The Arctic Patrol Mystery (9 page)

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: The Arctic Patrol Mystery
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“Great idea!”
Chet and Biff departed the next morning, and at two o'clock the Hardys, traveling as lightly as they could, appeared at Captain Sigtryggsson's office.
There they met a tall, handsome man in his late thirties—Carl Magnusson, the skipper of the
Thor.
After hard handshakes, Captain Magnusson said, “Come with me, men. We're on our way.”
He took them down the harbor where the
Thor,
a spotless white cutter, was waiting.
“She's a big ship,” Frank observed.
“Two hundred and six feet long—nine hundred and twenty tons,” the captain explained.
As they stepped from the dock down a ladder to board the cutter, Frank and Joe noticed a 57 mm gun mounted on the front of the boat. Behind the gun deck, at a lower level, lay a large rubber raft. Two pontoons on either side were bullet-shaped.
“We use that for transfers in rough weather,” said Captain Magnusson, who had noticed the boys' inquisitive looks.
They followed the skipper up and down a maze of companionways to his quarters. A comfortable wardroom was located forward, and the captain's bunk was to the left. On the right side were quarters for the visitors.
“Make yourselves at home,” Captain Magnusson said.
“Do you suppose you can find the
Svartfugel
for us?” Joe asked, putting down his bag.
“I think so, if we don't run into any foreign poachers.” The skipper explained that recently some ships of foreign registry had been sneaking through the twelve-mile limit. “But we spot them on radar,” he continued, “and get them!”
“Then what do you do?” Frank asked.
“Bring them back to port and fine them. They cannot get away with our codfish!”
Frank and Joe looked about the ship. Several seamen, about their own age, were busy hosing and swabbing the decks. Some of them spoke English, and the boys chatted with them about their training and their ambitions.
Then they strolled about, looking at the colorful Icelandic coastline slipping past.
“You know,” Joe said to his brother, “I'm beginning to enjoy our trip!”
“Well, let's hope we're successful,” Frank replied with a grin.
About sundown, Snaefell Glacier came into view, its bare, rugged peaks bathed in orange light. Suddenly Captain Magnusson, who stood on the bridge, beckoned to the Hardys. They hastened up a ladder and were at his side a moment later.
“Look over there!” the skipper said tersely, peering through his binoculars. “A poacher! She's in our territorial waters!”
He handed Frank the binoculars, so high-powered that they brought the fishing trawler seemingly close enough to touch. She was about forty-five feet long and bore the name
Tek.
Frank surveyed her from stem to stern. Five crewmen could be seen on deck. Suddenly he gasped. “Joe, there he is!”
“Who?”
“Musselman. I'll bet anything!”
CHAPTER XI
Over the Waves
JOE took the glasses to confirm Frank's suspicion. No doubt about it! The face was that of the bogus Hallbjornsson!
“Captain Magnusson,” Frank said, “there's a wanted man on the
Tek
!”
“The entire trawler is wanted,” the captain replied with a grim smile. “She's poaching in Icelandic waters.”
He dispatched a radio message commanding the
Tek
to stop. Then he took the binoculars and watched. Suddenly he gave an exclamation in Icelandic. The trawler was turning about and racing toward the open sea!
“She's trying to get away!” Frank cried out.
If Captain Magnusson was startled by the poacher's action, he did not show it. Calmly he gave the order for full speed ahead.
Much to the surprise of Frank and Joe, the fleeing boat had exceptional speed. Churning up a greenish-white wake, it high-tailed straight west. But it was no match for the
Thor.
The cutter gained with every minute.
Finally the ships came side by side. Captain Magnusson, using a bullhorn, ordered the fleeing boat to stop for boarding. “You are under arrest!” he thundered.
Beckoning to the Hardy boys and two seamen, he boarded the poacher and was met by her irate skipper, who declared in broken English, “You cannot stop us. It is illegal!”
“You are in Icelandic fishing waters,” Captain Magnusson replied evenly. “And you are not Icelandic.”
