Tipping point, p.1
Tipping Point, page 1
Tipping Point
Bill Noel
Copyright © 2021 by Bill Noel
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover photo and design by Bill Noel
Author photo by Susan Noel
* * *
ISBN: 978-1-948374-41-5
* * *
Enigma House Press
Goshen, Kentucky
www.enigmahousepress.com
Also by Bill Noel
Folly
The Pier
Washout
The Edge
The Marsh
Ghosts
Missing
Final Cut
First Light
Boneyard Beach
Silent Night
Dead Center
Discord
The Folly Beach Mystery Collection
Dark Horse
Joy
The Folly Beach Mystery Collection II
No Joke
Relic
The Folly Beach Christmas Mystery Collection
Faith
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
About the Author
Chapter One
Two extraordinary events occurred this morning. First, Charles Fowler convinced me to accompany him on a kayak adventure through the waterway as it weaves through the salt marsh separating Folly Island from the rest of South Carolina. The trip was extraordinary because of my fear of water, something there’s no shortage of on a kayak ride. By fear of water, I’m not talking about panicking over taking a shower or getting caught in an occasional rainstorm. My fear, or as I refer to it in less-dysfunctional terms, extreme caution, involves water containing three-and-a-half-percent salt and in my mind roughly twenty percent sharks gathering to savor me for lunch.
I agreed to go because my friend said we’d rent a double kayak, plus he’d been kayaking many times on the same body of water. Nothing could possibly go wrong, or so he said. We’d paddled a couple hundred yards before he revised his kayaking experience saying this was the third time he’d been in one, but he’d thought many times about renting a kayak. I considered smacking him with my paddle or using my novice skills to turn the kayak around then head to shore. Either option would’ve capsized the vessel depositing me where the sharks were drooling over my meaty body. Falling for his story was on me since in the decade I’d known Charles, I couldn’t recall him mentioning kayaking. He was also a master embellisher.
A few hundred yards later, I was feeling more comfortable using the fiberglass paddle, even started enjoying the scenery. It was early March, so the marsh grasses were beginning to change from winter brown to spring green. A handful of puffy cirrus clouds dotted the sky, the temperature a perfect seventy-two degrees. Large homes with walking piers ending at the river were to our right, where I recognized the residences of a couple of my friends. Even if I hadn’t, Charles shared the name of the home’s owner, who else lived in the house, including their pets. I became less comfortable when he insisted we take one of the tributaries branching to the left where the waterway narrowed. No manmade objects were in sight. The oyster-lined, eight-foot-wide passage appeared to become narrower with each paddle stroke. We came close to capsizing when a dolphin playfully arched out of the water close enough to splash me as it reentered the shark habitat. Charles thought it was way funnier than I had.
The only sounds I heard for the next fifteen minutes were a couple of terns laughing at me for believing Charles’s story about how many times he’d been kayaking. I was beginning to relax, enjoy the marsh grasses, birds, and especially the dolphin gliding beside us.
Then the second extraordinary event occurred. My enjoyment of nature abruptly ended when the pleasant sound of the birds was drowned out by the roar of an airplane engine. It didn’t take an aeronautical engineer to know the small, single-engine plane was in trouble. Its left wing dipped toward the water. It couldn’t have been more than a hundred feet off the ground, or more accurately, the water. The plane was losing altitude and heading directly at us.
I didn’t know if the pilot would or could gain altitude. It wasn’t more than fifty feet from the marsh grasses when its nose pulled up. It still looked like it was going to crash. The deadly projectile was heading toward us when its front wheel caught in the thick marsh grasses, bounced once, then skipped across the narrow waterway. The aircraft continued in our direction. My fear of sharks was replaced by terror. I was about to be decapitated by the propeller with no time to paddle out of its way.
I screamed for Charles to bail out of the kayak. I did the same. We hit the water at the same time the plane’s twisted landing gear filled the space our heads occupied seconds earlier. We were out of the overturned kayak in time to see the prop slam into the dense marsh three feet above the water. The nose of the aircraft burrowed in the pluff mud. The plane flipped and skidded, ripping a path through the grasses, before coming to a stop upside down and fewer than a hundred yards from where we were standing in waist-deep water.
The near silence that followed was eerie and consisted of a flock of birds squawking and Charles splashing around trying to find his paddle and Tilley hat. I managed to hold on to my paddle, but my hat was floating behind me. I grabbed it and my next thought was how we would get to the plane. It was high tide, the marsh grasses along with the island of mud was a few feet higher than the water, so I could only see the upside-down landing gear. It would’ve been impossible to walk through the mud without slicing our legs open on razor-sharp oysters along the bank before we’d sink knee-deep in the mushy surface. The waterway we’d been navigating meandered close to the plane.
