Free In Plane Sight by Franklin W. Dixon

numbers on the plane under the ice were S-T-three-eight-seven-eight.”
    â€œWas it a Sullivan custom plane you saw?” Joe asked.
    â€œI didn’t get a very good look at it,” Frank replied. “I thought it was, though.”
    â€œYou’ll excuse me if I don’t go check and give you a second opinion,” Joe said, winking.
    Frank nodded.
    Joe ran one hand through his hair. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why would there be an airplane sunk at the bottom of a lake out here in Kendall State Park? And why would that plane be the samemake and color as the plane that was stolen from Jamal last night?”
    â€œIt’s a mystery, all right,” Frank said, smiling.
    â€œWe’ll have some experience with sleeping on the ground if we don’t get going,” Joe said, changing the subject. “If you’re dry enough, we should douse this fire and head for that barn.”
    â€œGood idea. First, let’s make some torches, if we can. I forgot to bring my flashlight along on this trip, and I’m betting you did too.”
    â€œMust have left it with my parachute,” Joe said with an ironic grin. “I’ve got my pocketknife, though.”
    â€œMe too,” said Frank.
    The brothers managed to pull together enough pine needles, dry twigs, and grasses to make one decent torch head. They combined these ingredients with strips torn from their undershirts and some pine pitch they tapped from a tree with their pocketknives.
    It was after nightfall by the time they completed their task and finally doused the fire. The fog had crept in on them in that time, and the whole world looked like dark gray cotton when they finally set out for the distant barn.
    â€œSome of those snowmobile tracks look like they lead to something closer,” Frank said. “Maybe we should try to follow them instead. They did head out over the lake, though.”
    â€œLet’s not get any more impromptu swimmingpractice if we can avoid it,” Joe replied.
    Frank nodded, and they stuck to the shore. The going was difficult. Rocks and fallen trees littered the shoreline, and tangled roots sprang suddenly out of the fog, grabbing their sneakers.
    As night deepened, the fog grew thicker. It clung to the brothers’ clothing, making the Hardys feel ever colder and more damp than before.
    â€œThat shortcut across the lake isn’t sounding too bad right now,” Joe said, his teeth chattering.
    â€œNo,” Frank replied. “You were right. Falling in again would be about the worst thing we could do. On the shore we can make another fire if we get too cold and tired.”
    Joe looked up at their makeshift torch, flickering in his hand. “If we’re going to stop to make another fire, we should do it soon,” he said. “This torch may not last much longer, and it won’t be easy to light a new fire in this damp fog.”
    â€œLet’s press on a little farther,” Frank said. “We ought to be getting close to that barn.”
    A loud crack echoed through the woods.
    â€œWas that the ice?” Joe asked.
    Another crack, and the torch flew out of Joe’s hand.
    â€œSniper!” Frank yelled, diving for cover.
    Joe hit the snow-dappled ground and rolled behind a big pine tree. “Where is he?” the younger Hardy asked. “Can you see him?”
    â€œAhead of us, I think,” Frank replied from his position behind a nearby rock. “It’s hard to tell in this fog. I’m surprised he can see us at all.”
    Crack! Another shot whizzed over their heads.
    â€œWe’d be sitting ducks if we headed onto the ice,” Joe said. “We’ll have to go back.”
    â€œOr deeper into the woods,” Frank said. He gathered a small pile of snow into his hands and made a snowball. “I’m going to throw this toward where the shots are coming from. When I do, head for the tall timber as fast as you