After a few minutes of slow and careful work he had all in place. It went slowly, requiring him to tap it into a squared position against the other pieces. He tested the boards and they seemed secure and tight. He had to rest, his chin into the muck.
“I have the brace. Proceeding.” He felt waves of nausea. He had been able to forget terror which stayed in his brain, lurking below his resolve. He kept going, weak.
“It’s bad, Mudman,” he said slowly.
“We better get you out.”
“No. Not yet.” Yet he understood he was risking their lives, too.
“Hank, tell us about the water coming in,” asked Pete.
“Lots coming through the wall.”
“How wide ahead?” asked Sammy. His voice seemed weaker, as though the Chief himself had lost energy and resolve.
“Slope turning down ahead of me.”
Hank heard some static. “More line,” said Mudman. “Keep it straight so we can pull you out.”
“How in the hell can I tangle? Line is all above me.”
Mudman chuckled, “Keeping you alert.”
Hank moved the light. Then the line stopped moving.
“What’s the matter?”
“We got an emergency.”
“What?”
No answer.
He hung in the air, the dank smell irritating his nostrils. Then his flashlight went dead.
“Birdy Pond capsized her boat, overloaded with sandbags for us.”
“Is she all right?”
“She’s more upset she lost her hat. Bob Johnny is out trying to bail her.”
Hank thought about Bobby again. The boy had asked the priest one Sunday, “How do I think about death?”
“As you get older, you will teach yourself,” Father Tom answered. Hank remembered that Bobby thought the priest was making a joke.
The line loosened, then tightened, jerking him.
“What’s happening?” Hank called.
“The block slipped on the post,” replied Mudman.
Hank tapped the flashlight again and it went on this time. As his eyes became used to the new light, he scanned beneath him.
Ahead, a glint reflected, guiding him like a pinpoint star.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I’ve located the microphone about six feet ahead,” Hank radioed back
“You must be close,” answered Mudman.
Hank continued to crawl. The hole became as wide as the rectangular opening that Hank had been cutting.
“Bigger up ahead.” His eyes followed the communication wire into the darkness. He spotted the instrument covered with Charlie’s grey tape. He trained his flashlight on the area. Beyond was a small cavern with a mud-covered rounded shape.
He was sure. “I’ve found the plane,” he yelled. “The wreck curves away from me on my left. I’m on the starboard side of the wreck.”
Metal glared where muck had scraped off. The round shape extended upward from where Hank’s flash touched. The cylinder was heavily encrusted on most of its surface and hard to distinguish from the rest of the earth. Also, he noted the fuselage rested half in water. The water rippled advising Hank it was filling the space fast.
Cheers sounded on his radio.
“We’re putting the Captain on.”
Hank had to get closer to the airplane. “Let me have more line, Pete.”
The Captain spoke. “Be careful as you approach. Tell me what’s ahead and I can help you get into the cockpit area.”
Hank reported that the small cavern ended. Part of the cockpit extended huge to his front and above him. Fresh wet mud scrapes on the metal indicated the plane had just moved slightly. He figured the muskrat tunnel had originally been closer to the nose of the aircraft.
“Describe how she sits.”
“Nose down, about two or three feet.”
“You do this wrong and you and the boy go down.”
“I understand. I’m trying to grip the earth.”
He maneuvered slowly. He was moving horizontally trying to keep his weight on the mud. As he got to the muck against the metal fuselage, his face was only inches from the curve. To his left, the light shone on a small clean portion of the hull. He made careful progress. He had to open up a path for his body, pulling and clearing mire as he created space to crawl.
“Give me more.”
The line lurched about twelve inches.
“Bobby said he had water inside,” said Pete from above.
“The water’s mostly below me. I’m further up the side of the plane. Wait, I see something else,” said Hank.
“What?”
“The light we sent down to him. It’s tangled in part of the wing. The section is buckled and bent backwards.”
“What’s above you?” asked the Captain.
“I’ve got some blue fuselage paint here,” said Hank.
“Good,” said the Captain. “She may not be too corroded.”
“I’m continuing ahead.”
Hank stared up the round hull shape. The latticework frame of the canopy area appeared.
“I’m going toward the glass now.”
“The earth is probably mashed in front of the glass.”
“Wait a minute. A noise.”
He realized what he was hearing. Dripping water inside the hollow fuselage hit like small projectiles against the metal.
“I’m going to tap on the hull.”
He touched the airplane lightly. Two taps.
“Good idea,” said the Captain.
Hank tapped. He waited.
“Has he answered?”
“Quiet so far.”
Two distinct return taps sounded. He answered.
Three taps came from inside the fuselage.
“He answered me,” Hank yelled into the microphone. “He’s here. My God. Tell everyone. He’s alive.”
“Get to him, Hank.”
He worked, moving upward. In front of him pieces of flat glass appeared with the surrounding bars of metal, the muntins. His face was close to the panes, not more than six inches away. He cleaned the two large panes along the length of the canopy. Above it was solid muck. The glass on this side of the airplane had to work. He had no time to get to the other side. Digging would take too long.
“Like a window,” he reported.
“Right,” said the Captain. “The pilot space.”
