Hurricane Joe
Page 1
THE HARDY BOYS
UNDERCOVER BROTHERS™
#11 Hurricane Joe
FRANKLIN W. DIXON
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Flooded Felon …
“You guys are totally soaked! You weren’t riding your motorcycles in this storm, were you? That’s so dangerous.”
I glanced at Joe. “No, we weren’t riding motorcycles,” I said. Of course, I didn’t telling her we were riding Jet Skis.
Belinda was starting to ask another question when her brother came running out of the house, shaking his fists.
“Everything’s gone!” he shouted.
Belinda looked at him and sighed. “What’s gone, Brian?”
“The stereo! The TV! The computer!” he yelled.
Belinda looked confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Someone must have broken in after we evacuated,” said Brian.
“You mean … ?”
“Yes! We’ve been robbed!”
UNDERCOVER BROTHERS™
#1 Extreme Danger
#2 Running on Fumes
#3 Boardwalk Bust
#4 Thrill Ride
#5 Rocky Road
#6 Burned
#7 Operation: Survival
#8 Top Ten Ways to Die
#9 Martial Law
#10 Blown Away
#11 Hurricane Joe
Available from Simon & Schuster
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First Aladdin Paperbacks edition August 2006
Copyright © 2006 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
ALADDIN PAPERBACKS
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All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Designed by Lisa Vega
The text of this book was set in Aldine 401BT.
Printed in the United States of America
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THE HARDY BOYS MYSTERY STORIES and HARDY BOYS UNDERCOVER BROTHERS are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2006925023
ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-1174-6
ISBN-10: 1-4169-1174-X
eISBN-13: 978-1-439-11291-5
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1. Slam Dunk
2. Wipeout!
3. SOS
4. Weather or Not
5. Thunder Blunder
6. The Missing Link
7. In Case of Emergency
8. Life Savers
9. Death in a Bottle
10. Warehouse 13
11. Running for Shelter
12. Ruffled Feathers
13. Eye of the Storm
14. Blown Away
15. Hurricane Joe
1 Slam Dunk
Question: What’s worse than getting caught spying on a pair of wanted criminals?
Answer: Getting caught riding Jet Skis in the middle of a hurricane.
I should know. Both of them happened to me—on the same day, believe it or not. I’m Joe Hardy undercover agent for American Teens Against Crime. And this is just the beginning of the most disastrous mission my brother Frank and I ever encountered.
Fasten your seat belts.
It’s going to be a wild ride.
“Look! It’s those boys!”
The deep voice bellowed like a foghorn on the deck of the freighter.
“Get ’em!”
Frank and I glanced up from our Jet Skis, shielding our eyes in the heavy rain. Above us, leaning over the side of the ship, was a tall beefy man with a short red beard, glaring down at us.
“Hi, Mr. Plotnik,” I said. “We seem to be lost. Could you point us in the direction of Bayport?”
He growled at me.
Then a younger red-haired man rushed up to the railing and peeked over the side. “It’s those guys from the dock, Dad,” he said, slightly confused. “How did they get out here? We’re miles offshore.”
“They must have followed us.”
“Do they need a lift?”
The beefy man grabbed his son by the shoulders. “No!” he roared. “They need to be liquidated!”
“What do you mean?”
“They followed us! They saw us dumping toxic waste!”
“So?”
“So they might tell the police. Do you want to go to jail?”
“No.”
“Then you have to make sure they don’t talk. Now get moving!”
The younger man sighed and started climbing over the railing. “Okay, okay. I’m moving. Are you happy?”
“Not until those boys are snooping on the bottom of the ocean.”
While the father and son bickered, Frank and I revved up our Jet Skis to make our getaway. But just before taking off, Frank raised his camera and pointed it at the Plotniks.
“Say ‘cheese.’”
He snapped a picture—and blinded them with the flash.
“Hey!” the son yelled, covering his eyes.
Way to go, Frank.
Plotnik’s son was totally stunned.
Now’s our chance.
I spun my Jet Ski toward the shore and sped away as fast as I could.
But Frank wasn’t so lucky. Just as he started to pull away, the younger Plotnik sprang and dove off the side of the ship.
SLAM!
He knocked my brother off his Jet Ski.
DUNK!
The two of them plunged into the ocean.
“Frank!” I shouted, the wind catching in my throat.
I spun around and tried to circle back to help my brother. But the hurricane was gathering force, and with all the heavy rain, I couldn’t see a thing.
Where did they go?
I scanned the area back and forth, my heart sinking fast.
“Frank!” I shouted again.
It was no use. My brother and his attacker were nowhere in sight.
The ocean had swallowed them up.
Okay, it’s confession time. This mission of ours had turned into a total disaster, and there was only one person to blame: me.
