The bomb destroyed Ozzy’s left leg. He felt nothing, however, as one of the steel balls struck beneath his chin as he turned his face away. It had blasted into his head, slowing on impact and bounced around inside his skull, tearing his brain apart. The Irish pilot was dead.
Chapter 9 / Too Loud to be a Rifle
The northern pikes were ravenous that morning, swallowing minnow after minnow and the Marten brothers couldn’t have been happier. They took turns chasing triggered flags and pulling lunkers through the fishing holes.
“Damn,” Paul said. “Haven’t seen a day of fishing this good in years.”
“I know,” Jack replied. “If this keeps up, we’ll be out of minnows by noon.”
“That’s a good problem to have,” Paul said. “Andy looks like he’s having some luck. How many has he got, Eric?”
Eric had just returned from chatting with Andy. The big man was still sitting at the same hole, jigging for perch. “He’s caught 11 perch, but he’s thrown them all back.”
Paul seemed a little puzzled. Andy lived off the land. Why wouldn’t he keep the delicious perch after sitting there for almost two hours?
Paul finished rebaiting a hook, bent the spring-loaded flag down and hooked it on the trigger mechanism. Satisfied with his work, he scanned his surroundings, taking in the beauty of the Adirondack foothills and stillness of the world that enveloped him in cool white. He wished Stacie were here. He realized he hadn’t thought about her since his feet hit the ice. This day was too perfect not to share with the woman he loved, and she enjoyed fishing with him as long as the weather was nice.
The grumbling from his stomach interrupted his thought, so he decided it was a good time to grab something from his cooler. His heavy boots thumped their way across the ice as he walked toward his jet sled parked by the fire. Eric must have had the same idea because he munched on an apple while he poked the fire. Paul turned one last time to check on his tip-ups before he got too far away. Jack, kneeling on the ice, was tending to a tangled line on the far side of the bay.
An eagle soared over their heads just 40 feet above the river. Paul’s ungloved hand searched the depths of a front pocket, retrieving a cell phone and snapped a quick picture of the graceful raptor before it went out of sight. He reviewed the images—a little blurry, but a nice reminder of the day to add to the numerous pictures of he and his brothers with their fish.
Two bars were illuminated on his phone, indicating weak cell service. Paul took advantage of the rare signal strength and sent a text message to Stacie—Hi Hon. Been a great day. Lots of fish. How’s your day going?
With the message sent, Paul stayed where he was standing as if his boots had frozen to the ice. Stepping in any direction might have meant losing the signal and not receiving a response from his wife. He waited.
That’s when they heard it. A boom in the distance so violent that it seemed to knock snow off the surrounding evergreens. Jack spun on his knees and looked back at Paul.
“Thunder?” the eldest brother asked. He didn’t need to yell. Sound traveled across the open bay well enough to hear a whisper.
“Too loud to be a rifle,” Paul said.
Andy stood at attention from the interruption. He grabbed his metal chair and folded it up as if he were scared lighting would strike him. He tucked the chair neatly into his jet sled and hooked the fishing line on the little pole to an eyelet in the handle.
Paul listened intensely for another explosion—it never came. Instead, he heard the buzzing of an airplane engine as it sputtered and popped, approaching their location with great speed.
He expected to see the plane fly by at a low altitude, but instead, he heard trees snapping beyond Jack, and without warning, the crippled Beechcraft burst through the treetops directly over Jack’s head. Snow rained down on Jack who had no time to move or react.
The left wing of the plane collided with a stout pine tree, severing the wing at its midpoint. The bulk of the wing spiraled through the air, just missing Jack. The impact spun the plane 20 degrees and caused it to veer between Paul and Andy. Fire and smoke billowed from the engine as it completely died. For an instant, all was quiet, until the white plane smacked nose first onto the hard ice, breaking through and leaving a four-foot wide hole. It bounced nine feet into the air and came down with another hard impact. The plane slid across the ice as Paul and Andy split directions and shuffled as fast as they could, trying to gain traction on the slick ice underfoot. Paul dove to the ice to avoid the plane’s right wing, and knocked the wind from his lungs as he landed on his chest. Andy tripped over his sled, spilling its contents for the second time that day. The momentum of the 2,000-pound aircraft caused it to keep skidding across the bay with the sound similar to a dumpster being dragged down a blacktop road.
