In Plane Sight

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Battered and bruised, but still here,” Joe replied.

  “Phew!” Jamal said. “I was sure you were both goners. I’m trying to find a place to land, but I don’t know that the ice will support the plane.”

  “I wouldn’t chance it,” Frank said. “It gave a pretty good crack when we landed.”

  “I’m sure it’s still patchy in spots,” Joe said. “The weather hasn’t been cold enough yet to form a really thick sheet.”

  “I’ll keep looking,” Jamal said, “but the weather’s closing in up here.” His last words were almost drowned in static.

  “We’re losing you,” Frank said. “I thought I saw a barn on the far side of the lake before we landed. We’ll try to make for it.”

  “Get back to the airport and send a search party,” Joe said. “No sense your crashing trying to save us.”

  “Roger,” Jamal said. “I’ll talk to you—” Static swallowed the remainder of his message.

  The brothers tried for a few more moments to get him back, but with no success.

  “We must be right at the edge of cell range,” Frank said.

  “And the weather’s cutting us off from the local relay tower,” Joe replied. “I’m glad we got Jamal, though. The Global Positioning System in his plane will make it easier for a search party to find us.”

  “Let’s get off this ice,” Frank said. “I’m freezing.”

  He and Joe stood slowly and gathered up their parachute. They repacked it onto Frank’s back and then made their way toward the edge of the lake.

  “We’ll follow the lakeshore up to where I saw that rusty barn,” Frank said.

  “Good plan,” Joe said. “Let’s hope that whatever farmhouse the barn belongs to isn’t deserted.”

  Frank nodded. “It sure would be nice to get back to a warm bed tonight.”

  “Or a semiwarm sleeping bag,” Joe told him.

  “Hmm,” Frank said. “Maybe we should spring for a hotel room after all.”

  “Let’s get back to civilization first.”

  They skidded across the snow-frosted ice toward a nearby pine-covered peninsula. The clouds descended further as they walked, and soon the distance became lost in a gray fog.

  “The weather’s caught between fall and winter,” Joe said. “I guess we should be happy it’s not snowing.”

  “I’ll be happy—”

  Frank was cut off by a large cracking sound. Suddenly the ice gave way beneath his feet, and he plunged into the dark waters below.

  9 The Ghost in the Ice

  * * *

  “Frank!” Joe yelled. He dropped onto all fours to prevent the ice from breaking beneath him and scrambled toward the edge of the hole. When he peered into the water, though, he saw no sign of his brother.

  Frank Hardy plunged into the chilly deep. The parachute on his back became waterlogged almost instantly. The heavy backpack dragged him down toward the lake’s unknown depths.

  Frank pulled the parachute pack from his back and let it fall to the bottom. The water felt like cold needles piercing his skin. He glanced up and saw a broken circle of light above, the hole through which he had fallen.

  Then something closer by caught his eye. It was an aircraft, an airplane submerged beneath the ice, half buried in the bottom of the lake. The craft’s dark red tail jutted up from the murky waters below. It seemed about the same shape and size as one of the Sullivan Brothers custom airplanes. Curiosity rose in Frank’s brain, but he didn’t have enough air in his lungs to take a long look.

  Kicking hard, he shot toward the pale light above. He broke surface next to Joe’s extended hands. The younger Hardy grabbed his brother by the arms and pulled. Frank scrambled up, and a few moments later the two lay on the ice side by side, panting.

  “Glad you came up,” Joe said. “I thought for a moment that I’d have to dive in after you.”

  “Me too,” Frank said.

  “How long do you think it will take to crawl to shore?” Joe asked. “Or do you want to chance walking again?”

  “No thanks,” Frank said. “I’ll be pretty frozen by the time we get there, but I think I prefer being a Popsicle to falling in again.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  Cautiously they crept the thirty yards from the hole in the ice to the wooded shore of the peninsula.

  “How far do you think it is to that barn?” Joe asked.

  “At least two or three miles,” Frank said. “We won’t make it before dark.”

