Legends of the Fowl II
		This was not a new thing for Bubba and I. Usually, the helicopter radios in to the Department of Fisheries and Oceans, and they rush out from their breakfast to catch us before we reach land. Bubba's got a reputation of sorts, and his door usually gets knocked on before mine. We keep our equipment and boat at Bubba's uncle's, so they can never make their accusations stick. There are many out-of-season hunters in this small place, and on any given day they could be chasing our neighbours instead of us. This time seemed different, though, as the chopper descended to within two hundred feet of our speeding boat. Then it flew a hundred yards ahead, and turned side-on. A few seconds later, as we passed under its black belly, we heard a shot ring out above the sound of roaring blades. "Christ almighty!" I thought I heard Bubba say. Then he reached for his gun. Before I could release my throttle grip, Bubba had shouldered his shotgun and fired. I let go of the motor handle, and the wake of water behind caught up, lifting the boat slightly from stern to bow. "What are you doin'? I yelled. Bubba was still looking at the helicopter with a strange bewilderment, and when I turned around, the metal bird was wavering from side to side. Its engine sounded different, like it was gasping for air. Then its tail dipped and the machine slid neatly backwards. The tail hit the water and the blade cut into the surface with a sharp crack. The engine died, and there was a brief moment where the only noise was the heartbeat in my ears. "Shit, Bub! What did ya do? You shot it!" "No I didn't! I aimed at the landing braces...that wouldn't hurt it none." I turned the throttle handle hard over and accelerated, turning the bow around. "What are you doing? Let 'em sink, the bastards. They shot at us. Good for the goose, good for the gander." I ignored him and approached the bobbing dome. Water was entering the cockpit, and bubbles rose around the lifeless machine. When our boat was within twenty feet, a body could be seen lunging at the door facing us, the water pressure apparently trapping the pilots inside. The chopper was sinking quickly, and I turned to Bubba. "Let 'em out, Bub! They're gonna drown and we're gonna be murderers. Get in there!" "Why should I? Huh? They shot at us, man. Those assholes deserve to die." "Bubba! Do it!" We coasted to the front glass of the cockpit and Bubba jumped in. The door handle could just be reached, but even after bracing his feet against the side, his head underwater, Bubba couldn't open it. I grabbed my gun and pumped the shells out. After a few adrenaline-filled jabs of the butt on the clear, thick casing, a crack formed. The next hit spread the crack further, and the last one pierced a hole. One of the pilots kicked at the hole's edges, and just as the helicopter sank, they both crawled out with faces painted in fear. The pilots told their superiors that they were trying to pierce a hole in our boat to slow us down. Bubba had to be dragged from the room by four policemen when he was told this. When he was gone, one of the pilot's told me that there was an engine malfunction, and Bubba's shot hadn't hit them at all. I never told Bubba that. We were charged with hunting out of season, and had our boat and guns confiscated along with a stiff fine. To this day, Bubba brings the whole thing up after a bottle of rum. He says we should have let them drown, even though I'm pretty sure he doesn't mean it. I look back sometimes and smile. Time has played with the facts, and already there are tales spoken by younger gunners that add glamour and twists to our experience. When Bubba had a stroke, and I was told he would not recover, I visited him in his last hours. Barely conscious, I recalled the story for him. I told him that he had downed the greatest bird of them all...that he would soon be sailing just inches above the crests of the waves, and that if I saw him I would lower my gun. Bubba smiled, squeezed my hand, and passed away. If I sit in my boat these days with a loaded gun across my knees and the hunting season happens to be closed...I can be sure there will be nothing flying that I can't eat.
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