Charles found his paddle and after what seemed like forever, we managed to climb back in the kayak, turned it around, then paddled to within six feet of the wreck. The right wing was above water and wedged into the side of the mud wall. That was all that prevented the cabin from being under water. Smoke was coming from the cowling, but there were no flames. That’s when I heard banging sounds from inside the partially submerged fuselage.
Charles climbed out of the kayak to hold it stable while I gracelessly exited the vessel. I slogged through water and mud before grabbing a wing strut where I pulled myself up enough to see in the side window. Four men were in the cockpit, three upside down, held in place by seatbelts and shoulder harnesses. One was struggling with his harness; the other two, the pilot and the front seat passenger, were unmoving. Blood dripped from their heads. The cowling was mangled, the windshield shattered. Their heads had slammed into the upper section of the instrument panel. The fourth passenger had managed to get his restraints unhooked and knelt on the roof. He began shoving the unconscious man out of the way while ramming his shoulder into the door. It didn’t budge.
Movement inside the cabin combined with my weight on the inverted wing dislodged part of the plane from the mud. It started tilting toward the water. If it slid much more, the cabin would be submerged.
We had to get the passengers out, and fast.
Chapter Two
The top of the door was wedged in the mud with the weight of the plane pressed on it making it impossible to open. I yelled for Charles to go to the other door to see if the situation was better. The backseat passenger who’d struggled with his harness got it unhitched before Charles waded around the plane. The passenger fell, landed hard. His impact rocked the plane enough that it slid closer to the tipping point which would drown anyone who’d survived the crash. The man pushing the door turned to help his friend. Charles yelled the pilot’s door may open but he’d need help.
The tail was sinking, the rest of the deathtrap not far behind. The men inside the aircraft were attempting to unbuckle the unmoving front seat passenger.
“Stop moving!” I yelled, hoping to keep them from rocking the plane.
I grabbed the strut then slid off the wing and splashed to Charles who fought to open the stubborn door. My thigh scraped the side of the pluff-mud island as I moved beside him and wrapped my hands around the edge of the door. Charles managed to force it open a few inches. Both of us pulled. Nothing. One more yank and it swung open a couple of feet. The plane groaned then slid six inches toward deeper water.
The pilot, still strapped in his seat, blocked the escape route for th
“Charles, can you hold the pilot in place while I unbuckle his shoulder harness?”
“I’ll try.”
Neither the pilot nor the front seat passenger had shown signs of life. From the unnatural way their heads were twisted, I didn’t hold out hope.
“The plane’s not going to stay where it is if there’s much movement or weight shift.”
“What are we waiting for?” Charles said, as he knelt under the pilot and pushed up.
It took three tries before I unhooked the restraints. The pilot’s dead weight fell on Charles. He stumbled yet managed to lower the pilot. With help from the rear seat passenger, Charles and I dragged the pilot out of the aircraft and carried him through the water to where we could lay him on the mud. The other rear seat passenger scampered out behind his friend. He grabbed his shoulder cursing it was broken. It may be, but he was alive, climbing out under his own power. One unconscious passenger was still strapped upside down in a plane which was slipping with each passing second. The water was rising in the cabin and inches from covering his head.
There wasn’t time to worry about him getting hurt if we unhooked his harness. Charles slid underwater then surfaced on the other side of the man. He pushed him up while I unhooked the harness. The man flopped down in the water filling the cockpit. I dragged him out of the wreck.
The plane creaked then slid the rest of the way into the murky saltwater before we reached the muddy, cordgrass covered plot of land.
We’d maneuvered the last man out toward a safe resting place when I heard the thump-thump sound of props. I looked up and saw a distinct orange and white Coast Guard helicopter swooping toward us. Someone must’ve seen the plane go down and called for help.
The man who’d helped his fellow passengers out of the plane collapsed beside the pilot. The one with the injured arm sat in the mud staring at the mostly submerged aircraft. Both appeared in shock.
I gasped to catch my breath as a Coast Guard crew member was lowered from the air-sea rescue chopper hovering directly over us. The rotor’s turbulence had the marsh grasses swaying like they were in a hurricane. Seconds later, I heard another engine and saw a black jet ski moving around the mostly sunken plane. The wave runner had OCEAN RESCUE in yellow on the front and was manned by a member of the Folly Beach Department of Public Safety. We weren’t in the ocean, but I wasn’t about to complain.
