It was absolutely insane, but that was what he had done.
And, miracle of miracles, he had made it. McDonough could see the wings now, buttered into two-dimensional profiles over the two pilasters of the tunnel. They had hit with such force that the fuel in them must have been vaporized 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.