The plane rotated and tried to roll, but the intact wing kept it upright. With the right wing now digging into the ice, the tip of the wing acted like the blade of a hockey skate and steered the wreckage toward the thinner ice of the tributary brook. Finally, whether it was friction or the loss of momentum, the plane stopped. The thinner ice had claimed the life of a deer two years ago and nearly took Eric’s life that same year. Now, it was hungry for something more. Ice cracked and spidered under the weight of the plane. At first, it was hard to determine if the water was gushing onto the ice, or if the ice was sinking. The latter turned out to be true, and with one final crack, the plane broke through with a loud hiss as the hot engine and fire met the cold water of the Raquette River. The front of the plane sank fast into the 12 feet of water, leaving the tail resting on the solid ice that remained. The tail of the plane protruded from the water with its two tail wings forming a cross—a tombstone marking a grave.
Eric and Jack were already running out to check on Paul and Andy. Paul’s heart was pounding against his Carhart overalls as he stood on his knees watching in disbelief.
“What the hell?” Jack exclaimed upon approaching. “You okay?”
Paul nodded and looked at Andy, who was laying on his back, propped up on his elbows with a big smile on his face. Paul figured he was happy for the excitement.
“You okay, Andy?” Paul shouted too loud.
“Hehe, yeah, I’m okay. Sonovabitch in the plane ain’t, though.”
“We’ve got to see if anyone’s on board!” Eric shouted as he met his brothers.
“Pilot’s dead,” Paul said. “I could see him clearly through the windshield. Looked like…” He stopped, not wanting to describe what he had witnessed. “Shit. Let’s go look.” He wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do, or the adrenaline talking, but they all agreed.
Andy stood and brushed the snow off his green wool coat. “Hehe, did you see that? I near shit my tighty-whities,” The big man had snow covering his beard and eyebrows from his intimate moment with the cold powder. He brushed his coat and face with a mittened hand.
“I’ll grab my fishfinder,” Jack said. “Maybe we can get a view of what’s inside.” He sprinted toward the fire, where he’d left his fishing gear, to retrieve the device.
Paul and Eric sprinted toward the wreckage. Eric stopped 20 yards short of the mess and held his left arm out like a boom gate in a parking garage. “This is where the ice gets pretty thin.” Eric dropped to his knees and started brushing the ice with thick buckskin mittens. The ice was still white and looked dense, but they had to consider if the plane had compromised its integrity. Eric shouted back to Jack, “Grab an ice spud!”
Jack, with his fish viewer tucked under his arm like a football, had just started on his way back when he got the request. His feet slid three feet across the ice when he tried to stop and reverse direction. The ice spud was five feet long and built from a three-quarter inch steel bar. It had a three-inch wide steel chisel welded to one end, and a T-handle welded to the other. Fishermen used the ice spud to test the thickness and hardness of the ice. As a fisherman walks, he continually taps the ice in front of himself with the seven pound tool. With exper
ience, he acquires the ability to gauge the depth of the ice just by the sound the spud makes as it strikes the surface. The duller the sound, the thicker the ice. If the spud broke through the ice, then it would not be capable of supporting a man’s weight. The ice spud was also useful for chipping away any ice forming around tip-ups, and to roughen the ice to increase traction under their boots. It was a useful tool that went on every ice fishing excursion with them.
While they waited for Jack to return to the site of the crash, Paul watched Andy trying to reload his gear back into the jet sled. Andy was mouthing something into his walkie-talkie. He then stuffed the electronic into the bottom of his pack basket and continued organizing his gear.