  “We’d better dry you off then,” Joe said. “I could stand to warm up too. Next time I go parachuting, remind me to take my jumpsuit.”

  “The next time I go swimming under the ice, remind me to take my wet suit,” Frank replied. “Come on, let’s see if we can get a fire started.”

  They cleared a bare patch on the ground at the edge of the pine forest. Fortunately there was little snow to move away, and what there was consisted mostly of light powder. They found plenty of dry pine needles in the woods to use as tinder and enough stout sticks and dead branches to make a good stack.

  Utilizing their knowledge from years of scout camp, the brothers quickly got a small blaze going, which they soon built into a good-size fire. Frank dangled his clothes, piece by piece, on sticks over the fire until they were dry. Joe was soon feeling toasty as well.

  “This is a little more extreme camping than I’d intended when I came along on this trip,” Joe said.

  “This is a little more extreme everything than I intended when I came along,” Frank replied. “Two plane thefts, a break-in, a fistfight, a crash, and some skydiving and swimming to top it all off.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t join you on that last part,” Joe said, rubbing his fingers together to warm them.

  “I’m glad you didn’t too. One Hardy-sicle in the family is enou—” Frank stopped in midword and slapped his palm to his forehead. “I almost forgot. . . . You won’t believe what I saw down there under the ice.”

  “What?”

  “An airplane,” Frank said. “A maroon-tailed airplane.”

  “The stolen Hawkins plane?” Joe asked.

  “That’s what I thought at first,” Frank replied, “but now I’m not so sure. Do you remember the serial numbers on the tail of the stolen plane?”

  Joe thought a moment. “R-U-four-seven-eight . . . something. There was one more number,” he said.

  “Four. That’s what I remember too,” Frank said. “But those aren’t the numbers on the tail of the plane I saw. It was hard to tell, since I was freezing and drowning at the time, but I think the numbers on the plane under the ice were S-T-three-eight-seven-eight.”

  “Was it a Sullivan custom plane you saw?” Joe asked.

  “I didn’t get a very good look at it,” Frank replied. “I thought it was, though.”

  “You’ll excuse me if I don’t go check and give you a second opinion,” Joe said, winking.

  Frank nodded.

  Joe ran one hand through his hair. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why would there be an airplane sunk at the bottom of a lake out here in Kendall State Park? And why would that plane be the same make and color as the plane that was stolen from Jamal last night?”

  “It’s a mystery, all right,” Frank said, smiling.

  “We’ll have some experience with sleeping on the ground if we don’t get going,” Joe said, changing the subject. “If you’re dry enough, we should douse this fire and head for that barn.”

  “Good idea. First, let’s make some torches, if we can. I forgot to bring my flashlight along on this trip, and I’m betting you did too.”

  “Must have left it with my parachute,” Joe said with an ironic grin. “I’ve got my pocketknife, though.”

  “Me too,” said Frank.

  The brothers managed to pull together enough pine needles, dry twigs, and grasses to make one decent torch head. They combined these ingredients with strips torn from their undershirts and some pine pitch they tapped from a tree with their po
cketknives.

  It was after nightfall by the time they completed their task and finally doused the fire. The fog had crept in on them in that time, and the whole world looked like dark gray cotton when they finally set out for the distant barn.

  “Some of those snowmobile tracks look like they lead to something closer,” Frank said. “Maybe we should try to follow them instead. They did head out over the lake, though.”

  “Let’s not get any more impromptu swimming practice if we can avoid it,” Joe replied.

  Frank nodded, and they stuck to the shore. The going was difficult. Rocks and fallen trees littered the shoreline, and tangled roots sprang suddenly out of the fog, grabbing their sneakers.

  As night deepened, the fog grew thicker. It clung to the brothers’ clothing, making the Hardys feel ever colder and more damp than before.

  “That shortcut across the lake isn’t sounding too bad right now,” Joe said, his teeth chattering.

  “No,” Frank replied. “You were right. Falling in again would be about the worst thing we could do. On the shore we can make another fire if we get too cold and tired.”

