Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
Speed Times Five
Fast and Dangerous Times
Joe hit the pedals of his bike and lurched out of the starting gate and down the steep, bare ski slope.
“Yahoo!” he whooped. Yelling wasn't very professional, but the thrill of descent felt glorious. Stones and dust kicked up behind Joe as he zoomed toward the first turn.
He came in hard and clenched the hand brake to slow himself a little. The bike skidded sideways a bit, costing him some time, but he regained control and headed for the second steep turn.
A tall stand of pines rose up before him as he neared a jog to the right. He squeezed the brakes lightly to take the edge off the turn.
The grips caught for a moment, then pressed all the way to the handlebars. The brakes didn't catch. Unable to control his speed, Joe careened toward the tall pine trees.
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 June 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 and THE HARDY BOYS MYSTERY STORIES are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2001098777
ISBN 0-7434-3746-2
ISBN 978-1-4391-1446-9 (eBook)
Contents
Chapter 4:
Water, Water, Everywhere
Chapter 5:
Rapidly Deteriorating
Chapter 6:
Not Just Another Walk in the Woods
Chapter 7:
A Rock and a Hard Place
Chapter 15:
The Final Deception
“Pull ahead and get out of the car,” said the Canadian border guard.
Joe Hardy pulled the van into the indicated parking space, and he, his brother, Frank, Chet Morton, and Jamal Hawkins got out.
“Is there any trouble, Officer Benson?” Joe asked, reading the nametag on the guard's lapel.
Officer Benson, a balding, middle-aged man with a short beard shook his head. He and a female guard opened the van's doors and looked inside. They peered under the seats, into the back, in the glove compartment, and into the spare tire well. “Just a routine check,” Benson said.
“I never thought there'd be much call for smuggling from America to Canada, or vice versa,” Jamal said good-naturedly.
“You'd be surprised,” Officer Benson replied.
“Cigarettes, alcohol, medicine, weapons,” the woman officer, whose name badge read Scott, replied. She finished peering at the van's underside and added, “Even exotic animals.”
“Any of those clinging to the van's underside?” Chet asked with a grin.
Officer Scott smiled back. “Not a one.”
“I need to check your IDs,” Officer Benson said. He looked over the four friends' birth certificates and asked, “What's the purpose of your visit to Canada and how long will you be staying?”
“We're here to compete in the Speed Times Five race at the Fire Creek Mountain Resort,” Frank said.
“That's what all the gear in back is for,” Joe added. Officer Scott carefully checked through their equipment as the teens spoke to Officer Benson. “We'll be in the country about a week,” the younger Hardy finished.
Benson nodded. “Can I see your race entry forms, please?”
“Sure thing,” Frank said, digging their registration forms out of his luggage. “Joe and I are competing; Chet and Jamal are our support team.”
“All this seems to be in order,” Benson said. “Did you find anything, Officer Scott?”
“Nothing unusual,” Officer Scott replied. She turned to the four friends and asked, “Is this the cross-border race from the Laurentians to Vermont?”
“That's the one,” Joe said.
“Biking, hiking, climbing, and a water race,” Jamal added. “It's a real test of skill and endurance.”
“Well, good luck,” Officer Benson said, handing back their papers. “You can go.”
The four friends piled into the van and soon left the border crossing behind. They headed north, leaving the wooded back roads near the U.S.âCanadian border and joining Highway 133 heading for Montreal.
As they drove, Chet fiddled with the radio, changing from one station to the next.
“What are you looking for, Chet?” Joe, behind the wheel once more, asked.
“I was hoping to hear something about the race,” Chet replied, “but I can't find anything in English.”
“I learned some French to help my dad out,” Jamal offered. Jamal's father ran an air taxi service and sometimes had dealings with the Canadian cities of Montreal and Quebec. “Let me give it a try.” He scanned the dial for a few minutes, listening intently.
“Anything interesting?” Frank asked.
“Stuff about the prime minister and a trade deal, a break-in at a pharmaceutical plant, some news about a local Native American protest group . . . Oh, wait. Here's something. It's a promo ad for the race, celebrating the reopening of the Fire Creek Mountain Resort.”
“Well,” Chet said, “I guess that qualifies, but I was hoping for something a bit more.”
“That's our Chet,” Joe said jokingly, “always looking for publicity. You'd think he'd be satisfied after his brief stint as a TV star.” Joe spotted the exit they needed and took it north, past Montreal and into the Laurentian Mountains.
“Don't worry, Chet,” Frank added. “The race crews never get the glory anyway.”
Chet shrugged. “I'm not asking for national coverage,” he said. “I just thought the race would get more notice.”
“There are plenty of reality shows on the box already,” Jamal said. “Now, if you added some stock cars . . .”
They wound their way through the scenic roads between Montreal and the mountains north of the city. As they left the suburbs behind, summer forests sprang up around them, leading in a continuous green swath up toward the Laurentians.
They passed the town of St. Esprit and turned off the highway shortly thereafter. Frank checked the map while Joe drove, keeping them on course through the wooded back roads.
“This sure is a strange time to head for a ski resort,” Jamal observed.