I met the officer on the wave runner who asked if everyone was out of the plane. I told him yes then pointed to the two unmoving passengers. Folly Beach police officers doubled as firefighters; most were trained EMTs. He rushed to the closest passenger while the crew member from the helicopter was bent over the pilot. Charles was with the police officer and the unmoving passenger.
I walked to the other two passengers who’d scooted close to each other. Both were dressed in bright-colored polo shirts, one in Kelly green slacks, the other in bright-red shorts.
I knelt between them and asked what happened.
The man in shorts shook his head, the other said, “No idea. We were headed to Myrtle for a golfing weekend. Took off from Charleston Executive Airport.” He pointed at the man being attended to by the Coast Guard member. “Gary, the pilot over there, was in the plane when we arrived. We were running late. We threw our clubs in and took off. Oh, I’m Tom, by the way. Thanks for saving us.”
“I’m Chris Landrum,” I said before pointing at Charles. “It’s fortunate my friend, Charles Fowler, and I were nearby.”
“Sure was,” said the man in the Kelly-green slacks, grimacing while holding his shoulder. “I’m Richard.”
“You took off, then what?”
Richard said, “Gary didn’t say much. He had a cold, all stopped up, cranky. He was also mad because we were late. He’s anal like that. It was my fault, so I apologized. It didn’t help.” He shook his head. “We take these golf outings three times a year. Gary, Tom, and I live on Folly, so each time we head out, Gary goes out of the way to fly over our houses. It’s neat seeing Folly from the air. We took off then turned this direction. It’s a beautiful day. Gary said it should be a smooth flight.” He looked at the still-unmoving pilot. “Suddenly he turns chalk white. The plane starts down. He didn’t say another word. None of the rest of us knew anything about flying.” He slowly shook his head. “A couple of us screamed, not sure who. Umm, that’s all I remember until you helped us out of the plane. We didn’t …” He stopped, grabbed his shoulder and winced.
Tom said, “You okay, Richard?”
Richard was in pain. He continued holding his shoulder. “I will be.”
Tom said, “Good. Back to your question, I couldn’t see Gary well, but he glanced back once. From where I was in the back seat it looked like his eyes glazed over. Then he turned, stared straight ahead. I could be mistaken, but it seems his head flopped forward seconds before we hit. Mark pulled up on the yolk, the steering-wheel looking thing in front of each front seat. It must’ve brought the nose up. That kept us from nosediving into the marsh. It saved our lives.” He glanced at Charles and the police officer bending over the lifeless passenger. “Some of our lives.” He lowered his head then whispered, “Mark’s a hero.”
Their stories were interrupted when Charles waved me over.
He removed his soaked hat and held it over the Naval Academy blue logo on his long-sleeve T-shirt. “He’s gone.”
The Coast Guardsman went over to the police officer and the deceased passenger. The two conferred as Charles and I slowly walked to the group. The Coast Guardsman then radioed the chopper, said there was nothing they could do, to send the harness down for him.
The police officer watched the Coast Guard copter retrieve its crew member and moved close to Charles and me, so we could hear over the sound of the rotor. I’d seen him around town but didn’t know his name.
Charles said, “Chris, you know Officer Lane, don’t you?”
Charles had lived on Folly thirty-five years and knew many of its residents. I had been there a decade and knew several people, but nowhere near as many as my friend.
“Don’t believe I do.”
We shook hands, he pointed to the pilot, then sighed.
The sound of an outboard motor got our attention as a white boat with Charleston County Rescue Squad on its side approached. It eased against the side of the elevated marsh mud. Two members of the volunteer rescue squad exited as the air filled with the thumping sounds of two approaching helicopters. They were marked with the logos of Charleston television stations and began circling the downed aircraft like buzzards preparing to descent on an animal’s carcass.
Charles and I greeted the members of the rescue squad. The taller of the two asked if we needed medical assistance. I told him no, although I was feeling a sharp pain from a foot-long scratch on my thigh from when I scraped it on an oyster shell as I was helping Charles open the door. I pointed to the plane’s surviving passengers and the paramedics headed their way to see if they could help.
The television choppers continued circling. They were so loud I didn’t hear two more boats approach until the familiar voice of Cindy LaMond yelled my name. Cindy, Folly Beach’s Director of Public Safety, was in the smaller of the two boats. The other watercraft held two more members of the rescue squad. Charles went to meet their boat while I helped Cindy out of hers.
I’d known Cindy since she moved to Folly several years ago to join the police department. She was in her early fifties, a five-foot-three bundle of energy, with a quick smile, and an irreverent sense of humor. She became Director of Public Safety, commonly called police chief, three years ago after her predecessor ascended to the position of mayor. Cindy is also married to Larry LaMond, another friend who owns Folly’s tiny hardware store.
