CHAPTER ONE

Off to Alaska

Sandy Steele twisted his lanky six-foot frame in the cramped airplane seat, stretching his long legs out in the aisle. Yawning, he glanced out of the small, round window beside him. Although it was daylight now, the ground was completely hidden by a layer of dense clouds that stretched away to the horizon on all sides like fluffy marshmallow topping. The sound of the motors was a dull, monotonous throbbing in his ears.

Sandy leaned forward and ruffled the black crew cut that was just visible over the top of the seat ahead of him. “Hey, Jerry, you awake?”

“Yeah,” a voice mumbled sleepily, “I’m awake. Are we going to land yet?”

“I don’t know.” Sandy looked across the aisle at his father, who was just lighting his pipe. “How about it, Dad?”

Dr. John Steele studied his watch thoughtfully. “Oh, I’d say about another half hour.”

The steward, an army corporal, walked back from the forward compartment with a tray of paper cups. “Coffee, anyone?”

The steaming-hot black liquid cleared the cobwebs out of Sandy’s head, and he began to look forward with excited anticipation to their arrival in Canada.

“Will Professor Crowell meet us at the airport?” he asked his father.

Dr. Steele nodded. “Yes. Then we’ll drive back to his place and pick up his dog team.”

Jerry James’s granite-jawed face appeared over the back of the seat as he knelt, facing Sandy. “What’s this about dogs?”

“Berkley Crowell breeds sled dogs as a hobby,” Dr. Steele explained. “Eskimo huskies. He’s taking his prize team up to Alaska to compete in the annual race from Whitehorse to Skagway.”

“Hey, that sounds like fun,” Jerry said.

“As a matter of fact,” the doctor went on, “that will be one of your major jobs on this expedition. You boys will drive the truck with the dogs and help the professor with their care and feeding.”

Dr. Steele turned his attention back to his book as Sandy and Jerry got into a conversation with the young corporal who had served the coffee.

“Both you fellows from California?” the corporal asked. “Whereabouts?”

“Valley View,” Sandy told him. “That’s near San Diego, but more inland.”

“I have a cousin in the Navy,” the corporal said. “He was stationed at San Diego. Nice country.” He grinned. “You guys are going to find the climate of Alaska a lot different than California.”

Jerry shivered. “You’re telling us!”

“You go to school in Valley View?” the corporal asked.

“High school,” Sandy told him. “We’re both juniors.”

“How long are you going to be in Alaska?”

“About three weeks, I guess. It’s the Christmas vacation, and my dad got our principal to let us take an extra week on account of the educational value of this expedition we’re going on.”

The corporal looked interested. “What kind of an expedition is it?”

“My dad is a United States government geologist,” Sandy explained. “This expedition is part of a long-range Canadian-American project to chart glacial movements during the Ice Age. We’ll be collecting soil, rock and ore samples on our way through western Canada and Alaska.”

“Sounds like fun,” the corporal said. “You’ll get a kick out of Alaska. It’s a great place. I’ve flown up there a couple of times.”

“What’s our forty-ninth state like, anyway?” Jerry asked curiously. “We bought it from the Indians for twenty-four dollars, didn’t we?”

Sandy and the corporal laughed. “That was Manhattan Island, you dope!” Sandy said. “We bought Alaska from the Russians for about $7,000,000.”

“It’s twice as big as Texas,” the corporal told them, “but the population is only a little over 200,000. And most of these people have only been there since the end of World War Two.”

“I guess we never would have realized just how valuable Alaska is if the Japanese hadn’t tried to attack us across the Aleutian Islands,” Sandy said.

At that moment, a buzzer sounded and the green light at the front of the cabin began to flash. “Oh-oh,” the corporal said. “Looks like we’re getting ready to land. Fasten your seat belts, folks.” He turned and hurried forward.

Dr. Steele stood up and removed his mackinaw from the overhead rack. As he did so, a big, black, ominous-looking .45 Colt automatic slipped out of one of the pockets and crashed to the floor.

The boys’ eyes widened and Sandy blurted out in shocked surprise, “Where did you get that, Dad?”

Dr. Steele retrieved the gun hastily and stuck it back into his pocket. “Oh—er—something a friend advised me to bring with me. In case we get a chance to do any hunting,” he added.

Sandy frowned. “Hunting with an _automatic_! That’s crazy, Dad. Wouldn’t a rifle have been more practical?”

A thin smile spread the doctor’s lips. “I suppose you’re right. I should have consulted you before I got it.”

“Just where _did_ you get it, Dad?” Sandy asked suspiciously. “The Colt .45 automatic is an official U.S. Army sidearm.”

There was just the faintest trace of irritation in Dr. Steele’s voice when he answered. “All these questions! You’re beginning to sound like your Aunt Vivian.... Look, we had better fasten our safety belts. We’re going to land.”

“Sure, Dad, sure,” Sandy said. There was something uncommonly mysterious about his father’s behavior, and it worried him.