Sally cut power to the twin turboprop engines and banked hard left… She just cleared the north end of Moose Island… And through the smoke and haze coming from below could barely make out what appeared to be a vessel traveling north-northwest.
Sidekick Link—front paws resting on the cockpit panel—strained forward with ears perked. He then glanced down at the water, and suddenly the hair on his back rose taut. The boat was moving, wide open throttle, and he had spotted the wake being cut through the water. Then with three barks he confirmed to Sally his identification of at least one of the boat passengers. It was the face of his master’s business partner—Mr. Cosmoid Scale.
Maintaining her silent glide Sally had calculated forty-five to fifty seconds on the silent drop from 1000 feet down to 200. That would be close enough to confirm identities of all passengers and hopefully remain unnoticed by Biggy THE BOAT Pescatore.
The water bomber airplane was a large target. Presumably one that would not endure a gunshot to the engine or fuel tank. She needed to be low, and she needed to be stealth-silent. At five hundred feet, it was time for Sally Squatsnfishes to either Fish Or Cut Bait. Either restart the engines or ride this glide down to the deck.
Link turned his muzzle toward the pilot and blinked once with his left eye. Tic toc they were at three hundred feet, let’s do this.
Sally had seen this look before. A flashback from Eagle Two, Ellie Waylayer, down under chasing the Kraken. Link was firing at her with that same expression.
The last time she hesitated they had come up short. It also explained the bullet hole in her shoulder.
Sally did a double take with Link. But his expression was clear, “Lady, I’m your best friend (a dog) wearing an oversized WWII headset in a water bomber plane that is freefalling from the sky. If I’m not being OCD panic stricken, neither should you!”
Then he tilted his head to focus on the target below. Difficult, now that his headset had slipped over one eye. Tic toc. Two hundred feet.
As Sally continued to milk the glide, Tawny and company cleared the north side of the island, with a compass heading north-northwest tracking the plane. Tawny was unable to get a bead on Biggy’s boat, at least not yet, but the bird falling from the sky may as well been the sun crashing to the earth.
Tawny thought momentarily to cut power to the throttle of the outboard motor, in effort to communicate by radio frequency with Sally. But her instincts told her, “Better to get to the crash site first,” and she kept her hand cranked on the engine.
Sally’s last pass on Moose Island had doused the fire ring around the beaver pond. Enough that Rusty and Clarence executed butterfly kicks, while the beaver clan opted for tail blasts and torpedo glides. Either way, both parties made their way OUT of the pond, traveling south toward the original shore lunch beach area. Less smoke… More open water… Hopefully a boat was still parked on the beach.
As they scampered through the remains of charred treefall and ashes from last season’s weed growth, Rusty clung to the tails of Clarence Bishop. With an epic Cheech and Chong brain fog from smoke inhalation, he questioned if he were following a man or a ghost. Either way he was obliged to have a trailblazer out front.
At two hundred feet Sally saw them—Cos, Stash McGivern, and Rod Gills. Their eyeballs were the size of fast-pitch softballs—pleading from below for help from above. Their mouths were bound and gagged… Arms tethered behind their backs with knees to chests and butts to the floor of Biggy Pescatore’s boat.
Three more seconds and Sally would be at one hundred fifty feet. She had confirmed the hostages without Biggy being the wiser. NOW was the time to restart both engines, or brace for water impact. The CL-415 was not suited for an uncontrolled landing.
Tic toc. Every milli-second counted. Sally’s reactions were in high gear—no clutch.
“Altitude,” she checked that box with butt cheeks clinched.
“Fuel levers,” ON like Donkey Kong.
“Starter switches,” hit both like you were handling two ice fishing rods requiring simultaneous hook sets.
“Advance condition levers,” hmmmmm, can’t quite remember that one—skip to final step.
“Monitor gauges,” Link is now whining with anticipation. Waiting for the oil pressure, turbine temp, and RPM needles to JUMP.
Tic toc. One hundred feet. Sally jammed both starters. Port side contact—fired. Starboard engine—coughed once—twice—puked.
Quickly she cycled again. Nothing.
Tawny could not make her boat go any faster. Clarence brought Rusty out to the shorelunch clearing on the sandy beach. Celine was breaking radio silence—questioning as to whether anyone would be returning to camp for squirrel stew.
Biggy caught pitch of the single engine that had fired and turned to glimpse over his left shoulder. There she was—on his tail—bright red with yellow stripes—its right wing tip about to touch his transom.
Link winced and barked once. With head ducked, shoulders braced, and claws buried into the leather co-pilot seat—it came out like he was hacking on a bone.
Sally did not pull up.
–To Be Continued–
Rusty Flathers 