Thick as Thieves

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Frank toppled backward, hit the water, and slowly sank beneath the waves.

  Chapter 7

  JOE WOULD HAVE SCREAMED, but Charity had clamped her hand over his mouth. He felt like leaping off the boat and swimming to his brother's side, but Charity whispered to him, "It's too late for Frank. There's nothing you can do to help him."

  He tore himself free, wanting to strike out at something, anything, to avenge his brother. Joe clenched his fists, calculating how many men were on board and what chance he'd have against them if he took them all on.

  None, he realized. He might take down one or two, but the rest would get him, and they'd have no qualms about killing him as Frank had been killed. Joe had to stay in the game if he wanted to nail the ones really responsible for Frank's death.

  Beside him, Charity was shaking, a look of horror on her face. Like Joe, she was still staring back at the one brightly lit dock, at the last place they had seen Frank.

  "I'm so sorry," she said. "It wasn't supposed to go like this."

  "What did you have in mind?" Joe snarled, not really interested.

  "We can't talk here," she said. "Things aren't what they seem." Almost as an afterthought she added, "You'll have to trust me."

  On a boat full of killers and thieves, Joe knew he had no other choice.

  ***

  Frank Hardy struggled woozily, spitting water from his mouth. He had a dull ache in his chest, and he was soaked to the skin. Where was he? His hands were clinging to something round and wooden, so damp that the wood was flaking off in wads of soggy pulp. He opened his eyes.

  He remembered the pier, and the last words Chavo had spoken as they walked to the end of it. "This will hurt, but go along with it. Act like you've been shot. Stay under the pier until I can come for you. You'll have to trust me."

  Now Frank was under the pier, hidden by it, clinging to one of the poles holding it up, water up to his ribs. Above, he heard slow, deliberate footsteps, then a cold Hispanic voice. "Frank Hardy?"

  It was Chavo.

  Frank thought about hiding there, waiting until Chavo had gone. What did he know about the man? Nothing. Why should he trust him? There was no reason.

  Except Chavo had saved his life. Why? What was Chavo's game?

  Frank climbed up the rough planks that had been nailed onto the pole as a makeshift ladder. As he reached the top of the pier, Chavo reached down and offered him a hand.

  "Are you all right?" Chavo asked as Frank knelt on one knee and caught his breath.

  "I've been better," Frank said. "You didn't need to use the rubber bullets. If you weren't going to shoot me, you could've aimed a little to my left."

  Chavo laughed. "Yes, but it wouldn't have been as convincing. The Director had to be convinced."

  "Do you have some special reason for double-crossing your boss?"

  Chavo produced a badge. "Don't you want to thank me for saving your life?"

  "Thanks," Frank said as he studied the badge. "Federales. Mexican National Police.

  Does our government know you're working out of San Diego?"

  "No. You understand my position. I infiltrated the Director's gang months ago. I must go where I am sent, and no one knows who I really am."

  "Pretty good infiltration job," Frank said. "You made it all the way to number-two man."

  "Si. I recruited the others on his orders. But he does not trust me. Like the others, I receive my orders in pieces. No one but the Director knows everything he is planning."

  Frank stared at the Mexican lawman. "How do you know who I am? You called me by name."

  "The other one was identified as Joseph Hardy," Chavo replied. "I don't think you could be your illustrious father, so who else would you be but Frank?"

  "You know Dad?"

  "I know of him," Chavo said. He led Frank toward the land. "Come. The others have been sent to Tijuana, in Mexico, to wait for more instructions. We must hurry."

  "I'm soaking wet!" Frank protested.

  Chavo looked grim. "You'll find a change of clothes in my car. We must warn the Naval Station of the coming attack. There is no time to waste."

  Frank studied the face of the scarred man, but it told him nothing. Was Chavo an undercover agent, trained to keep himself a closed book? Or simply a clever crook looking to double-cross his boss?

  Frank had no way to tell, but he agreed with Chavo on one thing - the navy had to be warned. With doubts he followed Chavo up the pier to the waiting car.