Hank flashed the light.
“I can’t see inside the cockpit.”
“Probably so filthy with grime,” answered the Captain.
The tapping continued and he answered. A small circle began to appear in one of the panes closest to Hank. A small circle of clear panel appeared, perhaps a couple of inches in diameter. Behind the clearing Bobby’s fingers and part of his nose pressed.
“Bobby.”
“Move the canopy easy,” advised the Captain.
“I’m going to try.” He pressed but the canopy did not open.
“Locked?” called the Captain.
Hank tried again. His body slipped on the side of the fuselage. Beneath him the airplane shook and slid deeper. He tried to keep his own weight from pushing against the metal.
“What happened?” Mudman called. “The rope went taut again.”
“Slipping.”
“How much?”
“About a foot.”
“What did you do?”
“I fell against it trying to open the canopy.”
He could not hold on and slipped down the side of the hull. Then his left foot hit what must have been part of the broken wing. He grabbed at the muck behind him as he began to pull himself up again. Trying once again to keep his weight mostly on the mud, he crawled carefully to where his face was near the squares.
“I’m by the window. Bobby’s finger is on the inside of the glass.”
The Captain said, “Hank. Don’t try anything. I’m going to find out about the canopy.”
Hank waited in the darkness. A mistake would send Bobby moving away too fast
to stop. He prayed the boy had not been hit as the plane shifted. He watched the boy’s silent trapped fingers moving slowly in circles inside the small clear section of panel.
“Hank, this is Captain Steele.”
“Go ahead.”
“We’ve come to some conclusions, Hank. First off, Bobby has air because the pilot did not open the top. That fact has saved his life so far.”
The Captain continued, “Air inside is giving pressure against the earth so the fuselage keeps its form. We got a problem. When we release to get him out, the plane will lose the air pressure which keeps the water from filling the compartment. If we don’t get him out right away he’ll drown.”
He went on, “We think because of the corrosion the latch is not going to open. No use to try. We’ve been talking and we got a way for you break into the cockpit. From the manual here’s how to clear those panes from the outside.”
“Read it.”
“Remove the red cover plate at the lower edge of the canopy on either side and pull out the exposed handle. Pull out the partition between the two panes by means of the ring located at its lower end. Pull out the panes.”
He added, “If the metal is not too corroded and if we are very lucky, you should be able to open a mullion partition.”
“How much time do we have?”
“The air inside the canopy should last long enough for you get Bobby out. Stay away from weight on the fuselage. Grab him and pull him. We’ll do the rest with the rope.”
Pete took the microphone and said, “Sandbags are covered with water. We’re out of time. They can’t stop the surge anymore.”
Hank said, “Bobby must be swimming.”
“If it gets too wet up here, we’re hauling you out. No sense both of you drowning.”
Hank ran the flashlight around the hole down below him. “I’m starting. The water along the side of the fuselage has filled in almost a foot in the last ten minutes.”
“The space where Bobby is located is probably filling up too. He’s a mighty scared boy,” said the Captain.
“I’m trying to be careful. I think I feel stronger than I ever had in my life.”
Mudman came on the radio, “Old buddy, we going to have this little boy in his school Monday, right on time.”
Hank worked to find the tab. He tried to balance with his feet jammed several inches into the soft earth behind him. He hoped the muck would give him support for a few more minutes as he carefully cleaned mud off a piece of red metal.
“I’ve found the cover plate,” he reported. His flashlight dimmed again. “Corroded and hanging open.”
The cover broke free in his hand. He put the metal into the pocket of his coverall, thinking it might help with the latch. The airplane shifted slightly. Hank shook and ran the erratic flash back along the fuselage.
“The airplane’s moving.”
“Remember,” said the Captain. “The heavy nose on the P47 is making a trap for Bobby, moving right down into deeper muck.”
The water was rising more quickly. Hank anchored his feet in the slop behind him.
“I’m still working on the latch,” Hank reported. He pushed inward. He heard two taps. He answered the taps.
“More noise.”
“Bobby is still all right.”
Hank continued to scrape at the metal. “I’m trying again.” He pushed inward. The latch did not move.
“You better hurry up, Hank. The wind is picking up. We’ll have to pull you out in a few minutes.”
“I’m pressing harder.”
“You’re taking a big chance, Hank.”
“I don’t have any choice.” He struck with his right fist, sensing the tremble in the rotten structure, feeling weight shifting. One of the panes moved slightly.
“I’ve got one pane loose.” In the cockpit Bobby’s fingers pulled at the glass. The fuselage shook.
Hank pressed in about an inch. Bobby clasped around an edge. Foul smelling air and water spit from the crack.
“We’ll pull you out, Bobby,” he yelled.
Bobby replied, and his voice was the most wonderful sound he had ever heard. “I know, Daddy.”
“Hitting again,” warned Hank.
The water was up to his knees and lapping below the canopy. The nose dropped as the plane kept moving.
“You’re out of time, Hank. We’ve got to bring you up.” The line tightened around his waist.
“Wait,” Hank yelled.
Bobby stared at him. Hank pounded the cockpit frame. Nothing happened. He hit again, this time with all his strength, cramped as he was against the earth. The right pane moved inward slightly.
