Nelson DeMille: The Lion

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.

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 apologize 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!"