Laura Hardy woke up the next morning feeling that something was not right. ‘I should have heard from Fenton last night.’ she surmised. That must be what was bothering her. She figured he probably had just forgotten to call her. He was supposed to call from the airport before he and Joe headed out to the campsite. Once there, they wouldn’t be able call because there were no telephones and cell phones wouldn’t work. She decided to call Jack Wayne, knowing his pilots routinely checked in with him after landing and before taking off again.

 

"Hello, Jack. It’s Laura Hardy," she began, "I’m so sorry to bother you this early in the morning, but I didn’t hear from Fenton last night and I was just calling to see if Chuck has checked in with you yet?" There was a pause on the other end that made Laura’s knuckles turn white as her grip on the telephone tightened.

 

"Mrs. Hardy, I’m gonna be flat-out, straight with you, but you better sit yourself down first." Jack stated. Laura did as she was told, feeling her eyes fill with tears and her heart pounding in her ears. "Their last contact was a ‘mayday’ call around 8 o’clock last night, to a airport tower in southwestern Wyoming. They were supposed to make an emergency landing there." Jack hesitated.

 

"They never got there, did they Jack?" Laura Hardy asked, staring at the photo of Fenton and the boys on the hall table.

 

"No," he replied, "But try not to worry too much. There’s already a posse searching for the plane. We know the last coordinates and the direction they were heading."

 

"Why didn’t you call me?" Laura asked, her voice strained with emotion.

 

"It wasn’t the kind of information I wanted to give a good friend over the phone," Jack answered, "I had planned to mosey over later this morning to tell you in person. Are you gonna be alright? Is someone there with you?"

 

"Yes," she relied, "Gertrude is here. Thank you, Jack. You’re a good friend. You will keep me informed, won’t you?"

 

"You know it. Maybe you should call Frank, or I could, if you want me to." the pilot offered.

 

"I’ll call him," Laura stated, reining her tumultuous emotions.

 

* * *

 

Frank Hardy and Phil Cohen had just arrived for the day’s festivities at the computer convention, when Frank’s cell phone distinctly played notes from Beethoven’s 5^th symphony.

 

"Hello? Mom?" the youth answered, leaning his 6’ 1" frame against the cement block wall of the convention center’s main hallway.

 

Phil Cohen was watching his friend as he spoke on the cell phone. Phil’s eyebrows knitted into a deep frown as he watched Frank’s face drain of all color.

 

"Dear God, please no!" Frank choked, a deep sob erupting from his throat. Phil immediately wrapped an arm around Frank’s middle; afraid his friend was about to pass out. "I’m coming right home, Mom."

 

Frank quickly filled Phil in on what his mother had just told him. The two boys rushed back to the hotel, quickly packed and Phil began the long drive home to Bayport.

 

* * *

 

Chuck Fisher didn’t argue with Joe about checking his father, Fenton Hardy, before trying to come into the cockpit. The pilot knew his own injuries were fatal; he just needed to get Joe in the cockpit for some instructions.

 

Joe wrapped a bandage around his dad’s head and tried to revive him with smelling salts, but the only response from Mr. Hardy had been soft moaning. He then secured his father’s leg in a makeshift splint, using broken pieces of fiberglass from the damaged plane. Sure that he had done all he could for his dad under the circumstances, Joe Hardy used his pocketknife to slice open the upper leg of his own jeans. He then applied a pressure bandage to the puncture wound in his thigh. He couldn’t wrap it very tightly with just one hand, but he did the best he could.

 

The pain in Joe’s ribs and hip had diminished to a dull ache, but the pain in his thigh, left arm and left shoulder were still excruciating as he crawled through the wreckage toward the trapped pilot.

 

"Chuck?" Joe called into the twisted mass of metal and fiberglass that separated him from the front of the plane, "Where are you?"

 

"I’m still in (cough, cough) my seat, but I can’t move a thing," Chuck Fisher responded. "Doesn’t look too good kid. I think I’m all broken up inside."

 

Joe looked at the pile of wreckage that separated him from Chuck. There was no way to crawl through to the other side. With dread in knowing how much it was going to hurt, Joe began climbing over the mass. He gritted his teeth as the pain surged through his arm and shoulder. Climbing required using the broken limb as well as his good, right arm. Finally, Joe pushed the first aid kit over the top of the pile and practically rolled down after it.

 

Chuck was still strapped in his seat, but the seat was broken into two separate pieces and laying on the floor of the plane. The nose of the plane had been smashed back and only Chuck’s shoulders and head could be seen above the wreckage. He heard the boy come crashing into the cockpit.

 

"Joe? Are you okay?" Chuck asked as the youth lay still on the debris littered floor staring at Chuck.

 

"Why does it have to hurt so much?" came a barely audible response. Joe felt himself drifting off again, as pain engulfed him. He closed his eyes and welcomed the darkness.

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The authors have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.