Furthermore, I’ll even state—for the record—something that I’ve never, ever admitted before:
I, Joe Hardy, should have listened to my brother.
Yes, you heard me. I should have listened to Frank when he said we should postpone the mission—at least until the storm blew over. I should have listened when he gave me the latest report from the Weather Network.
“It looks like Hurricane Herman is heading north,” he explained. “Things could get ugly.”
“Only if you look in the mirror,” I joked.
“I’m serious, Joe. We don’t want to get stuck in a hurricane.”
“Oh, come on,” I said
. “A little rain won’t kill us. And besides, we’ll be done before the storm hits.”
It seemed like a good argument. I mean, this was the kind of job Frank and I could do in our sleep. Our mission: Follow the freighter on our Jet Skis, snap pictures of those creeps dumping toxic waste, and then head back to shore. No sweat. Even the suspects—Bob and Peter Plotnik, owners of Plotnik Plastics—didn’t seem like the dangerous type.
Boy, was I wrong.
“Come on, Frank,” I said. “It’s a slam-dunk mission.”
Of course, I had no way of knowing that Frank would end up getting slammed and dunked.
“We’ve got to stop these guys,” I continued. “They’re human garbage. They’re ruining the beaches with all that junk they dump.”
“Okay, Joe,” he said, finally relenting. “Let’s go take out the trash.”
From that moment on, everything started going wrong. And I mean everything.
First, the Plotniks spotted us at the Bayport docks. “Are you sure you boys want to go riding Jet Skis?” Mr. Plotnik asked us. “There’s a hurricane heading our way.” We told him we’d be fine, then ducked out of sight while he and his son loaded barrels of toxic waste onto the freighter.
Twenty minutes later Frank and I followed the ship out of the bay—and were almost knocked off our Jet Skis. The waves kept getting rougher and rougher, and soon it started raining—hard. We were almost ready to turn back when the Plotniks started hauling the barrels overboard. One of them almost crushed my Jet Ski.
Then, just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, Frank fumbled for his camera—and accidentally set off the flash.
“What was that?” said a voice on the deck of the freighter.
And that was how the Hardy boys got caught.
That was also how I ended up riding a Jet Ski in the middle of a hurricane, wondering if I’d ever see my brother again.
“Frank!”
The storm raged around me, tossing my Jet Ski up and down, side to side, like a tiny rubber duck in a very big bathtub. The waves swelled and rolled and crashed around me. The rain was so heavy I could barely make out the dark shape of the freighter, even though it was just fifty feet away.
“Frank!”
I made my way closer to the ship. Something caught my eye—something floating and bumping against the side of the freighter.
It was Frank’s Jet Ski—without Frank.
Okay, bro. Where are you?
“Frank!”
I tried to shout above the sound of the wind, but the roar of the storm drowned me out. Wiping the rain from my eyes, I glanced around until I spotted a flash of red rising up on a nearby swell.
There he was—Plotnik’s red-haired son—fighting the waves.
No, wait
He wasn’t fighting the waves as much as he was fighting my brother. The two of them were locked in battle, arms and legs thrashing in the water.
“Frank! Hold on!”
I spun my Jet Ski around and gunned it. Up and over the crest of a massive wave, I zoomed as fast as I could toward Frank and Peter Plotnik. The big redhead was shoving my brother under the water, holding him down with both hands.
“Heads up, Red!” I shouted.
Tilting and swerving the Jet Ski, I stuck out my foot—and clobbered him good.
“Ooof!”
Peter reeled back, losing his grip on my brother. A second later Frank popped out of the water, gasping for air. I pulled up next to him and reached out my hand.
“Frank! Climb aboard!”
My brother grabbed hold and tried to pull himself up. But when he swung his leg up onto the seat, the Jet Ski dipped to the side—and almost flipped us into the ocean.
“Whoa! Steady, boy.” I leaned hard to the right to counterbalance the weight.
Finally the Jet Ski stopped teetering. Frank straightened himself up and wrapped his arms around my chest. “Okay, I’m on. Let’s go, bro.”
I started to take off when I heard a loud shout from the freighter.
“Don’t worry, Peter! I’ll save you!”
I turned to see the redhead’s father, Bob Plotnik, grab a life preserver and leap over the side of the ship.
Ker-sploosh!
He did a cannonball right next to his son, causing a mini tidal wave that sent the boy sailing backward.
Whap!
Peter banged his head on Frank’s abandoned Jet Ski. His father swam over and helped him climb onto the seat. Then, pulling himself up, Bob Plotnik grabbed the controls and revved up the craft.
“They’re coming after us, Joe,” said Frank. “Move it!”
He tightened his grip as I gave it the gas, trying to steer the Jet Ski onto a wave for extra momentum.
“Hurry! They’re gaining on us!”
