank and Joe gazed up at the enormous five-sided building from which the secretary of defense and the Joint Chiefs of Staff ran the United States Armed Forces.

  “Come on, Joe. Let’s go in,” Frank said.

  Joe chuckled. “Maybe if we stay long enough, we’ll come out three-star generals!”

  12

  Pentagon Briefing

  From South Parking, the Hardys entered the Pentagon through the river entrance and asked for Joseph Wickerson at the information desk. The receptionist put through a call and handed the phone to Frank.

  “Wickerson here,” Frank heard. “I’m finishing a report for the chief of naval operations. Come up in forty-five minutes. The room is 5E600. See you then.” Wickerson hung up.

  Frank asked the receptionist how to get to room 5E600.

  “It’s on the fifth floor of ring E,” she explained. “The Pentagon has five floors, and there are five rings on each floor, lettered outward from the center from A to E. For instance, 1A means the first ring of the first floor, 2B means the second ring of the second floor, and so on. So, 5E means the fifth ring of the fifth floor. When you get there, look for room 600.”

  With time to kill before their appointment, the Hardys strolled around the Pentagon. Joe bought a guidebook to the building at a newsstand and flipped through it.

  “Each of the five sides of the Pentagon is over nine hundred feet long. That’s three times the length of a football field,” he told Frank.

  “I’d rather carry the ball on Bayport High field,” Frank responded. “You’d need a lot more blockers here to score a touchdown.”

  He was referring to the crowds moving through the building. Civilian employees hurried in all directions. Men and women in military uniforms were reporting for their daily assignments. The Hardys noticed high-ranking officers of the army, navy, and air force walking by rapidly and saying little.

  “The big brass seem bothered by something,” Joe observed.

  “I’ll bet they’re worried about Clifford Hunter and the missing document,” Frank replied. “From what Dad said, if the submarine plan is gone for good, our whole military establishment is in big trouble.”

  The Hardys went up to the second floor, noticing that only the stairs and escalators were available to them. The elevators were restricted to freight and other heavy cargo.

  They walked along corridors decorated with pictures of military history from the Trojan War to the Thor Missile. When they passed the office of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, they saw a sign warning, “Admittance by Authorized Credentials Only.”

  Frank remarked, “Our I.D. cards won’t get us in there. We’d be stopped by the guard.” Then he looked at his wristwatch. “Our forty-five minutes are nearly up. Let’s go upstairs.”

  Continuing to the top floor, the boys reached ring 5E. They showed their identification and were allowed to pass. When they found room 600, Frank knocked, and a moment later the door swung open.

  Joseph Wickerson, a burly man with a genial smile, welcomed them into his office. A desk stood at the window, with two chairs facing it, and there was a sofa in one corner. Maps of American naval installations and pictures of naval warfare lined the walls. One picture showed the first nuclear submarine, the Nautilus, about to dive.

  Motioning the boys into the two chairs, Wickerson sat behind his desk. He clasped his hands and looked at them with a serious expression.

  “How much has your father told you about the navy’s spy mystery?” he asked.

  “We know a classified document belonging to the navy is missing,” Joe replied.

  “Also, a civilian employee has disappeared,” Frank added. “A man named Clifford Hunter.”

  Wickerson thumped his fist on the desk. “We’ve got to find Cliff Hunter. That’s why we want you two on the case with your father. I’ll explain the spy problem in a moment. But first I’d better give you the facts about the missing document.”

  Wickerson pushed a button and ordered, “Tell Archie Olson to bring the MASUB plan.”

  While they were waiting, Wickerson gave the boys a brief explanation of MASUB. “It stands for maser submarine. My department is perfecting a new device that uses maser beams for deep-water navigation. Cliff Hunter had responsibility for the scientific research, and Archie Olson drew up the blueprints. Both worked under my supervision. Do you know the meaning of maser?”

  Frank replied, “Microwave amplification by stimulated emission of radiation. We’ve been studying masers in our high-school physics lab.”

  “Masers are stronger radio waves,” Joe recalled. “You trap atomic energy in crystals and increase the energy by hitting the crystals with atomic particles. A wave shoots out that’s longer and stronger than a radio wave.”