“Good,” Paul sighed. “Andy’s reporting the crash to whoever’s on the other end of that line.”
Jack’s jog turned into a hastened walk as he returned to his brothers and the crash. Breathing hard, he unzipped his jacket and let the air cool his overheated body. Eric took the fish viewer from Jack and handed the ice spud to Paul. It was Eric’s way of refusing to go near the hole in the ice.
Paul gripped the metal spud in his right hand and kept his arm extended in front of himself as he began testing the surface they depended on to support their weight. He tapped the ice to his right, then in front, and to his left. The sound was dull and solid. Peeking over his shoulder, Paul looked at Jack.
“Six, maybe seven inches,” Jack said. Jack was more experienced than his brothers. Hell, he was more experienced at ice fishing than anyone they knew—except for maybe Andy Kessler, who didn’t work a full-time job and relied on the river to sustain his life.
A couple more steps and Paul tapped again. The ice was healthy here, too. Two more steps and they were less than ten yards from the plane’s tail protruding from the ice. The three brothers walked in single file and maintained four feet between them. Paul was now eight feet from the hole the plane had created. The ice was four inches at this point, which was plenty thick enough to support their weight. However, they were not sure of the ice’s integrity and maintained a cautious approach. The ice popped and cracked but stayed intact, and the three Martens maintained the four feet of space between them to keep their weight distributed.
Eric was the most nervous. The area was where he’d nearly lost his life two years ago, saved only by the poor fate of a trophy whitetail buck. He kept his attention on the fish viewer, pushing the traumatic memory into a vault within his mind. Now was not the time to let such a thing surface. He drowned the memory and opened the fish viewer.
The fish viewer was stored in a yellow plastic case the size of a laptop computer but eight inches thick. Eric took the lens from its custom formed foam rubber bed. The unit looked like a little submarine with the front quarter cut away and replaced with a glass lens encircled by a dozen light-emitting diodes. Two metal ballast, resembling CO2 cartridges, ran the length of both sides to balance the lens. The submersible lens wasn’t much bigger than a potato and tethered by a whip of fiber optic and copper wires that snaked back to the yellow case. An LCD monitor was mounted in the top of the case, only visible when the container was open. A couple of controls to zoom and turn the lens and a rechargeable battery completed the ensemble.
Jack lit a menthol. “Battery looks good.” He was on his knees watching the LCD screen, but all he saw so far was Paul unwinding the tether. “Take a little more, so you’ve got some slack in the line.”
Paul walked the little camera out to the left edge of the giant hole created by the ill-fated plane. He let the camera sink as Jack and Eric watched the monitor. Peering into the eight-inch screen was like looking into another world. A world with rich sandy soil and the occasional rock adorning the terrain and wavy trees of seaweed dancing in the current. It was difficult to get a sense of scale in this alien world until a smallmouth bass swam curiously close to the camera’s eye. The 12-inch fish vanished under the wreckage which lay nose first in the sand.
On the fragile surface of the ice, Jack and Eric stared at the monitor. “Bring it back up about two feet,” Jack directed Paul.
Paul pulled the tether like he had a small trout on the end of the line—gingerly keeping the line taught trying not to let the little trout shake the hook. The camera reached the cockpit window where a green flight jacket was visible. “A little more,” Eric requested, hardly believing the command and knew he was about to see the face of the deceased pilot.
The ice cracked under Jack and Eric’s knees, sending a small shockwave through their hips. They jumped back and to their feet with the speed of a professional wrestler. The ice was thin in this area, and when Andy added his weight to the surface, it buckled and cracked. Jack and Eric spun around to see Andy peeking over their shoulders, attempting to see what was on the little monitor. Jack made a motion at Andy with his hand to back up. Andy took a few steps away from the monitor, moving his weight away from the area of ice that began to crack.