“I am thirteen miles off your shore!”
“Only ten by my calculations. And my calculations are what count.” Magnussen asked curtly, “Why did you flee when I radioed for you to stop?”
“I did not hear your message.”
“Then you should get your radio repaired. What you did was dangerous; you could have been shot.”
The captain accompanied the poacher to his bridge, where he obtained the fishing boat's registration and other vital details. Then Magnusson said, “I think you are harboring a fugitive from Iceland and will conduct a search.”
The poacher glared at him in rage. “How dare you! You cannot do this!”
“But we will,” Magnussen retorted. He motioned to Frank and Joe, along with his two crewmen. The four conducted a painstaking search for the fugitive, expecting to see Musselman pop out of a closet or jump out of a locker at any moment. But the baldheaded spy could not be found.
“Maybe he's hiding in some kind of a container,” Frank said.
“You mean under the boat?” Joe asked.
“It's possible.”
Although they searched the sides of the boat for any telltale line leading under the water, their efforts were fruitless.
“Come on. We'll give the crew's quarters one more look,” Frank said.
The bunks were thoroughly checked to see if anyone was hiding under a false mattress. Each mattress was thumped, but all were genuine. No Musselman!
The crewmen left. Frank and Joe gave the last bunk one more look. A small bit of paper stuck between the wall and the blanket caught Frank's eye. He plucked it from its hiding place.
“Holy crow! Joe, look at this!” It had been torn from an Icelandic newspaper.
“It's our ad!” Joe exclaimed. “The one Musselman answered!”
“See, we were right!” Frank said. “He was on this boat!”
“One thing is sure,” Joe muttered. “That crook isn't here now, and if he is, he certainly is well hidden.”
The boys decided not to tell Captain Magnusson about their clue. When they returned to the bridge, the skipper asked, “Any luck?”
“No. We couldn't find him.” Frank observed the poaching captain all the while. He did not twitch a muscle, and his eyes remained cold and angry. If he knew of Musselman's presence, he gave no indication.
Magnusson called for his first lieutenant, who vaulted over the rail.
“Hjalmar, take this boat to Reykjavik. We will follow!”
After admonishing his prisoners not to do anything rash, Magnusson returned to the Thor, with the Hardys at his heels. The coast guard cutter and its captive turned about and were under way toward the Icelandic capital city.
In the captain's cabin Frank and Joe talked with the skipper. “What'll happen to these fellows now?” Frank asked.
“They will be fined, and their fish confiscated.”
“But what about our search for Rex Mar?” Joe asked.
A broad smile came over the captain's face. “I knew you would ask that question. Everything has been taken care of.”
“How?”
“We will pass the
Albert
about two o'clock this morning. We will transfer you for the continuation of your search for Rex Mar.”
“Great!” Frank said. “Thank you, sir.”
“But it will not be as easy as boarding the poacher,” the skipper went on. “You see how rough it is getting? We will have to transfer you by raft.”
The
Thor
had begun to pitch and yaw. As night settled over the sea, the wind blew harder.
“We may be in for a little rough weather,” the captain declared. “But you are good sailors, right?”
Joe hoped that neither of them would get seasick. But he felt a little queasy already. Dinner with the crew, however, settled Joe's stomach. The boys joined the young crewmen in a hearty meal of roast lamb and boiled potatoes. The coffee was black and piping hot.
When they returned to the deck again, the swell was even greater, and the ship rolled and rocked.
“Get some sleep now,” the captain advised them. “We will wake you when the
Albert
comes in sight.”
Frank and Joe slipped into their bunks and the rolling sea lolled them to sleep in no time at all. The next thing Frank knew, there was a hand on his shoulder.
“Come. We have the
Albert
in sight,” Captain Magnusson said. “You have your gear ready?”
“Yes, we're all packed,” Frank replied as Joe rose sleepily from his bunk.
On deck the fresh wind with the bite of glacier snow assailed the Hardys' nostrils, and they were instantly wide awake.
