instantly; at least, there was no sign of a fire. And no sign of
a fuselage, either.
The bomber’s body was inside the mountain, probably half-
way or more down the tunnel’s one-mile length. It was in-
conceivable that there could be anything intelligible left of it;
but where one miracle has happened, two are possible.
No wonder the little Otisville station was peppered over
with the specks of wondering people.
“L-4 to Huguenot. L-4 to Huguenot. Andy, are you there?”
“We read you, Mac. Go ahead.”
“We’ve found your bomber. It’s in the Otisville tunnel.
Over.”
“Crackle to L-4. You’ve lost your mind.”
“That’s where it is, all the same. We’re going to try to
make a landing. Send us a team as soon as you can. Out.”
“Huguenot to L-4. Don’t be a crackle idiot, Mac, you
can’t land there.”
“Out,” McDonough said. He pounded Martinson’s shoulder
and gestured urgently downward.
“You want to land?” Martinson said. “Why didn’t you say
so? We’ll never get down on a shallow glide like this.” He
cleared the engine with a brief burp on the throttle, pulled
the Cub up into a sharp stall, and slid off on one wing. The
whole world began to spin giddily.
Martinson was losing altitude. McDonough closed his eyes
and hung onto his back teeth.
Martinson’s drastic piloting got them down to a rough
landing, on the wheels, on the road leading to the Otisville
station, slightly under a mile away from the mountain. They
taxied the rest of the way. The crowd left the mouth of the
tunnel to cluster around the airplane the moment it had come