“That’s pretty friggin cool,” the big man grinned. “Look at the fish down there.”
“Jesus, Andy, there’s a dead man down there, maybe more,” Jack snapped.
“Sorry. Never looked under the ice before. Kinda awesome, hehe.”
The monitor finally showed the damage to the plane as the LED lights illuminated the white plane. The engine cowl had a hole that was similar in size to a backpack and shaped like North Carolina. Holes, of many different sizes, perforated the plane’s exterior, and the fire from the engine had left the side of the plane charred. The pilot was small in stature and his clothes tattered and burned. The shape of his face indicated severe bone fractures as it drooped to the right—the left, bloody and torn, was missing a cheek. The brothers grimaced and slightly turned away at the scene, hoping he was the only casualty on board.
“What is it?” Paul asked when he saw their faces. Before anyone could answer, Andy turned and dry-heaved. “Nevermind,” Paul said, “Don’t think I wanna know.”
They scanned the outside of the plane a little more. The fuselage and engine compartment were riddled with holes of various sizes. Eric’s face moved closer to the monitor and raised his sunglasses to rest on his head. He squinted at the screen for a moment.
“Those holes don’t have any burrs protruding out,” he said. “And each hole is inside a concave dent.”
“So they were created from the outside. Like bullet holes,” Jack said.
“Yeah. But we only heard one explosion. Whatever shot this plane down had massive power.”
“Holy shit, fellas,” Andy interrupted. “You saying this is from a bomb? Somebody blew this thing out of the sky?”
“Appears that way,” Jack answered. “Question is: who and why?”
“That’s two questions, hehe” Andy smiled.
They guided the little camera back toward what used to be the left wing and peered into the window. The LED lights lit the interior of the plane giving them an eerie view of two rear bucket seats. The double doors on the opposite side were open—the forward door looked skewed on its hinges, but the rear door was completely gone. Tree bark was embedded in the door frame, indicating it had already been ripped off while crashing through the trees. If anyone else had been on the plane, they were surely ripped through the open doors and killed on landing.
“Guys, look,” Paul said. He was pointing to the surface of the water. Jack and Eric couldn’t see from their position, so they walked over to Paul. They peeked over his shoulder and followed his finger, pointing at a $100 bill floating in the water and a couple more submerged below.
“Bet it’s drug money,” Paul said. “I’ll bet this explains why the plane was shot down.”
“It’s our money, now,” Jack smiled.
Chapter 10 / Excelsior
The Canadian was satisfied with Cordelia’s work. Her sacrifice and loyalty had crippled the plane better than he expected. He had hoped the plane would drop quicker, but the little Beechcraft was determined to stay aloft for several more minutes, clawing and fighting
her way across the sky, like a wounded soldier pulling himself across a battlefield and not willing to give up on life.
The Canadian put the remote control away and thought about the horror on Ozzy’s face before Cordelia discharged the pipe bomb. His heart felt like a sandbag in his chest. He was genuinely sorry for what he had to do—for what he’d done. Ozzy was an acquaintance, unlike Moonie Swamp, whom he had not known for more than 90 minutes. If he returned to his job as a mechanic at the airport, he would face Ozzy’s friends every day and be hiding the guilt of his murder deep in his chest. The lie would eat away at him physically and emotionally, creating constant stress, and making him grow old all too quickly. He could never return to his job, to Canada, or to his home, even if he failed to acquire the money on that plane. But, returning home was never in his plan, anyway.
A squawk came over his two-way radio, startling him back to reality. He had forgotten he was even carrying the damn thing. He was happy for the interuption to his thoughts, and removed the red walkie-talkie from a cargo pocket in his pants and turned the volume down, even though no one was within miles of hearing him.
“Yeah, I’m here. Did you see it go down?” the Canadian asked the individual on the sister radio.
“Hehe, hell yes I saw it go down. You nearly dropped the damn thing on my head,” the voice responded enthusiastically, but softly.
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