More foul air rushed by Hank’s face.
“Help me,” said Bobby through the small crack.
“Hang on, Bobby.”
“Daddy.”
“Bobby, you pull and I’ll push.”
“I’m ready.”
“Have you got something you can get on top of to boost yourself out?”
“I’m standing on a shelf.”
“Here goes.”
As they worked, Hank’s right hand moved over the boy’s small fingers. The pane flew loose and was lost in the interior darkness. The plane shuddered.
“One of them.”
He balanced on his left foot which was still on part of the wing below him, and using his left hand, pushed on another one. It did not move.
“If the glass is loose, try pulling outward, Daddy.”
“OK.” Hank pulled again on the pane and this time it came out in his left hand.
Bobby moved his head through the small opening. He got his shoulders out.
“I’m stuck.”
The plane lurched downward slowly without stopping.
“The water is up to my stomach, Daddy.”
“Hank,” called Mudman, “Time’s up.”
“Bobby. I’m going to pull on you real hard and I want you to push outward as hard as you can against that shelf you’re standing on.”
“OK, Daddy.”
The plane was sliding faster. Hank put his right arm on the window opening and placed his left hand under the boy’s right shoulder. He pulled. Bobby squirmed with pain. The flashlight stopped and they were in black darkness. The metal under Hank’s body began to collapse inward.
“You’re moving, Bobby. Hang on.” His arm entered the fuselage as the cockpit frame crumpled, window muntins and glass breaking outward. The plane had shifted. He was stretching. His pain was unbearable but he did not let Bobby go.
“Bobby, push hard as you can while I pull you.”
Bobby’s body came free, slowly at first then like a projectile. Hank moved his right hand to grab Bobby. The boy’s waist was cradled in Hank’s arms, his feet still in the cockpit.
“OK, kid, keep pushing with your feet against the frame. “
He hollered into the radio, “You guys upstairs, pull like hell.”
“Roger,” said the Captain. The rope tightened and Hank moved backward. The after section of the plane travelled past.
“Bobby, hold tight to me.”
The flashlight dropped into the water. Hank saw the light flashing on and off below him, then getting smaller and disappearing as it was sucked down. The airplane creaked into the deeper mire.
“Keep pushing, Bobby.”
The child’s body slipped away. “Oh God, don’t let go, son.”
The plane lurched and he lost balance. In the swirl of water, he felt Bobby’s right hand grab his legs.
“I’m out, Daddy.”
Hank could hear the noise of the aircraft joints creaking, turning into a roar. The heavy engine pulled the plane forward faster and faster, water splashing at them.
“Watch out, Daddy.”
Hank ducked as part of the wing section slid by from the earth, turning and bending on itself. A white five-pointed star flashed in front of him, the plane’s insignia still on the metal.
Hank was holding Bobby in his feet, the child’s head
near Hank’s knees. Hank was jerked backward, as he came with the rope back through the entrance tunnel. Bobby was above him, both of them going upward upside down, as the hole was falling behind them. He called into the microphone. “Keep pulling us up, for God’s sake. Pull us up.”
The line continued taut and they moved upward. No sign remained below them in the dark of the muskrat tunnel or the fuselage.
“I see light up ahead,” said Bobby, looking up through his legs.
Bobby held Hank’s legs with his own hands in a tight grip. Lightning flashed outside. The light glared against the remains of the tunnel below Hank. Hank’s mind screamed against the terror overcoming him. The closeness of the tunnel walls was beginning to make his arms weak. Below them water was churning, filling the hole.
“Hold on tight, Bobby, we’re almost free, son.” Hank fought the weakness. He thought only about the child.
He called up, “You guys speed this up.”
Bobby shouted, “Mudman!”
Sammy ordered, “Keep the rope tight.”
Bobby screamed, “I’m losing my grip.”
Hank tried to sooth his son. “Count with me. Slowly. By twenty we’ll be out.”
The line dropped suddenly about a foot.
Sammy hollered, “Watch out, you guys. You’ll lose them!”
Mudman’s voice held tense energy. “The soil gave way for a moment. We’re back in business.”
The line began moving up again, a few inches at a time but steadily. Bobby’s weight was lifted off of him. A strong hand grabbed at Hank’s ankles. His head came out of the hole and he felt the rain on his bare skin.
Hank was lowered from the block and tackle down on to the wood. He reached out and hugged his son, who was kneeling beside him. The others worked quickly to undo the harness.
A cheer went up from the volunteers around them.
“No time to celebrate. We got to get out of here,” said Pete. One of the plywood sheets was beginning to float in the thin coat of water covering the mound as the water spurted from the muskrat hole.
Sammy shouted, “Come on!” He was holding the lines for a small runabout which was slapping against the soil. The wind spun more of the wood around. Other boats were nearby picking up remaining volunteers and swimming animals.
“Get in.” Mudman put Bobby into Sammy’s boat and jumped in afterwards. He reached back for Hank. Hank stood up weakly, his hand grasping one of the pine timbers holding the block and tackle.
Easter Sunday (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 7) Page 17