“Nothing much!” he shouted back. “What’s up with you?”
“Nothing. Just hanging.”
We started swimming toward each other when—BANG—something hit me in the head.
It was our Jet Ski, floating upside down in the water. I rubbed my head, then grabbed onto one of the skis and held on tight. Joe swam up next to me and reached for the other ski.
“We’re alive,” he said, panting.
“Yeah,” I replied. “Let’s try to keep it that way.”
“Do you think this thing still works?” he asked, nodding at the Jet Ski.
I shrugged. “The engine’s probably flooded. But it’s worth a try.”
“Okay, let’s flip it over,” Joe said, bracing his hands on the edge of the Jet Ski. “On the count of three. One. Two. Three!”
We pushed up as hard as we could, kicking our feet and lunging forward until the Jet Ski rolled right side up. I helped Joe climb onto the seat. Then he leaned over and pulled me up. Straddling the seat behind him, I wrapped my arms around his chest.
“Okay, I’m ready,” I said. “Start her up.”
“Keep your fingers crossed.” Joe reached for the ignition and turned the key.
The engine coughed a few times—and died.
“Try it again,” I said.
He tried it again.
Same thing. Just a few coughs and then—nothing.
“Now what?” said Joe.
“I guess we just sit here and hope the waves will carry us back to shore.”
“But what if they carry us out to sea?”
“Maybe a ship will spot us and save us.”
“But what if a ship doesn’t spot us? What if we run into a bunch of hungry sharks instead?”
“They’d probably take one bite and spit you out, Joe. All that hair product you use—yuck.”
“I’m serious, Frank.”
I sighed. “Don’t worry. We’re going to get out this. We always do, don’t we? You and I have been on dozens of missions, and we haven’t been killed yet.”
“There’s a first time for everything, Frank.”
I gave up. “Okay, have it your way. We’re going to die out here. We’re going to drift out to sea and get eaten by sharks. Are you happy now?”
“Very.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Mr. Plotnik must have done some serious damage when he hit my brother with the life preserver. “Why are you happy, Joe?” I asked.
“Because I can see Bayport,” he said, pointing. “Look. Over there.”
I squinted my eyes. The rain was easing up, and I could just make out the rooftops of our hometown. I instantly recognized the city hall and church steeple rising above the town square.
“That’s Bayport, all right,” I said. “And we seem to be drifting right toward it.”
Joe tilted his head. “There’s just one problem.”
“What?”
“I can’t see the docks.”
I looked again. Joe was right. The Bayport docks were nowhere in sight. “They must have been flooded by the hurricane,” I said.
Joe sighed. “Go on and say it, Frank.”
“Say what?”
“I told you so.”
For the next hour or two, the waves carried us closer and closer to Bayport. Along the way, I told my brother that I didn’t blame him for what happened. It was me, after all, who set off the camera flash and got us caught.
“So it’s really all your fault, huh?” said Joe with a smirk.
“No, it’s not all my fault,” I said. “I warned you about Hurricane Herman. I said we should wait until the storm passed.”
“In other words …”
“In other words … I told you so.”
“I knew you’d say that, Frank.”
I smacked him lightly on the back of his head.
“Hey! Don’t mess with the hair!”
“Uh, I think the hurricane took care of that already.” I glanced at the wild tangle of blond spikes sticking up from his scalp and started to laugh.
“Does it look that bad?” he asked.
“No, it looks great, Joe.”
“It must be the new hair gel I’m using.”
“Yeah, that must be it,” I said, rolling my eyes. “But maybe you should stop worrying about your hair and start thinking about how we’re going to get back on dry land.”
We turned our attention to the shoreline—or what used to be the shoreline. The wooden docks were completely submerged in water. Some of the warehouses were flooded too, their arched roofs rising above the waves.
“Do you think the whole town is flooded?” Joe asked.
“No,” I said. “Look at the storm wall over there. It’s holding back the water.”
I pointed toward the tall concrete wall that separated the docks from the main boardwalk.
“Hopefully the waves will carry us to the storm wall,” I said as we floated into the bay.
The rain had completely stopped by now, but the waves were still pretty strong. Joe and I held on tightly to the Jet Ski as we swooshed past the flooded warehouses, heading straight for the storm wall. Unfortunately, every time we approached it, the waves pulled us right back into the bay.
“I’m starting to feel like a yo-yo,” Joe grumbled.
“Maybe we should try jumping onto the roof of one of those warehouses,” I suggested.
“Okay,” Joe agreed. “Get ready. We’re about to pass one now.”
My brother and I hunched down. A big wave pushed us toward a flooded warehouse.
“Come on! Let’s do it!” Joe shouted.
“We’re not close enough!” I shouted back.
“We can do it!”
“No, we can’t!”
Too late. We missed our chance.
The wave carried us along, faster and faster—hurling us straight toward a huge eighteen-wheel truck that was parked in the flooded lot.
“Look out! We’re going to crash!” I yelled.