  ***

  Willeford stepped onto the deck as the boat cruised in toward the rocks under Point Loma Naval Station. The entire area was fenced in, and from high towers, spotlights swept across the water. The cabin cruiser came to a halt just outside the range of the lights, and Willeford cut the motor. The boat drifted silently on the waves.

  "How are we supposed to crack that place?" someone asked.

  Instead of answering, Willeford took a sealed envelope from his pocket and ran a thumbnail through the seal. Pulling a paper out, he whispered, "Everyone quiet. Want the whole navy to hear us?" The criminals sat in silence as Willeford carefully read the instructions.

  "There are two inflatable rubber rafts being dragged behind the boat. They're fitted with outboard motors, and are small and quick enough to dodge the spotlights." He held up a small photograph and passed it around. "This is where you go ashore."

  The photo reached Joe, who saw that it showed the rocks under the base, with one area marked by an arrow drawn with a felt-tip pen.

  "Climb up those rocks. You'll find specially drilled hand-and footholds. At the top, you'll meet a sailor." Willeford rubbed his fingers against his palm and grinned savagely, and Joe got the idea. Someone had been paid off to get them into the base.

  "What happens then? What are we doing?" one of the guys asked.

  "You'll learn more as you need to know it," Willeford answered, staring the guy down. "Everyone ready?"

  There was some murmuring, but it wasn't long before everyone was set to go. If this operation worked out the way the Director planned, it would be a cinch, and even Joe knew it.

  The rubber rafts cut the water like speedboats, leaving nothing but waves for the spotlights to light up. Their motors were specially muffled to keep the sound to a minimum, and it wasn't long before they were at the rocks. The holds were exactly where the Director had said they'd be, and one by one the gang climbed the rocks to the base.

  A guard stood there, glaring down at them, aiming his rifle. "Who goes there?" he asked menacingly.

  The criminals froze, faced with the gun muzzle.

  Willeford piped up, "Blackjack."

  A nervous smile crossed the guard's lips, and he lowered his rifle and stepped aside. "Pass." The guard had his shirtsleeves rolled up, and Joe recognized the anchor tattoo on his forearm. He was one of the two men who'd tried to strangle him and Frank at the airport.

  The guard stepped back to the fence and pulled out a section.

  In a line, like commandos, the raiders scrambled onto the sleeping base. They clung to the shadows as the occasional jeep went by, but they met no one.

  "The fleet's out on maneuvers," the guard explained as they approached a gray metal hut with No Admittance stenciled on the door in huge letters. "The base is working with a skeleton crew." He jangled keys, then put one in the lock. The door swung open.

  Swiftly they swarmed inside and shut the door behind them and flipped the light switch to on. "What you're looking for is over there," the guard said. Following the beam from the guard's flashlight, Joe saw racks and racks of metal drums.

  "Some of this is poison gas," Joe said, dread creeping into his voice. "You breathe this long enough and you're dead."

  "We need some of that poison," Willeford replied, looking at his orders. "This stuff has been stored here because no one could figure out what else to do with it. Everyone grab a canister and let's move out."

  The criminals scrambled through the hut, lifting the drums off the racks. Joe
was worried. Nerve gas was something he didn't want to fool with. In the darkness, he looked for another way out. There was none but the door, where the guard now stood.

  "Where's Charity?" Joe asked, realizing she wasn't with them.

  "Forget her," Willeford ordered, but he scowled as he spoke. "Do your job."

  Joe spotted a different canister, one marked Knockout Gas. Quickly he plucked it off the rack, covering the name with his arm, and carried it on his shoulder.

  "Come on!" Willeford barked, checking his watch. "We're running behind schedule. Move it." As one, they started for the door.

  It swung open suddenly, and there stood a sailor. He was young and bewildered by the activity. "What's going on here?" he asked.

  The guard grabbed him and punched him once in the stomach, doubling him over. As the guard twisted the sailor's arm behind his back and dragged him into the hut, Willeford came forward and put a gun to the back of the sailor's head.

  "Too bad you stumbled into this," Willeford said, and cocked back the trigger.

