The wheels ripped into the treetops and tore loose. The plane dipped and as it did, the top wing wrenched loose. Struts and wires popped as it gave way and the two wings separated. With one last mighty effort, Dryman hauled the stick back, hoping to straighten the hapless craft out.
With wheels dangling loose, it skimmed into the tall grass of the marsh. The wheels tore away and the nose plunged into the windswept bog. The right wings tore away and the gas tank, located in the top wing over the cockpit, split. Water, mud and gasoline showered over the plane as it cartwheeled and splintered to a stop upside down.
Keegan, dazed but unhurt, stared over his head at the soggy earth. He grabbed the side of the plane, popped his belt loose and swung out of the cockpit, landing calf-deep in the murky water. Lightning snapped around them. The engine, torn asunder by the crash and sticking up out of the water, burst into flames with a dull
“H.P.!” Keegan yelled above the raging storm as he sloshed through the bog toward the front of the plane. Dryman was hanging upside down, his foot jammed in the control pedals, his arms hanging straight down. Keegan supported him with his shoulder, reached up and snapped the safety belt loose. The two men fell into the marsh as the flames leaped back across the wet fuselage toward the gas tank.
Keegan grabbed Dryman under the arms and dragged him through the water, fighting the wind as the flames lapped across the belly of the shattered plane, hit the gasoline and exploded. Keegan shoved Dryman into the marsh and fell across his body as the craft was totally ripped apart by the explosion. Bits and pieces splashed around them. A ball of fire swirled up into the gale and just as quickly was snuffed out.
Keegan rolled off Dryman, struggled to his knees and cradled him in his arms. There was a deep gash in Dryman’s forehead and his leg was twisted grotesquely.
“H.P.!” he yelled.
Dryman groaned, squinted up through the rain at Keegan.
“Are we alive?” he stammered.
“Just about.”
“How about Loop’s plane?”
“Forget it.”
Dryman smiled, then flinched with pain. “Good landing,” he groaned. “We walked away from it.”
Through the howling wind, Keegan heard an engine groaning, then saw headlights. A truck lurched down a muddy road and stopped at the edge of the marsh. The driver opened the door and leaned out into the rain.
“Anybody alive?” he yelled.
“Yeah, but we can use some help,” Keegan yelled back. He stood up and got Dryman up on one leg. Together they struggled through the marsh toward the truck.
“Man, what a mess,” the driver said, looking at what was left of Loop Garrison’s PT-17.
The clinic was a one-story brick building with two offices, a lab, two examining rooms, a waiting room and two recovery rooms with adjoining bathrooms. Keegan used one of the washrooms to clean up while the doctor, a short, cheerful man named Ben Galloway, worked on Dryman. Keegan stared at himself in the mirror. His clothes were wet and muddy. One knee was torn out of his pants and there was a splash of Dryman’s blood on his shoulder. But he was uninjured except for a few bruises.
He used a towel to wipe off his clothes, tried to straighten up before he went back to the waiting room. The truck driver who had picked him up was gone but there was a tall, lanky man in his late twenties sitting in the room, nervously smoking a cigarette. He looked up as Keegan came back in the room.
“You okay?” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“Never knew anybody to walk away from an airplane crash.”
“I had a good pilot.”
“That him in there?” he asked, jerking a thumb toward the examining room.
Keegan nodded.
“How’s he doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Old Ben’s a good doctor. He’ll be okay. Name’s Tommy Smoot. Wife just had a little baby boy. I was in with her when you came in.”
“Congratulations,” Keegan said, shaking his hand. “I’m Frank.”
“Where you headed?”
“Brunswick. Actually Jekyll Island. You familiar with it?”
“Sure. I work at the shipyard down there.”
“You know anybody with a boat? I need to get out to that island.”
“What, tonight?”
“As soon as possible.”
“How you gonna get to Brunswick?”
“Be damned if I know. I don’t suppose there’s a taxicab anywhere around here?”
