In Plane Sight

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Into Thin Air

  The stolen plane reached one end of the runway just as the three teens reached the other. The Hardys and Jamal dashed down the worn concrete toward the oncoming plane. The plane accelerated, its engine roaring and its central prop spinning into a nearly invisible blur.

  The three teens waved their arms and shouted, trying to get the plane to stop, but it merely picked up speed. The darkness made it impossible to see who was behind the controls.

  “They’re not slowing down!” Joe said.

  “Look out!” Frank cried.

  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 December 2002

  Copyright © 2002 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  ALADDIN PAPERBACKS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster

  Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  The text of this book was set in New Caledonia.

  THE HARDY BOYS MYSTERY STORIES is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  THE HARDY BOYS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Library of Congress Control Number 2002101535

  ISBN 0-7434-3760-8

  ISBN 978-1-4391-1429-2 (ebook)

  Contents

  * * *

  1 Fly By & Buy

  2 Air Apparent

  3 Unscheduled Appointment

  4 One of Our Planes Is Missing

  5 Ace Cadet vs. Space Cadet

  6 Down in Flames

  7 Trouble in the Skies

  8 The Long Fall

  9 The Ghost in the Ice

  10 Ice Man

  11 Tower of Peril

  12 The Legend of 878

  13 The Payoff

  14 “Flight” for Life

  15 Flying Finish

  1 Fly By & Buy

  * * *

  “Joe, I think it’s time you flew this bird solo,” Jamal Hawkins said, a broad smile breaking over his chestnut brown face.

  Joe Hardy, a muscular seventeen-year-old with blond hair and blue eyes, took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his palms. He reached forward and wrapped his hands around the steering yobe in front of his copilot’s seat.

  Jamal took his hands off the pilot’s yobe and sat back. Joe turned the steering column to the right, and the Cessna dipped into a gentle starboard turn.

  The single-engine four-seat Cessna 182 was part of a small fleet of planes owned by Jamal’s father, Ben Hawkins, the president of Hawkins Air Service. It was an old plane, but it sported a fresh coat of ivory paint with the traditional green-and-gold Hawkins Air logo and trim. It could comfortably seat four and had extra cargo room behind the rear seats.

  “How’s it feel, Joe?” Frank asked, leaning over from the rear of the plane. The elder of the two brothers at age eighteen, Frank was tall and lean with brown hair and eyes and the physique of a track star.

  “Feels like a million bucks,” Joe replied, beaming.

  “Believe me,” Jamal said, “it’s not the plane that feels that way. It’s your new pilot’s license!”

  “I’m glad the prize we got from the Halloween Spooktacular contest allowed you to finish up your certification, Joe,” Frank said. “The brushup course I took didn’t hurt either.”

  “It seems like ages since either of us has flown a plane,” Joe said. He gazed through the blur of the prop into the cloudy sky beyond. The brothers’ busy schedules at Bayport High didn’t leave them much time for flying, even though Jamal’s dad owned an air taxi company.

  “It hasn’t been that long,” Frank replied, “but I do feel a little rusty.” He smiled. “Remind your dad to have out-of-town business more often. It’s nice to have a chance to stretch our wings, so to speak.”

  Jamal nodded. “I’m glad he trusted me to do this,” he said. “We were lucky that this flying show fell on a teachers’ conference weekend for both our schools.” Even though Jamal attended a different high school from the brothers, the three of them were good friends. They often competed against one another in sporting events.

  “Thanks for asking us to come along,” Frank said. “I’ve read about the Fly By & Buy air show before and always wanted to check it out.”

  “No problem,” Jamal replied. “With you guys, I get three things: copilots, someone to help me pick up this new plane for Dad, and someone to hang with during the show. Most of the people who come to these things are my dad’s age. How’s our heading, Joe?”