  "You can't!" Joe shouted, before he realized what he was saying.

  All eyes were on him, and Willeford's eyes turned to dark, murderous slits in his face. "Going soft, Kid?" He pulled another gun from his belt and tossed it to Joe. "I think you'd better take care of him Joe hesitated, staring at the pleading eyes of the sailor.

  Angrily Willeford aimed his gun at Joe. "I don't think you understand me, Kid. You don't have a choice. We can't afford to have this sailor boy running around to tell about our business. Kill him."

  His eyes were icy cold. "Or kill you."

  Chapter 8

  "OF COURSE he has to die," Joe growled angrily.

  Willeford hesitantly lowered his gun.

  "But a shot might bring the whole base down on us. How about we run a little test on him?" Joe raised the canister he held, keeping the label against his chest. He knew the gas wouldn't cause severe injury to the sailor. "How about we give him a sniff of this?"

  "Please, no!" the sailor pleaded. "I won't say anything. I swear."

  "I like your style, Kid," Willeford said.

  "Everybody out."

  Joe handed the gun back to Willeford as he passed and lifted his canister so the nozzle on it was aimed at the sailor. Turning his head away, Joe opened the valve, and a thin spray of white gas rushed into the sailor's face.

  "Close that thing," Willeford said from outside, fear in his voice. His eyes were on the sailor, who gasped and clawed at his throat, trying to get words out. They stuck in his throat.

  The sailor toppled forward, to land facedown on the floor. Willeford walked back in and nudged the body with his toe the young seaman didn't move.

  "Good work, Kid," Willeford said, going back out. "I misjudged you."

  Cautiously the guard led the criminals from the hut. Before he left, Joe looked back at the sailor, who still hadn't stirred. In the dark, Joe could just see the sailor's chest steadily rise and fall. The man was breathing, and Joe felt a wave of relief.

  Now all he had to do was keep himself alive and figure out what had happened to Charity.

  ***

  "The admiral's not available," the military policeman at the front gate of the naval base said.

  Chavo held up his badge, and the MP grinned. "This isn't Mexico, pal. Come back tomorrow."

  "You don't understand," Frank said. "Your base is being robbed."

  That raised the MP's eyebrows. He rested his hand on the automatic in his holster. "I think you two had better wait here. The officer in charge will want to talk to you."

  The MP went into the little booth at the gate and spoke briefly on the phone, keeping his eyes on Frank and Chavo. Moments later a jeep rolled up to the gate, and two MPs leapt out, followed by a white-haired man in a uniform marked by the silver-eagle insignia of a navy captain. The MPs stood at ease as the captain approached the gate.

  "Let them in," the captain said, and the MP on guard swung the gate open. Chavo and Frank tensely walked in. "I'm Captain Hammond. You were saying something about a burglary on base?"

  "There's a gang of men stealing something here," Frank said, but Chavo stepped between him and Hammond and held up his credentials again.

  Captain Hammond shook him off. "You understand that I'll have to call your superiors and learn if you're who you say you are. There are procedures to follow."

  "There's no time," Frank insisted. "The heist is happening right now."

  "I cannot permit you to check with my superiors," Chavo admitted. "I am on special undercover assignment. It is essential that my cover not be blown. This matter must remain strictly between us."

  "That's not possible," Captain Hammond replied. "Frankly, I don't believe either one of you. There's nothing on this base worth stealing. We have no real money, and all the weapons are stored over on North Island." His eyes widened slightly. "Unless — "

  "Sir?" an MP said, noting the look of concern on the captain's face.

  "Into the jeep," Captain Hammond suddenly ordered. He pointed at Chavo and Frank. "You too." They clambered in.

  "Where to, sir?" the MP who was driving asked, shifting the jeep into low gear.

  "The gas depository," the captain said gravely. "If someone got his hands on that..." "Nerve gas?" Frank said. "I thought the government didn't make that anymore."

  "This is old, but just as dangerous as it was when it was created," Hammond replied. "We store it here because there's no safe way to get rid of it." He turned to look at Frank. "Who are you, anyway? You don't look Mexican."

