I was really pissed off, and I said, "We'll discuss this after the jump."
She didn't respond to that and said, "We're starting to assemble for boarding."
I saw that our group was drifting toward the big aircraft. They seemed like a happy, excited bunch of idiots, in stark contrast to paratroopers, who look appropriately somber and purposeful as they form up to board. Paratroopers have a mission; skydivers are having fun. I'm not having fun. So I must be on a mission.
Actually, I was carrying my Glock 9mm in a zippered pocket and Kate was carrying her .40 caliber Glock. Someday, someone will explain to me why the cops and the FBI agents carry the same make of gun, but in different calibers. What if I ran out of ammunition during a shoot-out? "Kate, can I borrow some bullets?" "Sorry, John, my bullets are bigger than yours. Would you like some gum?"
Anyway, we didn't need our guns for skydiving, but, as per regs, we couldn't leave our weapons in the motel, or even in the trunk of our car. If you lose a weapon or it's stolen, your career is in serious trouble. So we were packing heat. Hey, there could be bears in the drop zone.
We continued toward the aircraft, and Kate took my hand and said to me, "Let's just make this one jump and pass on the next two."
"We paid for three, we'll make three."
"Let's decide when we get on the ground." She suggested, "I think I'd rather go antiquing."
"I'd rather jump out of an airplane than go antiquing."
She smiled, and squeezed my hand. She knew I was still pissed. Sometimes you milk these things for all they're worth and hold out for a blow job. Other times, like now, you just let it go. So I said, "We'll play it by ear."
A guy from the skydiving club was standing on the tarmac marshaling people into their jump groups. As I understood this, there would be two large groups exiting en masse to attempt a prearranged join-up formation. They were trying for some sort of record. Like Biggest Circle of Flying Assholes.
Kate had enough experience to join either of the groups, but I did not, so Kate and I would be jumping together along with some single jumpers and a few groups of two or three. Although I technically didn't require a jumpmaster any longer for my solo jumps, Kate would be my jumpmaster so we could practice some relative work during the free falls. Someday, I would be qualified to be part of a big hook-up formation that looked like a flying eggbeater.
I actually enjoyed the free fall without the work and concentration of trying to maneuver to hold hands with strangers. The air resistance as I fell at over a hundred miles an hour allowed me to position my body and arms to slow myself, or speed up, even do loops and rolls, and it felt more like flying than falling. In truth, it made me feel more like Superman than I already did.
The guy from the skydiving club was now standing at the rolling stairs that led to the big cargo opening in the rear of the fuselage. He was holding a clipboard, checking off names as the jumpers assembled.
As we walked toward the clipboard guy, I asked Kate, "Are we in first class?"
"We are, until we step out of the plane."
We approached the clipboard guy and I announced, "Corey. Mr. and Mrs."
He consulted his chart and said, "Okay... here you are. A third-stage two-jump. You can board now. Go all the way forward. Row Two."
"Is this a lunch flight?"
Clipboard guy looked at me, but did not respond to my question. He said to me, "Have a good and safe jump, Mr. Corey."
How about a safe landing?
Kate led the way up the portable metal stairs, and I followed her into the dark cavernous cabin.
When I'm flying in a commercial airliner, I always like to see nuns and clergy on board. But parachutes are good, too. Nevertheless, I suddenly had a bad feeling about something. I've been in law enforcement for over twenty years, and it sounds cliched, but I've developed a sixth sense for trouble and danger. And that's what I felt now.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kate led the way toward the front of the aircraft.
The windows, as I said, had been covered with aluminum skin, so it was darker in the cabin than I expected. A few dim light fixtures were mounted along the sidewalls, which revealed that the interior had been stripped bare to convert this airliner into a cargo plane. Apparently we would be sitting on the floor, like cargo.
The only other light in the cabin was sunlight coming in from the cargo opening and from the cockpit windshield up ahead. I noticed that there was no door leading to the cockpit; just an open passageway through the interior bulkhead. The required anti-hijacking door was not there--and why should it be? If we got hijacked, we could all jump out of the plane.