CRUNCH!
The wave slammed our Jet Ski into the side of the truck and tossed us like a pair of rag dolls onto the roof of the trailer. Then the wave retracted with a sudden whoosh, leaving us stranded on top of the eighteen-wheeler.
“Wow. That was kind of fun,” said Joe, climbing to his feet. “Can we do it again?”
I sighed. “You might get your chance, Joe, if another wave comes along and slams us into the storm wall over there. That would be tons of fun.”
“There you go again, Frank. Always looking on the bright side.”
“Hey. You were the one who thought we’d get eaten by sharks.”
“It could still happen. We’re not out of the water yet.”
I stood up and surveyed the area. The truck we were standing on was completely surrounded by water. In fact, the whole parking lot was flooded. The water level must have been about seven or eight feet.
“We could try to swim to the wall,” Joe suggested.
I shook my head. “I don’t like the looks of that current. It’ll sweep us back into the bay.”
“Well, I have another idea.”
“What?”
“We could flag down that rescue boat over there.”
I turned toward the docks and saw a small emergency rescue boat speeding between the warehouse roofs. Joe and I jumped up and down and started waving.
“Hey! Over here! Help!”
At first I thought they didn’t see us. But then the boat turned and headed straight toward us. I could see two men on board, one of them holding a megaphone.
“We’re coming to help you!” a deep voice boomed across the bay “Do not panic! Stay right where you are!”
“Where does he think we’re going?” Joe mumbled. “Candyland?”
I smacked my brother’s arm. “Don’t bite the hand that rescues you.”
“Yeah, but give me a break. They must think we’re stupid or something.”
“Well, if the life p
reserver fits …”
Joe was about to protest when the rescue boat pulled up next to the eighteen-wheeler.
“Don’t make any sudden moves! We’re going to help you climb aboard!” the shorter guy bellowed into the megaphone.
The taller guy glared at his partner. “Put down the megaphone, Wilson. They can hear you.”
“Oh, sorry.”
I glanced at Joe and stifled a laugh. Our rescuers were incredibly young—and obviously inexperienced.
“Man, are we glad to see you,” I told them.
The taller guy reached over and grabbed the edge of the truck while the smaller guy held out a brawny arm to help us aboard.
“Didn’t you guys play football for Bayport High?” I asked, climbing into the boat.
“Yeah,” said the smaller one. “Grady and I were Most Valuable Players two years in a row.”
Joe’s eyes lit up. “Of course! You’re Billy Wilson! And you’re Greg Grady! You guys are awesome!”
Wilson’s round face turned red.
“Do you still play ball?” I asked.
Grady turned away grabbing the wheel. “No. We couldn’t get scholarships to college, so we decided to join the Emergency Rescue Team. At least it’s physical.”
“That’s cool,” said Joe.
Wilson sat back and smiled. “You guys should join up. You could be volunteers. That’s how we got started.”
Grady looked over his shoulder at us. “You’re not afraid of a little danger, are you?”
I shot a quick look at Joe, who smiled back at me. “No, we’re not afraid of danger,” I said.
“Heck,” said Joe. “We eat danger for breakfast.”
Wilson and Grady laughed, then told us more about the Emergency Rescue Team. They said that the training was really tough and the pay was terrible, but there was nothing like saving lives to make you feel like a hero.
By the time we reached the main boardwalk, Joe and I were ready to sign up.
“Give us a call at the station sometime,” said Wilson, shaking our hands. My brother and I hopped off the boat, happy to be back on dry land. Then Wilson and Grady said good-bye and sped away across the bay.
I looked at Joe. “So? Are you ready to see if the town is as damaged as your hair?”
“I thought you said my hair looked great.”
“I lied.”
Joe shot me a dirty look—and fussed with his spiky hair all the way back to town.
The town square was a total wreck.
I couldn’t believe all the tree branches and debris littering the streets. Trash cans were overturned, road signs knocked askew. The gutters were completely overflowing with rainwater. Joe and I had to take running leaps to reach the parking lot by the bank.
“Good thing we parked our motorcycles on higher ground,” said Joe, hopping on and revving his engine.
I put on my helmet. Then the two of us carefully made our way across the slippery streets of Bayport, swerving left and right to avoid some major puddles. A few minutes later we reached the outskirts of our neighborhood—and were surprised to see some of our neighbors walking down the street.
“Frank! Joe!”
The high-pitched voice made us stop in our tracks. Pulling off my helmet, I turned to see Belinda Conrad waving and strolling toward us. Her brother Brian was right behind her—sneering, as usual.
“Hi, losers,” said Brian, as charming as ever.
“Ignore him,” Belinda told us. “He’s just grouchy because we’ve spent the last few hours in the high school gym. It was set up as an emergency evacuation center.”
“Yeah, and it was crowded and smelly, too,” Brian added. “I can’t wait to take a shower.” He turned and headed toward his house across the street.
Belinda shrugged and smiled, then glanced down at our clothes. “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!”
