Nelson DeMille: The Lion

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.

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.