On the floor I saw cargo rings, which I guess were used to secure pallets but that now secured nylon straps for us to hang on to.
The cabin was only about ten feet wide, which was considered a wide-body aircraft in nineteen-fifty-something. The first four skydivers had already boarded and were sitting abreast on the floor facing us, packed together across the full width of the airliner's cabin.
There were row numbers taped to the walls and we easily found Row 2, which was logically just aft of Row 1.
Kate asked me, "Port or starboard?"
"I'll have a port." I added, "You take the window seat."
She sat near the wall on the left side, and I sat beside her, with my hand on the cargo strap, and said, "Fasten your seat belt."
"Are you done with the stupid remarks?"
"Seat in the full upright position for takeoff."
The two people who had boarded after us--a guy and a girl--sat in their places on the right side of Row 2, and the rows farther aft in the cabin started filling up.
I looked around the cabin. The cargo opening, as I'd noticed when we entered, was very wide, but now I also noticed that there was no door--just that large opening. I brought this to Kate's attention, and she explained that they had to remove the big cargo door for this jump because it couldn't be operated in flight--it was a clamshell that opened outward--and the smaller hinged entry door next to it was only one person wide. She further explained, "The group jumpers need all the space they can get to exit en masse."
I thought about that and said, "It's going to be cold and noisy in here without a door."
"Very noisy." She added cheerily, "I won't be able to hear you."
"Sit closer." I asked, "Hey, what's the name of that Italian guy?"
"What Italian guy?"
"The one whose name we're supposed to yell when we jump."
"John, what--?"
"You know... Ah! Geronimo!"
A few heads turned toward us, and Kate slid closer to the wall and stared at where the window used to be.
The jumpers continued to board. My thirty-five-pound parachute rig was making my back ache in this position, and my butt, which is all muscle and no fat, was starting to feel the hard floor. This totally sucks.
It's like skiing--you know? A long trip to the middle of nowhere, lots of expensive equipment, surrounded by fanatical half-wits who think they're having a great time waiting around forever; then a few minutes of adrenaline rush--or pure terror--and then it's over. Sort of like sex.
My first wife, Robin, who was also a lawyer (I like screwing lawyers for a change), was a skier, but it was a starter marriage of short duration, so I never got beyond the beginner slopes before she skied happily out of my life. Now I'm a friggin' skydiver. I mean, I've spent most of my professional life in dangerous situations--is this any way to relax?
"John?"
"Yes, darling?"
"One jump, then we're going home."
"Sweetheart, I want to log three jumps from a DC-7B today."
"I am spraining my ankle when I land, and you and a paramedic will help me into the car."
I was feeling a wee bit guilty now, so I said, "No, no. I really enjoy this. I'll behave. Let's make this fun."
"You embarrassed me in front of Craig."
"Who's Craig?" Oh, the guy who wants to fuck you. "I'll apolog
ize to Craig when we all go out for drinks tonight." I'll corner him in the men's room. That's my specialty. "Okay? Hey, I'm looking forward to the apres-jump party. Great group of skydivers."
She looked at me closely for signs of insincerity.
I saw Craig coming toward us, walking between the skydivers. He was some sort of officer in the club, and thus he had official responsibilities that included checking to see that everyone was happy, seated properly, and hadn't forgotten their parachute.
I wanted to make amends to Craig--and to Kate--for my uncalled-for remark, so I shouted out to him, "Hey, Craig! Let's get this bird airborne. We're gonna have a helluva jump today, bro!"
Craig gave me a weak smile and continued on into the cockpit.
I looked at Kate, who had her eyes closed. I made a mental note in my logbook: Have Craig followed.Possible terrorist.
The guy with the clipboard came into the cabin to check names and groupings. I mean, what happened to personal responsibility? If you don't know where the hell you belong or who you're supposed to be with, maybe you shouldn't be doing this.