In the distance the lights of the
Albert
bobbed up and down. Captain Magnusson gave an order, and a searchlight atop the mast shone down on the sea in a brilliant yellow cone.
“There comes the raft now,” the skipper said, pointing over the sea. At first it looked like a cork; then, as it drew closer, Frank and Joe saw that it was identical to the one lashed on the forward deck of the
Thor.
Three seamen, using long oars as paddles, propelled the raft toward them.
On the
Thor
a section of rail was lifted up, and as the raft drew alongside, one of the sailors hurled a line aboard.
“Everything is perfectly safe,” Captain Magnusson assured the boys.
Frank wondered. The raft rose and fell on each wave, coming even with the deck of the
Thor,
then dropping ten feet into the trough.
Clutching their bags, the Hardys waited. Up came the raft. Joe stepped in, and went down like an elevator. Up it came again for Frank. Then the line was cast off, and they were gliding over the frigid sea.
The raft resembled a small bug struggling in the rolling waves. Overhead, a silver moon illuminated the snow-capped mountains along the shore.
The young seamen paddled hard. Their oars flashed as they dug deep into the brine.
Frank's eyes scanned the ocean. Suddenly he leaned over to Joe. “Something else is out there!”
“Where?” asked Joe, looking about in the stiff breeze.
“I saw a wake!”
Joe peered intently, but could spot nothing. “What do you suppose it was?”
“A small boat, or a raft, maybe with a motor!”
Presently the
Albert
loomed up black beside the raft. A section of its deck rail also had been lifted, but Frank Hardy was not ready to board yet. Crouched in the raft, he looked up at the captain and shouted, “I think I saw another small boat out there, skipper. I'd like permission to look for it!”
“What? Speak slower, please. I am not too good with English.”
Frank repeated his request, and the captain called back, “Wait. I will try first to find it on my radar.” He went into the control room, while the raft, banging against the side of the
Albert,
rose and fell with a dizzying motion.
The seamen did their best to hold everything steady, and two more aboard the
Albert
clung to the line which had been thrown to them.
Then suddenly it happened. A huge wave bore down on them. It hit the raft while it was in a deep trough, and after it had passed over the clinging occupants, Frank Hardy was gone!
CHAPTER XII
A Mysterious Offer
A HEAD bobbed to the surface beside the
Albert,
then disappeared beneath the sullen waves again. Instantly two of the crewmen sprang overboard, while the third restrained Joe from diving in after his brother.
Someone on the deck flashed a powerful light on the turbulent waters and Joe saw Frank in the firm grasp of the two seamen. His face was pale, his eyes shut.
Frank was pushed into the raft, then hoisted quickly to the deck of the
Albert.
Seconds later, on a rising wave, Joe stepped safely aboard.
The
Albert's
captain, a square-jawed man named Holmquist, immediately applied artificial respiration to Frank, and finally the boy's eyes fluttered open. The captain helped him to his feet. “You tried to swallow all of the North Atlantic, but it cannot be done!”
“I sure did go under, like a sinker,” Frank said, shivering from the icy water.
“Come down below and change into some dry clothes,” Captain Holmquist said.
Still groggy, Frank followed him and Joe into a warm cabin. There he was supplied with seamen's clothes, while his own were hung up to dry. Then the three sat down at the table in the skipper's quarters.
“Did you see the other raft?” was Joe's first question.
“Something was out there,” said Captain Holmquist. “But a raft—I doubt that. Probably a whale. We have them in these waters, you know.”
“We can't look for it any more, then?” Frank asked.
The skipper shrugged. “There's nothing on our radar now. Anyhow, our mission is to find the
Svartfugel,
right?”
“That's what we came for.” Frank managed a grin. “You think you can find her?”
“I found her already. She is located on our chart. In the morning you will have your trawler served up for breakfast!”
Frank and Joe laughed at the captain's good humor and thanked him again for his help. Then they retired to their bunks and fell fast asleep.

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