  Joe checked the instruments and turned the plane slightly to the north. “Headed straight for the old Scott airstrip,” he replied. The airport was outside Jewel Ridge, a town a couple of hours north of Bayport. “Kind of a strange place to hold an air show, isn’t it?”

  “A strange time of year, too,” Frank said. “I saw on the news that there’s already snow on the ground in the state park north of there, and most of the lakes are frozen over.”

  Jamal shrugged. “Maybe they got a price break for using the airport this weekend. The show was earlier last year, and the year before too. I read in the paper that Fly By & Buy was having some kind of financial trouble. That’s why they moved the show location out into the sticks, where it’s cheaper.”

  “There can’t be a lot of competing shows this time of year either,” Joe said. “I imagine most of these small airports are pretty empty right now.” He made another small adjustment, and the plane dipped to starboard.

  “Well, Scott Field won’t be empty this weekend,” Jamal said. “Fly By & Buy always attracts a good crowd: lots of experimental aircraft, lots of collectors. Not many women our age, though.” He threw a sly grin toward the Hardys.

  “Joe and I are spoken for, so that’s all right,” Frank replied.

  “I thought you were still going out with Vanessa Robinson anyway,” Joe said to Jamal.

  “We’re dating,” Jamal said, “but we’re not tied to each other. You know how college girls can be.”

  Joe and Frank glanced at each other and shrugged. They’d been dating Iola Morton and Callie Shaw for a long time.

  “Okay, so maybe you don’t know,” Jamal said good-naturedly.

  The three teens laughed.

  “So,” Frank said, “tell us about this airplane we’re picking up.”

  “It’s an old Sullivan Brothers Air Customizing job,” Jamal replied. “Pretty sleek—and pretty expensive, too, though Dad got a good deal on it. It’s based on a Cessna Caravan and seats eight. It also comes with some sweet appointments inside. Dad hopes it’ll beef up our high-end business.”

  “That model’s sometimes used for cargo and military expeditions, isn’t it?” Joe asked.

  “Yeah,” Jamal said, “but not these Sullivan babies. They’re too posh for that. Some of ’em are real collectors’ items.”

  “I can’t wait to see it,” Frank said.

  “I can’t wait to fly it,” Jamal replied, leaning contentedly back in the pilot’s seat and smiling.

  The Cessna’s single engine hummed confidently as they plowed through the clouds toward their destination.

  Frank reached down and checked the two parachutes stowed beneath his seat.

  “Worried about your brother’s flying?” Jamal asked, smiling.

  “Nah, just checking,” Frank said. “I really hope we have a chance to do some j
umps while we’re here,” he said, changing the subject.

  “If the weather stays good,” Jamal said, “I’m sure someone will be taking parachutists up. I’d take you myself, but Dad would probably kill me—for insurance reasons, of course.”

  “You jeopardize his insurance, so he collects on yours,” Joe replied with a smile. “Seems reasonable.”

  The scenery below the plane grew progressively more hilly as they moved away from Bayport and toward Jewel Ridge. It was a pretty flight, though the foliage had mostly passed its autumn peak. The afternoon sunlight glittered off the Jewel River, which wound upstream toward the small city and their destination. It had been unseasonably warm lately, so the river remained unfrozen. Patches of snow huddled in the shadows of the hills and bare forests below, though, reminding the Hardys of the colder weather they’d been having.

  Jamal took the controls again. They passed west of the city, angling toward Scott Field.

  The old airstrip stood alone amid gently rolling hills, not too far from the village of Scottsville on Jewel Ridge’s northwestern outskirts. The airfield had a small old-fashioned control tower, about three stories tall, with a walkway around the upper deck. A long row of tubular metal airplane hangars lined the edge of the field nearest the main road. An L-shaped brick administration building stood nearby, and a row of service buildings ran behind the hangars.

  The airport’s three runways were laid out in a traditional triangular design, aligned with the prevailing winds to allow for the best takeoffs and landings. Close to the end of the runway farthest from the hangars was another long, boxy building with what looked like a small park next to it. A dusty road circled the west side of the airport and led to a smaller complex.