Anyway, the clipboard guy got to the front rows and double-checked our names and positioning.
Craig came out of the cockpit and asked clipboard guy, "How's it look, Joe?"
Joe replied, "We have two dropouts and one last-minute sign-on for a total of sixty-three jumpers."
"Okay," said Craig, "we'll probably lose a few for the second jump."
What?
Craig continued, "The pilot is ready when we are."
Joe, I noticed, wasn't wearing a jumpsuit or a parachute, so I deduced that he was staying on the ground with the manifest, just in case something not good happened. I pictured him crossing off sixty-three names as the aircraft plummeted to the ground. Bad luck for that last-minute sign-on. Meanwhile, one of the no-shows shows up out of breath and says, "I got stuck in traffic. Am I too late?" Fate.
Joe was off the plane now, and Craig started for his place among the group jumpers, but then turned to me and said, "I assume you will be making all three jumps today, John."
I replied enthusiastically, "Hey, Craig, I'm here to jump!" I informed him, "I'm buying you a beer tonight."
Craig glanced at Kate, then turned and found his place on the floor near the cargo opening. He wasn't wearing his helmet, and I noticed he had a big bald spot on the back of his head.
In fact, most people weren't wearing their helmets at this point, though a few people had put them on. One guy had boarded with his helmet on, and instead of goggles, which most skydivers wear, he had a tinted helmet shield that was pulled down. As a cop, things like motorcycle helmets with tinted face shields or ski masks automatically grab my attention. But I wasn't in full cop mode and I made little note of it.
There was an undercurrent of babble in the cabin, punctuated by occasional laughter. I noticed that Craig was chatting up a very pretty lady sitting next to him. The pig probably made up the jump order so he could hold her hand on the way down.
I had been a bachelor most of my adult life, and I really didn't miss it--well... sometimes maybe just a little--but I certainly didn't envy Craig, who I'm sure was lonely, and who probably couldn't get laid in a cathouse with a fistful of fifties. Kate has really made my life... more... very... incredibly... totally...
"John."
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"I love you."
"And I love you." I squeezed her hand.
Kate had never been married, so she had no way of knowing if I was a normal husband. This has been good for our marriage.
I heard one of the engines firing up, then another, then the last two. I pictured Cindy in the cockpit saying to Ralph, "So, like, all those propeller things are spinning round and round."
And Ralph replies, "Very good, sweetie. Now we have to taxi to the runway. Take your feet off the brakes, sweetheart."
And sure enough, we began moving. The noise of the engines was deafening, and the aircraft seemed to be squeaking and squealing as it turned toward the taxiway.
I was close enough to the cockpit to hear Cindy asking, "Ralph, can I take off from here?"
"No, darling, wait until we get to the runway."
Maybe I was imagining that.
We taxied for a minute or two, then turned and stopped at the end of the runway. Cindy ran up the engines (remembering to keep her feet on the brakes), and the old plane vibrated and strained forward like a sprinter, ready to make the dash down the long stretch of blacktop.
Was that a miss in one of the engines? Did I hear a backfire? Cliff, turn up your hearing aid.
I could hear some radio traffic coming from the cockpit, and Cindy replied, "Hi, Tower. Can I, like, use the whole runway?"
Okay, just kidding.
The aircraft began to roll, gathering momentum, and I could feel it lighten as it approached takeoff speed.
Before I knew it, the aircraft nosed up and we were airborne.
Cindy shouted, "Ralph! I did it! I did it! What do I do now?"
The aircraft nosed up and we held on to the strap. Then Kate put her arm around my shoulder, drew me close, and said in my ear, "I like sharing things with you."
Right. Next time we'll share one of my cigars.
The DC-7B banked to the right, gaining altitude as it began a wide corkscrew turn. The drop zone, which was a big, hopefully bear-free meadow, was not far from the west side of the airport, so most of this thirty-minute flight would be vertical until we reached 14,000 feet.