I glanced over my shoulder. Frank was right. The Plotniks were only fifteen feet behind us.
“Joe! Lookout!”
I turned my head—and gulped.
Whoosh!
A massive wave crashed into the nose of the Jet Ski. I tried to pivot and ride the swell like a champion surfer, but the force of the water knocked us into a tailspin.
I hit the gas hard and tried to regain control.
That’s when the engine stalled.
“I don’t believe this,” I muttered, reaching for the starter. “What next?”
“Joe! Look out!” Frank yelled in my ear.
I glanced up to see Bob and Peter Plotnik zooming right toward us, like a pair of knights in a jousting competition. But instead of a long steel lance, Mr. Plotnik used his life preserver as a weapon.
Whack!
He clubbed me in the head with the round foam tube as their Jet Ski zipped past us. Stunned by the blow, I slumped down over the controls and miraculously triggered the starter.
“Stay down, Joe.” Frank reached over me to steer. “Just hit the gas.”
Still a little dazed, I fumbled for the accelerator and pressed down. The Jet Ski roared to life, and soon we were riding the waves, rising up in the air and slamming down hard with each splashy landing.
“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” I grunted on the bumps, my face bouncing off the dashboard. “Let me drive, Frank!”
“If you insist.”
He leaned back so I could sit up. The Plotniks were heading right for us again—but this time I was ready for them. Waiting until they were about ten feet away, I swerved to the right and doused their Jet Ski with a huge spray of water.
SPLASH!
They spun out of control as I headed for the shoreline. Frank squeezed my arm. “Good job, Joe. But drive back toward the freighter.”
“Why?”
“Look over there.”
I gazed back at the ship. Just behind it, another boat was zooming our way. It was small, about forty-five feet long, and white with flashing lights.
“It’s the U.S. Coast Guard!” I shouted.
“Yeah. See if you can lead the Plotniks right into their path.”
Looking back, I waited for Bob and Peter to catch up to us, then set a course toward the freighter. Zooming around the starboard side, I figured our pursuers wouldn’t spot the Coast Guard boat until it was too late.
“Here they come, Joe!”
Vrrrooom!
The waves churned and rolled as the Plotniks chased us along the side of the freighter. Leaning hard, we circled around the stern of the ship and turned onto the port side.
“And here she comes,” said Frank, nodding toward the Coast Guard boat.
The small craft was fifty feet away, heading right for the Plotniks’ freighter—probably to see why it was drifting during a hurricane. I slowed the Jet Ski to a stop and turned around.
“Check it out,” said Frank.
The Plotniks rounded the freighter. The Coast Guard boat closed in and blocked their course. We couldn’t see what happened next. But we could hear Peter Plotnik yell, “Look out, Dad!” and a loud crash.
“Ouch,” I muttered.
Seconds l
ater the Coast Guard pulled Bob and Peter Plotnik out of the water. One of the officers pointed to their freighter and started asking questions.
“I think their dumping days are over,” I said.
Frank tugged my arm. “Let’s go see if we can hitch a ride—unless you want to navigate these killer waves all the way back to shore.”
“Good idea.”
I revved the engine and headed for the Coast Guard boat. Frank started waving his arm and yelling. “Over here! Help!”
But I guess they didn’t see us—because the boat started speeding away.
Great.
“Hey! Wait for us!” I yelled, trying to catch up.
It was no use. The Coast Guard boat zoomed off and vanished into the rain.
“I don’t believe this,” I groaned.
“Just drive, Joe,” said Frank. “We have to get back to the dock before this storm gets any worse.”
“Worse?” I shouted. “How could this possibly get any worse?”
Mother Nature answered my question a few seconds later—with a giant twenty-foot wall of water. Rising up like a sea monster from the ocean depths, the wave lunged and curled over our heads.
Then, with a deafening roar, it came crashing down—and knocked us off our Jet Ski.
2 Wipeout!
WHOOMP!
The wave hit us full force, plunging us deeper and deeper into the churning water. I tightened my grip around my brother’s waist—but the ocean was a lot stronger than I was. The current tore us apart with a sharp jolt, tossing us in opposite directions. Tumbling and spinning, I couldn’t even tell which way was up.
Now I know what it feels like to be a gym sock in a washing machine.
When the “spin cycle” was finally over, I tried to swim for the surface. My lungs screamed for air, and I didn’t know how much longer I could stay under.
You can do it, Frank, I told myself.
Finally I reached the surface, gasping for air.
“Joe!” I shouted.
No response.
“JOE!”
Nothing—except the sounds of the wind and the waves.
I shouted again, then waited. And waited. Finally, a voice answered me.
“Frank! Over here!”
I spun around in the water. My brother was about forty feet away, bobbing up and down in the waves.
“Hey! What’s up, bro?” I yelled.