  Joe looked up at their makeshift torch, flickering in his hand. “If we’re going to stop to make another fire, we should do it soon,” he said. “This torch may not last much longer, and it won’t be easy to light a new fire in this damp fog.”

  “Let’s press on a little farther,” Frank said. “We ought to be getting close to that barn.”

  A loud crack echoed through the woods.

  “Was that the ice?” Joe asked.

  Another crack, and the torch flew out of Joe’s hand.

  “Sniper!” Frank yelled, diving for cover.

  Joe hit the snow-dappled ground and rolled behind a big pine tree. “Where is he?” the younger Hardy asked. “Can you see him?”

  “Ahead of us, I think,” Frank replied from his position behind a nearby rock. “It’s hard to tell in this fog. I’m surprised he can see us at all.”

  Crack! Another shot whizzed over their heads.

  “We’d be sitting ducks if we headed onto the ice,” Joe said. “We’ll have to go back.”

  “Or deeper into the woods,” Frank said. He gathered a small pile of snow into his hands and made a snowball. “I’m going to throw this toward where the shots are coming from. When I do, head for the tall timber as fast as you can.”

  “Check,” Joe said.

  Frank ducked out from behind the rock and lobbed the snowball. Simultaneously Joe sprinted from behind the tree, heading inland.

  Crack! A shot whizzed by Frank. The elder Hardy bolted, following his brother.

  “You think it’s that guy from the plane?” Joe asked as they ran.

  “The skydiver?” Frank said. “Probably. I don’t know who else it could be.” He jumped over a fallen log and nearly lost his footing. Another shot whizzed over the brothers’ heads. They kept running.

  “A disgruntled landowner maybe,” Joe said. “Or maybe the pilot of the plane. Did you see if it landed after I fell out?”

  “I was too busy worrying about you!”

  “Hey, heads up!” Joe called.

  Frank ducked, barely avoiding a hanging tree branch in their way. They began running downhill, through low brush and powder snow. Pine needles and dead leaves skidded from under their sneakers, and they struggled to stay on their feet.

  They heard another gunshot, but didn’t hear the bullet hit anything this time.

  “Maybe we’re losing him,” Joe said.

  “Let’s hope,” Frank replied.

  “Any idea which way we’re headed?”

  “East, more or less,” Frank said. “Assuming I haven’t lost track of where the lake is.”

  “I think I could lose track of anything in this fog,” Joe said. “We’re not getting any nearer to the rescue site either.”

  Frank shook his head. “I know. It’ll be a wonder if they find us, if this sniper doesn’t find us first.”

  “Do you hear something?” Joe asked. “Like wind blowing through the leaves?”

  They didn’t dare stop, but both brothers concentrated as they ran. A sound was steadily building ahead of them. A muffled roar filled the air, as if a strong rainstorm were approaching through the forest.

  They broke through the edge of the woods and onto a rocky slope. Joe stabbed his hand out and grabbed Frank by the shoulder, just before the elder Hardy toppled down a rocky embankment. At the bottom of the slope a swift-running river surged downhill.

  “Dead end!” Joe said.

  The river was wide—too wide to jump or ford—and more treacherous than any stretch of white water the brothers had ever navigated.

  They looked both up and down the river as far as the fog allowed, but they saw no easy way to cross.

  Crack! Another shot whizzed over their heads.

  “If we stay here,” Frank hissed, “we’re sitting ducks!”

  With a silent nod of agreement, both brothers jumped off the embankment toward the raging river below.

  10 Ice Man

  * * *

  The Hardys hurtled through the air, over the intervening rocks, and into the frigid waters.

  The river surged around them, trying to drag them under. Joe returned to the surface first. A moment later Frank’s head popped up. They swirled downstream amid huge boulders and dangerous white water.

  They swam with all their might, trying to stay away from the big rocks and dangerous eddies that might suck them below the surface. Joe got turned around but righted himself just in time to avoid hitting his head on a stony outcropping. Instead he hit the boulder with his leg and grunted in pain. “Man!” he said. “I told you I didn’t want to go swimming today.”