“The resort is only the starting point for the competition,” Joe said. “They're using the downhill ski slopes for the first leg of the mountain bike race.”
“The race will follow the same track we're taking to reach the resort, right?” Chet asked.
“More or less,” Frank replied.
“Of course, during the race we'll be traveling
through the countryside,” Joe added. “I don't think we see any real roads until the fifth day or so.”
“You know,” Jamal said, “there have been times when I wished I'd entered this race myself.” A broad smile broke across his handsome brown face. “Then I think of all the dirt and the bugs and the poison ivy and the lack of food and water . . . and then I'm glad to be on your support team instead.” He laughed and the others laughed with him.
By the middle of the afternoon, the Hardys, Chet, and Jamal reached the Fire Creek Mountain Resort. After checking their passes, a guard waved them through to the parking lot reserved for competitors.
“Boy! Look at all the sponsor stickers on those cars!” Chet said. Colorful decals with the names of sodas, sports equipment, medical technology suppliers, and Web sites decorated many of the vans and SUVs parked in the lot. There were also a number of trucks decked out with television broadcast dishes.
“These mostly look like local stations,” Jamal said, checking out the TV call letters, “though there's one from the UAN network, as well.”
“That makes sense,” Joe said. “UAN is planning to cut the race footage together into a show for broadcast later. We had to sign a TV release when we registered.”
“I'm seeing stickers from some pretty big sponsors,” Chet said. “I saw a TV show on LaTelle Medical
and Pharmaceutical. Their founder, Phil LaTelle, built them up from nothing, and now they're at the cutting edge of medicine and technology. SeaZoom, QuickAid, and StarTel are big companies, too.”
“I guess your worries about lack of publicity were unfounded, Chet,” Frank said. He and the others got out of the van and walked across the parking lot toward a small collection of buildings at the base of the ski slopes.
The Fire Creek Mountain lodges had the look of an old-time resort. The buildings' walls were made from cut logs, and wooden shingles adorned their roofs. A large, central hotel dominated the other buildings. It was three stories tall and had large banks of windows overlooking the natural beauty that surrounded it.
The resort's scenery was breathtaking. Pristine mixed-wood forests reached up the mountainside like blue-green fingers. A mixture of new green grass, moss, and tan earth covered the ski runs. In the distance, the Laurentian Mountains stretched toward the deep blue sky.
Numerous ski-lift cable lines traced up the mountainside, winding between the trees and the ski trails. Sleek, modern lift platforms stood at the bottom of the slopes.
A sign reading Competitor Sign-In directed the teens toward a smaller building with a high-peaked roof. Joe and Frank noted that despite the resort's old-fashioned appearance, none of the wood on the buildings' exteriors looked very weathered. They
had all either been recently constructed or recently restored.
“Nice place,” Jamal noted as they walked toward the smaller building.
“Yeah,” Chet said. “Winning a year-long pass to this place would be pretty cool.” He winked at Jamal. “Let's hope our racers come through for us and win that prize!”
“We'll do okay,” Joe replied, “assuming our support team can cut it.” He grinned.
“A prize would be nice,” Frank said, “but we're in this for the competition.”
Chet rolled his eyes. “Not the prizes, not the glory . . .”
“And with Callie and Iola at home,” Jamal added, “definitely not the girls.” He reached for the door handle of the registration building and was nearly bowled over as the door flew open and a man burst out.
“Oh! Sorry, mates!” the man said. He was slightly shorter than the teens but solidly built. He wore a floppy beige hat, matching fatigues, and an equipment vest. With his clothes and his five o'clock shadow, he looked like an escapee from a jungle adventure movie. He smiled at the four friends.
“You're competitors, right?” he said. “I can always spot 'em. I'm Vince Bennett, the race organizer.” He extended his hand and shook with all four of them.
“I'm Jamal Hawkins,” Jamal said. “The big guy is Chet Morton, the blond is Joe Hardy, and the dark-haired one is his brother, Frank.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Joe, Frank, and Chet said.
“Pleased to meet you all, too,” Bennett said, flashing a set of perfect teeth. “Get yourselves checked in. I've got some last-minute fires to put out, but I'm giving all the racers a rundown on the event later.”
“We're looking forward to it,” Frank said.
“Great,” Bennett said. He turned and sprinted off toward the main lodge.
“He seems just the same as he does on TV,” Chet said.
“Yeah,” Jamal said. “I've caught a couple of his previous adventure races.”
“Somehow,” Frank said, “I doubt this will be as perilous as swimming with sharks in Australia.”
“Or hiking across an active volcano in Chile,” Joe added.
Jamal held the door and all four of them went inside. “Still,” he said, “there's always some kind of danger in a Bennett-sponsored race.”
“I don't know if I'd call it
danger,
” Chet replied, “more like . . .
excitement.
”
It took the Hardys and their crew a half hour to check in and get all their paperwork cleared. Other competitors drifted in and out of the registration lodge as the teens worked. Some competitors had complaints; others were completing their paperwork like the Hardys. As the friends finished the last of their forms, a tall, thin, bearded man wearing a red T-shirt and jeans stalked in.