  "I'm American, sir," Frank replied. "I ran into this business from a different direction than Chavo."

  "And you don't want to identify yourself either," Captain Hammond interrupted. "Plenty of time for that later, I suppose. You two aren't going anywhere."

  The jeep approached the hut where the nerve gas was stored, and the captain's face turned to stone. The door to the hut was wide open, and just inside, lit up by the jeep's headlights, a sailor lay flat on the floor.

  Frank leapt from the jeep and ran into the hut. He crouched and laid a hand on the sailor's neck. "I'm getting a pulse." Gently he patted the sailor's cheek. As Captain Hammond, Chavo, and the two MPs entered and stood above them, the sailor's eyes fluttered open.

  "What happened here, man?" Captain Hammond demanded.

  The sailor told the story as if he couldn't believe he was alive.

  "They couldn't have gotten far," Captain Hammond said. To one MP he said, "I want the entire base on alert. Do a full perimeter check. Well, what are you standing there for? Go!"

  He scowled as he looked at Chavo and Frank, and as he faced the other MP, he waved his thumb at them.

  "Place these two under arrest."

  ***

  Joe had barely climbed back in the rubber raft, setting his cargo on his lap, when an alarm sounded on the base.

  "We've been discovered," Willeford shouted. "Move it." The man handling the outboard motor pulled on the crank and brought it to life. The raft zipped across the bay, heading back to the cabin cruiser. Nearby, Joe could see the other raft, keeping pace with them.

  Then a spotlight caught the other raft, and Joe looked over his shoulder at the shore. All along the cliff, men were lining up, and in the moonlight Joe caught the glint of rifles in their hands.

  "Stop those craft immediately!" commanded a booming voice over a loudspeaker. "Do not move. This will be your only warning!"

  "Keep going," Willeford shouted.

  Joe ducked down as a hail of bullets rained down around them in the water. In the other raft, still caught in the spotlight, one man clutched at his shoulder, screamed, and tumbled into the black water. Suddenly there was a blast like a gigantic balloon popping.

  A shot had punctured the other raft. One whole side had blown open, and the raft began to sink. The desperate criminals threw their canisters overboard and abandoned ship. They swam off the sinking raft and moved toward Joe's raft.

  "We d
on't need them," Willeford said, and they took off, leaving the stranded criminals behind. Joe realized the raft had moved out of firing range.

  Moments later the raft reached the cabin cruiser, and Willeford climbed aboard while everyone else stayed in the raft. One by one, the others climbed the rope ladder leading to the boat, leaving only Joe in the raft. He handed the canisters up to them, and they handed them man to man like firefighters handing off buckets of water, until all the canisters were on board.

  "Stay there," Willeford called down to Joe, as he pulled the ladder up.

  "What's going on?" Joe asked, and Willeford popped his head over the edge of the cabin cruiser and beamed a friendly smile down at him. Joe shivered. Willeford held out a package. "This is the last of the Director's orders for this operation.

  Catch." He dropped the package, and Joe caught it. It was small, about the size of a roll of film, and tightly wrapped in brown paper. "Take it back to the warehouse and give it to Chavo," Willeford continued. "You'll get your next order there. We're heading out."

  Joe acknowledged the order with a brief nod, then turned the raft away from the boat and sped off into the night toward the dock. He was glad he'd finally gotten away from the others. Now he'd have a chance to face Chavo and make him pay for what he had done to Frank.

  The cabin cruiser sped out of the bay and into the Pacific Ocean. Back at the base, the shooting had stopped. The night was quiet now, as if nothing had happened.

  ***

  The outboard motor hummed a deep staccato tune, uneven enough to keep Joe from being lulled to sleep. As he listened, he began to notice a second, higher-pitched whine of another motor.

  Someone was following him.

  "Joe!" a woman's voice cried. He looked over to see Charity pulling alongside, piloting a speedboat. Between the noise of the two engines, nothing else could be heard. Charity signaled for Joe to shut off his motor. He did.