  Frank would have laughed, but just then a wave splashed over his head and into his mouth. He coughed the water out and kept paddling downstream.

  Another shot rang out—this time far away. Neither brother heard the bullet whiz by since the roaring of the river made it almost impossible to hear anything.

  The water was freezing, and the brothers were quickly losing their ability to swim in it.

  “We need . . . to get out!” Frank said, barely keeping his head above the white water.

  “First chance . . . we get,” Joe replied.

  They looked for a shoal, but none presented itself. The banks of the river had grown higher, becoming something like a small canyon. Tall rocks lined the shores, and the clinging fog made it difficult to see anything beyond them.

  “W-What’s that up ahead?” Joe called, pointing toward a dark shape looming before them in the river.

  Frank peered at the vaguely rectangular shape that jutted out over the swirling waters.

  “A bridge!” he said. “Try to g-grab one of the pylons!”

  “As if y-you had to tell me,” Joe replied.

  The water near the right side of the bridge seemed more calm and less treacherous, so both brothers aimed for there.

  As they drew closer, they saw that the bridge was built from big logs—like telephone poles—expertly joined together with metal bolts. Its pylons were anchored on concrete pads, set at the edge of the waterline.

  Joe and Frank kicked as hard as they could, but the water kept trying to pull them back toward the center of the river. They heaved up over a big submerged rock, and, with one final surge, grabbed on to the cement base of the nearest pylon.

  The water pressure was terrific and threatened to pull them off the concrete and hurl them downstream once more. Ever so slowly they dragged themselves around the side of the pad and onto the rocky shore at the bottom of the bridge.

  Exhausted and chilled to the bone, Frank and Joe lay there for a moment. They tried to recover their breaths.

  “Man,” Joe said, shivering, “that was like a water park ride gone bad.”

  “I wouldn’t want to try it again,” Frank said, “even in the summer. Even in a kayak.”

  “I hear that,” Joe replied.

  They
rested another few moments, then wrung out their clothes as best they could. Slowly they climbed up the slope to the bridge.

  “Thank heaven for the park service,” Frank said, gazing at the well-tended trail leading in either direction.

  “If I remember the big area map I studied on our way to the show,” Joe said, “the river through the park runs north and south. There’s an entrance to the park on the west—”

  “And another on the south,” Frank said, “but I agree that we’re probably closer to the western one.”

  “So we should go this way to find civilization—and heat,” Joe said, indicating the trail leading away from the bridge on the side they were standing on.

  “I agree,” Frank said. “Let’s get going. It won’t be getting any warmer tonight.”

  Joe nodded, and the two of them jogged down the trail into the fog-shrouded forest.

  They tried Frank’s cell phone, but two dunkings with a trip down the rapids had made it useless. Building a fire seemed out of the question as well. The only thing to do was to keep moving and hope to build up their body heat.

  Three-quarters of an hour later the trail crossed a pitted dirt road.

  “What do you think?” Frank asked.

  “Roads have to have traffic,” Joe said, “or at least lead to civilization.”

  “North or south, then?”

  “Jewel Ridge and Scottsville are to the south,” Joe pointed out.

  “South it is,” Frank said.

  The fog cleared a bit as they jogged down the road. Soon they could make out the dim shapes of the hills and trees ahead. However, they saw no buildings or other signs of civilization.

  About a half hour later, a sound drifted through the fog.

  “A car engine!” Joe said. For a moment excitement flashed across his face, quickly followed by a look of concern. “Do you think it’s the sniper?”

  Frank shook his head. “If it is, he found a way to skirt around us and come back from the opposite direction where we last saw him.”

  “It’s possible,” Joe said.

  “Yeah. I guess it is.”

  “Let’s put an obstruction across the road,” Joe suggested. “That way whoever it is will have to stop, and if the person has a gun or any weapons, we can hold him.”