  “That’s the old Flyboy Motel,” Jamal said, “and the campground beside it. Are you guys sure you don’t want to spring for rooms? It could get pretty cold tonight.”

  “Is Hawkins Air picking up the bill?” Joe asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “Well . . .” Jamal began.

  “A little cold-weather camping is good for the soul,” Frank said with a laugh.

  “And the wallet too, I guess,” Jamal admitted.

  “That little motel is probably booked solid for the show anyway,” Joe said. He scanned the rows of aircraft assembled by the edges of the field, just off the runways. Many different types of planes stood side by side: single engines, twin engines, a few small jets, and a variety of strange-looking experimental and home-built aircraft. Most had been buffed to sparkling finishes. “The organizers may have changed the date of the Fly By & Buy,” he added, “but it looks like they’ve still got good attendance.”

  “Usually it’s the largest show in this part of the country,” Frank said. “A lot of important local air business goes on here.”

  “Even more, now that we’ve arrived,” Jamal said. “Check your seat belts; I’m taking us down.”

  Jamal radioed the control tower for permission to land. Once he had a runway, he vectored in from the southeast and brought them smoothly down to the ground.

  After taxiing to their assigned parking area, the teens gathered their luggage and hopped out of the plane.

  “Looks like the Jewel Ridge economic boom hasn’t drifted this far north yet,” Frank noted, eyeing the weeds growing around the edges of the patchy-looking tarmac.

  “There’s a busier airport just south of town,” Jamal said. “I flew in there with Dad once.”

  “Busier, but not friendlier,” said a woman’s voice from behind them.

  The three friends turned and saw a tall red-haired woman walking toward them. She was dressed in a natty maroon business suit and high heels, which looked impractical on the tarmac’s rough surface. She was smiling brightly.

  “I’m Elise Flaubert,” she said, “director of the Scottsville Airport and the show coordinator. Which one of you is Jamal Hawkins?”

  “The tall, dark, and handsome one,” Joe said.

  “The other tall, dark, and handsome one,” Frank added, smiling.

  Elise Flaubert laughed and extended her hand to Jamal. She shook his hand and then shook hands with the brothers as well.

  “Frank and Joe Hardy,” Frank said. “We’re attending the show with Jamal.”

  “I’m keeping them out of trouble,” Jamal said.

  Ms. Flaubert frowned slightly, then seemed to decide Jamal was joking and smiled again. “Are you related to the famous detective Fenton Hardy?” she asked the brothers.

  “He’s our father,” Joe replied.

  “Ah. I’ve heard a lot about him,” Ms. Flaubert said. “Well, Mr. Hawkins, I think you’ll be happy with this show.” She handed him a manila envelope. “You’ll find the show information and your ID badges inside. If you need anything else, just ask.” She sighed and glanced at her watch. “Shoot! Look at the time. Got to go!”

  With that, she bustled back across the aging tarmac toward a man picking up litter. “Jose,” she said, her voice fading into the distance, “aren’t you supposed to be working the cafeteria right now . . . ?”

  “Friendly,” Joe observed, “but harried.”

  “You want to check in at the campground?” Frank asked.

  “Let’s look around a little first,” Jamal replied, looking over the rows of planes lining the field. “Hey, check out that baby!”

  He walked toward a bright yellow stunt plane with red-and-orange flames painted on the side. It had over and under wings like a World War I biplane, the closed cockpit of a fighter jet, and a single prop in front.

  “Now this is what I call sweet!” Jamal said.

  “Are you talking about me or the plane?” asked a slender young woman stepping from the other side of the aircraft. She was dressed in a yellow-and-red aviator’s jumpsuit, and had a pair of mirrored sunglasses pushed back on her head. Her straight black hair hung just above her shoulders, and her dark eyes twinkled. Her skin tone, hair, and eyes bespoke her Asian heritage.