I noticed that the loadmaster was sitting near the open cargo door with some kind of intercom phone in his hand, which I assumed he used to communicate with the cockpit, so he could let them know when everyone had jumped.
I wondered if Cindy knew this was a skydive. I mean, I could imagine her coming into the cabin and being startled to see that everyone was gone, then running back into the cockpit shouting, "Ralph! Cliff! Everyone fell out of the plane!"
Kate put her lips to my ear and said, "It's nice to see you smiling." Then she gave me a wet willy.
I squeezed her hand and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
Now that I was up here, I was actually looking forward to the free fall and the nice easy parachute float to the ground. It really is spectacular, and statistically less dangerous than doing what I did for a living.
CHAPTER NINE
The cabin was very cold now, and everyone had put on their helmets and gloves.
I turned toward Kate and blew a cloud of breath toward her. She blew a cloud back and smiled.
The aircraft droned on, continuing its slow spiral climb.
"John?"
"Yes, darling?"
She put her mouth to my ear and said, "Review the maneuvering sequence we discussed. Ask me any questions you might have."
"What color is your parachute?"
"When you stabilize, you need to watch me."
"I love watching you."
"You weren't watching me last time."
"Have we done this before?"
"We don't want to collide in free fall."
"Bad."
"We'll do some relative work, as discussed, then I will initiate the separation."
Same as my last wife did. Divorced in six months.
"We'll both deploy our chutes at twenty-five hundred feet. Keep an eye on your altimeter." She reminded me, "And you need to keep at least a hundred feet between us. We don't want our chutes getting tangled."
I patted the emergency hook knife on my harness and said, "I can cut you loose."
She continued, patiently going over a few other small details having to do mostly with safety and not dying.
Kate, I understood, was very brave to jump with a novice. New guys caused accidents. Accidents caused certain death. I assured her, "I got it. I got it."
We both retreated into silence as the aircraft continued climbing.
I glanced at the digital altimeter on my left wrist. Ten thousand feet.
How the hell did I get
here? Well, I went to skydiving school, which was my first mistake.
That was last November, after Kate and I had successfully resolved the curious case of Bain Madox--the previously mentioned evil genius--who wanted to start a nuclear war, but who was otherwise a pleasant man.
Our bosses at the ATTF had suggested we take a few weeks' leave time as a token of their appreciation for us saving the planet from nuclear annihilation. Also, this was a very sensitive case, so the bosses wanted us out of town and away from the press. Kate suggested Florida, and I started packing my Speedo. Then the thing about skydiving came up, and without getting into that interesting discussion, I soon found myself in a Holiday Inn across the street from a skydiving school in Deland, Florida.
Deland, like everything that has to do with this sport, is in the middle of nowhere, far from the beach and palm trees that I imagined.
Kate took a ten-day refresher course, and I discovered that she actually holds a United States Parachute Association "C" license, which qualifies her to be a jumpmaster. I wish I'd known this before I slept with her.
As for me, I took a two-week basic course that started, thankfully, in the classroom but progressed rapidly to 14,000 feet and something called the accelerated free fall, which is two big guys named Gordon and Al jumping out alongside me, and the three of us falling through the open sky together with them holding on to my grippers. I got sixty seconds of instruction before they pushed off, waved, and left me falling through space.
I've made maybe a dozen weekend jumps since that wonderful two weeks in Florida, and I've earned my USPA "A" license, which allows me to make solo skydives and begin some basic relative work with a jumpmaster, who today would be the lucky lady next to me.
The prop engines changed pitch, and I looked at my altimeter. Fourteen thousand feet.
I commented, "We're at cruising altitude. They'll begin the beverage service soon."
"We're actually leaving the aircraft soon."
In fact, the loadmaster shouted for those in the first group to get up and get ready.
There was a flurry of activity in the cabin as about twenty skydivers nearest the exit door stood up and adjusted their equipment, then began their rehearsed shuffle toward the open cargo door.
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