3 SOS
Robbed?
I just couldn’t believe it.
What kind of creep would rob people during a natural disaster?
I took off my helmet, scratched my head, and scanned the area for clues.
Frank, in the meantime, tried to comfort Belinda—who was totally weirded out by the idea of intruders in her home. Her brother stood next to them, talking to the police on his cell phone.
“That’s right, officer,” Brian explained. “What? Three houses on Orchard Street robbed too? Yeah, we’ll be here.”
Minutes later a pair of squad cars pulled up to the house, sirens wailing and lights flashing. Four police officers got out and started questioning the neighbors. One of the officers, a lanky guy named Chen, pulled Frank and me aside to talk.
“I have a message from your father,” he told us. “Bob and Peter Plotnik have been arrested. The Coast Guard recovered the toxic chemicals on the freighter and managed to wrangle a confession out of them.”
“That’s good,” said Frank, “because I lost my camera when a wave knocked Joe and me off the Jet Ski.”
“Butterfingers,” I muttered under my breath.
“Helmet hair,” he shot back, glancing up at my head.
Officer Chen looked at me and burst out laughing. Then he said good-bye and walked off, joining his fellow officers at the crime scene.
“It looks like they have this under control,” Frank said. “Let’s get out of here … before anyone else sees your hair.”
On the way home, I kept thinking about the wild events of the day: the hurricane, the flooding, the burglaries.
What next? I wondered.
The answer was waiting for me inside our house: Aunt Trudy.
“You’re tracking mud all over the place!” she screeched as soon as we walked through the door. “I just waxed these floors!”
Frank and I looked down and sighed.
“We’re sorry, Aunt Trudy,” I said.
“Well, you’ll be even sorrier if you don’t march outside right now and take off those filthy shoes!”
“We’re going, we’re going,” I mumbled.
Frank and I trudged to the back porch, plopping down on a bench near the door. Our shoes were caked with mud, and our socks were soaking wet. As we tugged them off, the back door swung open and Dad joined us on the porch.
“Did you get my message?” he asked.
“Yeah, Dad,” said Frank. “Officer Chen told us about the arrest.”
“I’m sure all the guys down at the station will be glad to see the Plotniks finally behind bars. They’ve been trying to stop those toxic dumpers for a long time now.”
Our father, Fenton Hardy, is a former policeman who came up with the idea for American Teens Against Crime. Even though he left the force a couple of years ago, he still stays in touch with his old buddies—and gets the inside story on all the wanted criminals in the area.
“You two look like drowned rats,” he said, noticing our wet clothes. “Come inside, dry off, and tell me what happened.”
We went inside—and were immediately greeted by our squawking parrot, Playback, who sat on the back of Aunt Trudy’s favorite armchair in the living room. Our aunt and Mom were huddled around the television, eyes glued to the screen.
“Hi, Mom,” I said. “We’re home.”
She held up a finger. “Shhh. Johnny Thunder is
about to give the local weather update.”
“Who’s Johnny Thunder?” I asked.
Mom responded with another “Shhh.”
“He’s the local reporter for the Weather Network,” Frank whispered in my ear. “You’d know who he was if you had checked the weather before hopping on a Jet Ski.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
We turned our attention to the TV. On the screen, a tall, overly tanned man with perfectly groomed hair and gleaming white teeth pointed to a map of the local area.
“There’s been some flooding in the lower regions,” he explained in a deep, booming voice. “The Bayport docks are almost completely underwater. But the town square hasn’t suffered much damage, thanks to the storm wall.”
He went on to report that the worst was over, and water levels were already beginning to go down. Then he finished his broadcast with an exaggerated wink and a big, phony grin.
“This is Johnny Thunder,” he gushed, “wishing you health, happiness, and happy weather.”
What a ham.
Aunt Trudy sighed. “What a handsome man!”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said, groaning. “He’s a total cheese ball! Just look at his hair! It looks like it’s molded out of plastic.”
Aunt Trudy glared at me. “I wouldn’t be talking about bad hair if I were you, Joe.”
Mom started laughing. “Yeah, it looks like the hurricane did a real number on you. Where were you boys, anyway?”
I glanced at Frank and shrugged. “We were heading to the mall but got caught in the rain and had to pull over,” I said, thinking fast.
Mom frowned. “I don’t want you boys to ride your motorcycles during a hurricane alert.”
“Yes, you should always tune in to Johnny Thunder before you leave the house,” added Aunt Trudy. “He may have plastic-looking hair—but he really knows the weather.”
Frank nudged my arm and gave me one of his I told you so looks.
Then Mom ordered us upstairs to shower and change into some dry clothes. Frank and I turned and headed to the stairs, arguing over who would get to use the bathroom first.
“Race you for it!”
I knocked my brother aside and dashed up the steps two at a time. When I reached the bathroom, I was surprised to hear the shower running.
Who could be taking a shower? I wondered. Everyone else is downstairs.
Hurricane Joe Page 2