  “Both,” Jamal said, recovering from minor shock. “I’m Jamal Hawkins, of Hawkins Air. These are my friends, Frank and Joe Hardy.” He extended his hand, and she shook it.

  “Nice to meet you,” the woman said. “I’m Amy Chow.” She patted the yellow airplane. “So you like the Screamin’ Demon, eh?”

  “It’s a fine-looking plane,” said Joe.

  “Are you the Amy Chow?” Frank asked. “The big dot-com innovator?”

  “Former dot-com innovator,” Amy corrected him, smiling. “Now I’m Amy Chow, the cashed-out airplane-collecting multimillionaire. It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it.”

  “If you need someone to take over for you . . .” Jamal said.

  She laughed. “The line forms to the rear.”

  “So, are you here collecting or showing off?” Joe asked.

  “A bit of both,” she replied, “same as everyone here. Yourselves?”

  “Looking around,” Frank answered, “and picking up a plane for Jamal’s dad; he owns Hawkins Air Service.”

  “We’re adding a Sullivan Brothers Air Customizing job to our line,” Jamal added.

  Amy whistled appreciatively. “Sweet fly. I’ve got one already, so I’m not in the market right now. I hear there’ll be plenty of Sullivan customs at the show, though.”

  “One will be plenty for us,” Joe replied slyly.

  “One’s never enough!” Amy said. “Well, gotta run. I see Clevon Brooks ambling this way, and he looks like he’s in a bad mood. Catch you boys later. Oh, hey, don’t get fingerprints on my plane.” She smiled and started to head across the tarmac toward the administration building.

  As she left, a tall, thin African-American man in a T-shirt, jeans, and a leather aviator’s jacket covered with endorsement patches jogged up. “Have you seen Amy Chow around here?” he asked. “I need to talk to her.”

  “She just left,” Frank said.

  “Mr. Brooks,” Jamal said, extending his hand, “I’m Jamal Hawkins from Hawkins Air. I admire your work very
much.”

  Brooks shook his hand tentatively but kept looking around for Amy. “Thanks.”

  “That rear-prop swept-wing experimental plane you built was something!” Jamal enthused.

  “Hey, thanks,” Brooks said. “Look, I’d love to chat, but I really need to catch Ms. Chow.” He jogged off toward the administration building.

  “Is he often rude?” Joe asked when he’d gone.

  “He’s just eccentric,” Jamal said, “but brilliant.”

  “I caught his work on an episode of Nova once,” Frank said.

  “I remember that,” Joe replied. “He’s big in the experimental aviation field.”

  “I wonder what kind of plane he’s brought with him to the show,” Jamal said. Then, spotting something, he added, “Hey, there’s one of the Sullivan jobs over there.”

  The brothers looked toward a largish low-bellied single-prop plane with a top-mounted wing. Blue-and-gold piping decorated its sleek body.

  “C’mon,” Jamal said, “let’s see if it’s the one we’re picking up.”

  “You don’t know what color your plane is?” Joe asked.

  Jamal shook his head. “Dad didn’t mention it. I guess he was busy getting ready for his trip to China. The color doesn’t matter, really. We’re gonna paint it anyway. C’mon!”

  He jogged off toward the blue-and-gold plane with the brothers following close behind.

  Just then a brightly colored car screeched across the tarmac. It was heading straight for them.

  2 Air Apparent

  * * *

  “Look out!” Frank shouted as the red-and-white Chevy barreled toward them.

  Sunlight glinted off the car’s shining chrome details. The Chevy’s whitewall tires squealed on the airport’s patchy tarmac.

  The Hardys and Jamal dived aside as the car screeched to a halt, barely a few feet from where they’d been standing.

  A stocky man with graying hair, wearing a white cowboy suit and hat and a blue shirt, got out of the driver’s side of the car and laughed. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Did I frighten y’all?”