  “You’ve stated the science in a nutshell,” Wickerson complimented them. “Well, the U.S. Navy has added a wrinkle that nobody else knows about. I hope!” he added in an obvious reference to Hunter’s disappearance.

  “Who made the breakthrough?” Frank inquired.

  “Cliff Hunter!” Wickerson boomed. “That’s why we have to find him quickly. He has not only the document but also a lot of advanced nautical science in his head. A foreign power could use his knowledge of laboratory research to endanger the U.S.A.”

  A knock on the door brought Archie Olson on the scene. A tall, thin man with a faraway look in his eyes, he spread the blueprint of MASUB on the desk. Taking a slide rule from his pocket, he pointed to its most important features.

  “The key to our breakthrough,” he revealed, “is that we can link masers end on end indefinitely—around the world if we want to. It’s done by a computer that tells the atomic propulsion device of a nuclear sub when to release the next maser and in what direction. The captain and crew can go to sleep for the voyage. The masers will take them to their destination automatically.”

  Olson showed sketches of maser-producing crystals and demonstrated the relationship between the computer and the crystals. Then he explained how a computer could be programmed to keep the masers lined up.

  “Can’t the masers be detected?” Joe asked.

  Olson shook his head. “They’re protected by a nuclear shield. Here’s the blueprint for the shield. Cliff Hunter worked out the formula.”

  Olson paused and looked at Wickerson, clearly wondering whether he should have mentioned Hunter.

  “It’s all right,” Wickerson advised him. “Frank and Joe know about Hunter. In fact, they’re in on the search for him.”

  After more discussion of maser and nuclear subs, Olson left, taking the blueprint with him.

  Wickerson said thoughtfully, “The missing document is the original blueprint of the maser-producing crystals and their linkage to the computer. It’s marked MASUB TOP-SECRET. When you see those words, you’ll know you’ve found the plan Hunter took.”

  “Did you suspect he was a spy?” Frank queried.

  Wickerson shrugged. “No, otherwise I’d have turned him in to the Pentagon security forces. But I thought there was something fishy about him after the Cosmo Rocket episode.”

  “What was that?”

  “The navy has a classified project on a revolutionary new type of missile for our surface fleet. It’s being developed by another department, and the members of my department have to get special clearance to look at the Cosmo Rocket files. Two weeks ago I needed to examine those files, so I got clearance and went in.

  “I was surprised
to see Hunter at the files. I asked what he was doing there, and he said he had clearance for some work concerning the connection between the navigational systems of subs and rockets.

  “Since he was one of my trusted assistants, I didn’t pursue the matter—unfortunately, because I know now that his clearance was forged!”

  “Did he do anything else to make you suspect him?” Joe inquired.

  “Well, he seemed to be always sneaking around and poking into things that weren’t his business. Looking through the papers of other scientists, things like that. But I must confess it didn’t occur to me that he might be a spy.”

  “Do you think he stole anything else?”

  Wickerson tapped his fingers on the desk. “As far as I know, nothing else is gone. I run a tight ship, and only the MASUB document is missing from my files. I daresay Hunter fled because he knew he couldn’t play the same trick on me twice.

  “Of course, he got away with an immensely valuable blueprint. So, perhaps he figured one theft was enough. He’ll be wealthy if he sells it to a foreign power.”

  The Hardys inquired about the discovery that the MASUB document was missing.

  Wickerson frowned. “I summoned Hunter into this office the day before the discovery to discuss some bugs in MASUB. We went over the problems and ironed them out. At the end, I put the blueprint in this desk drawer, and we agreed to carry on the discussion the following day. We left the office and I locked the door and went home.

  “When I got here in the morning, the blueprint was gone. I called the lab to have Hunter report to me at once. He wasn’t there. So I asked them to send Archie Olson, who told me he saw Hunter leaving my office after hours the night before. Archie thought I was in the office at the time. Actually, I was out of the building.”

  “Hunter must have had a key to the office, since he came back after you left,” Joe inferred.

  Wickerson nodded. “He wasn’t supposed to, but I imagine he contrived in some underhanded way to have a duplicate made. I wouldn’t put it past him. He’s a clever fellow. That’s why he’s so dangerous.”