“I'm Hit”
Moments later, still carrying his police radio, Knoettgen wedged himself into the passenger seat of the cramped cockpit. The men sat shoulder to shoulder. Spicer taxied out, put the plane in the air and flew south.
In no time, they were soaring over young green wheat fields and thick, dark rows of trees, heading toward the coordinates they'd been given. On the ground they saw police vehicles scouring back-country roads. This must be the spot.
Spicer pulled the bill of his API cap low over his eyes to shield out the rays of the setting sun. “We'll make our first pass right down the middle,” he said.
“I have the truck straight ahead,” Knoettgen replied.
The silver pickup was in a small ravine directly below, its door hanging open. It might have been missed at ground level, but not from the air.
Knoettgen radioed the sheriff, and Dunn, now on foot, began moving toward the pickup alone.
Assuming the truck was abandoned, Spicer widened the search. Flying along a line of trees at the edge of the field, he saw what looked like a wind-blown yellow feed sack between the rows of green wheat.
“I want to look at something,” he told Knoettgen.
Spicer turned the plane and, with a second glance, realized the sack was a man lying facedown in the wheat. It's him, Spicer thought.
“Tell them I'll put the wingtip on him and point him out.” Then, banking the plane sharply, Spicer dipped his right wingtip toward a spot in the field some 300 feet below.
Knoettgen again radioed the sheriff. And Dunn watched the sweep of the steeply banking plane to reconnoiter, then took off jogging across the field.
Spicer was on his fourth pass over the suspect in another steep right turn, wing pointed to the ground. A plane at such an attitude is particularly vulnerable. At low altitude, there's no room for pilot error. If the pilot fails to keep control, the plane will lose lift and fall out of the sky.
It was at that moment, according to Sheriff Dunn, that Michael Michaud, lying in the wheat field, must have rolled over, raised a large-caliber handgun and fired at the plane.
It's almost impossible for anyone but a skilled marksman to hit a moving target at a distance with a handgun. And this target was a bird in the air a block away, high in the Kansas sky. By an extraordinary fluke, the bullet struck the plane.
Knoettgen neither heard nor felt the bullet explode through the window just inches from his head. He was untouched. But the lead slug blew Plexiglas shards across the cockpit and into Spicer's face. The bullet struck him above his left eye, splitting the bill and sweatband of his cap, knocking it off his head. It sliced a six-inch gash across his forehead, ripped off pieces of flesh, which stuck to the plane's ceiling, and then blasted out through the pilot's window with a loud crack.
Spicer heard the “crack,” but had no idea he had been hit.
I've blown out another window, is what he thought. He turned his head to the left. The window was still there, and Spicer was looking straight into a bullet hole. That's when he lost sight in his left eye. Blood cascaded down his face, blinding him. His hand flew to his head. There was so much blood that it covered his glasses, soaked his sweatshirt. Spicer felt nothing. Just a strange tumble of memories and the sense that if it was his time to die, he was ready.
But Knoettgen wasn't a pilot. If Spicer lost consciousness, his friend would die. Spicer forced his mind back to the cockpit. “Arnie, I'm hit.”
Knoettgen yelled into the radio that Mike was shot； then he heard two more blasts —— and grabbed the yoke.
Below them, Dunn watched the plane bank critically. He expected to see it nosedive into the ground.
Moments later, still carrying his police radio, Knoettgen wedged himself into the passenger seat of the cramped cockpit. The men sat shoulder to shoulder. Spicer taxied out, put the plane in the air and flew south.
In no time, they were soaring over young green wheat fields and thick, dark rows of trees, heading toward the coordinates they'd been given. On the ground they saw police vehicles scouring back-country roads. This must be the spot.
Spicer pulled the bill of his API cap low over his eyes to shield out the rays of the setting sun. “We'll make our first pass right down the middle,” he said.
“I have the truck straight ahead,” Knoettgen replied.
The silver pickup was in a small ravine directly below, its door hanging open. It might have been missed at ground level, but not from the air.
Knoettgen radioed the sheriff, and Dunn, now on foot, began moving toward the pickup alone.
Assuming the truck was abandoned, Spicer widened the search. Flying along a line of trees at the edge of the field, he saw what looked like a wind-blown yellow feed sack between the rows of green wheat.
“I want to look at something,” he told Knoettgen.
Spicer turned the plane and, with a second glance, realized the sack was a man lying facedown in the wheat. It's him, Spicer thought.
“Tell them I'll put the wingtip on him and point him out.” Then, banking the plane sharply, Spicer dipped his right wingtip toward a spot in the field some 300 feet below.
Knoettgen again radioed the sheriff. And Dunn watched the sweep of the steeply banking plane to reconnoiter, then took off jogging across the field.
Spicer was on his fourth pass over the suspect in another steep right turn, wing pointed to the ground. A plane at such an attitude is particularly vulnerable. At low altitude, there's no room for pilot error. If the pilot fails to keep control, the plane will lose lift and fall out of the sky.
It was at that moment, according to Sheriff Dunn, that Michael Michaud, lying in the wheat field, must have rolled over, raised a large-caliber handgun and fired at the plane.
It's almost impossible for anyone but a skilled marksman to hit a moving target at a distance with a handgun. And this target was a bird in the air a block away, high in the Kansas sky. By an extraordinary fluke, the bullet struck the plane.
Knoettgen neither heard nor felt the bullet explode through the window just inches from his head. He was untouched. But the lead slug blew Plexiglas shards across the cockpit and into Spicer's face. The bullet struck him above his left eye, splitting the bill and sweatband of his cap, knocking it off his head. It sliced a six-inch gash across his forehead, ripped off pieces of flesh, which stuck to the plane's ceiling, and then blasted out through the pilot's window with a loud crack.
Spicer heard the “crack,” but had no idea he had been hit.
I've blown out another window, is what he thought. He turned his head to the left. The window was still there, and Spicer was looking straight into a bullet hole. That's when he lost sight in his left eye. Blood cascaded down his face, blinding him. His hand flew to his head. There was so much blood that it covered his glasses, soaked his sweatshirt. Spicer felt nothing. Just a strange tumble of memories and the sense that if it was his time to die, he was ready.
But Knoettgen wasn't a pilot. If Spicer lost consciousness, his friend would die. Spicer forced his mind back to the cockpit. “Arnie, I'm hit.”
Knoettgen yelled into the radio that Mike was shot； then he heard two more blasts —— and grabbed the yoke.
Below them, Dunn watched the plane bank critically. He expected to see it nosedive into the ground.