The Rescue(72)

“Maybe we should consider a different approach,” said Decker. “Something we can do during the day.”

“Like what? It’s flat on all sides.”

“When was the last time you went skydiving?”





PART THREE





CHAPTER FORTY

Decker sat facing aft on the floor of the Cessna 182, between the pilot and starboard-side door. Pierce sat across from him, his knees tucked into the drop bag attached to his chest. He shook his head with a grin.

“What?” said Decker.

“I’m just trying to figure out how I let you talk me into this,” Pierce said over the steady buzz of the engine.

“You volunteered. Remember?”

“This is not one of your better plans.”

Decker shrugged his shoulders through the skydiving rig. “At least it’s not my worst.”

The pilot tapped his shoulder. “We’re about five miles out!”

He checked the Garmin Foretrex 601 attached to his right wrist. They were 5.3 miles from the drop zone, at an altitude of ten thousand feet. The plan was to jump one mile out and fall the rest of the way, deploying their parachutes around a thousand feet over the target. The tactic mimicked a military-style high-altitude low-opening (HALO) jump but took place at a lower altitude, so they would not require the use of oxygen.

Decker gave the pilot a thumbs-up and scooted closer to the door. At their current speed, they’d reach the jump mark in just under two minutes. Thirty seconds out, the pilot would cut the aircraft’s speed in half, to seventy-five miles per hour, ensuring a smooth jump.

The pilot still looked unsure about the mission. He’d initially balked at the proposal, obviously uncomfortable dropping two strangers over private land, but a thick envelope of cash representing a sizable chunk of Decker’s reserve money had gotten them off the runway. If the pilot backed out now, there wasn’t much they could do, other than pull a gun on him—which was exactly what Decker would do to ensure the mission continued.

He’d stowed a pistol in one of his zippered cargo pockets; it would be the only weapon readily available to him until they hit the ground. They had broken down their rifles to fit inside the drop bags, along with the rest of the gear that would have ended in a 911 call by the pilot. Tactical vests. Drop holsters. Spare rifle magazines. Night-vision goggles. The kind of stuff you brought to a gunfight.

A minute later, the aircraft slowed significantly, and he opened the aircraft door, flooding the cabin with cool, mildly turbulent air. Below the exposed wingtip, a deep orange sunset lit the horizon. It would be considerably darker on the ground, the sun having already disappeared to anyone at ground level.

Decker kept his eyes on the stunning, distant view for now, not wanting to raise his heart rate any higher. Even though he had a few hundred free-fall jumps under his belt, it had been a while since his last drop, and he was well aware of the limitation imposed by that gap. Skydiving wasn’t complicated, but he could have used a little more time going over the equipment and procedures. Pierce said it was like riding a bike, but a bike didn’t go 120 miles per hour toward the ground. The margin of error would be minimal out there.

“Thirty seconds!” said the pilot.

He confirmed the pilot’s announcement on his Garmin and edged forward until his legs dangled out of the fuselage. A glance between the Garmin and the altimeter on his left wrist verified that they read the same—for now. Once he stabilized in the air, he’d rely on the altimeter for altitude and the Garmin for directions. Pierce had insisted that they use both, since the GPS unit’s altitude refresh rate was slower than the dedicated altimeter. It all circled back to margin of error.

“See you on the ground,” said Pierce, slapping his shoulder.

“Not if I see you first,” said Decker, mindlessly repeating one of the oldest, and possibly lamest, jokes in the military.

Decker took several deep breaths, focusing on the serenity of a sunset view few people would ever experience. He had mostly calmed his mind when the pilot tapped his helmet.

“We’re over the mark! You’re clear to jump!”

He nodded and pulled himself clear of the fuselage, where he was immediately whisked away from the aircraft. Decker tumbled a few times before somewhat steadying in a belly-to-earth position, the air rattling his body. Over the next few seconds, he wobbled like a newbie as he experimented with arm and leg positions. By the time Pierce appeared in his peripheral vision to the right, Decker had stabilized his descent.

His eyes drifted to the altimeter, noting that they’d already fallen two thousand feet. At this rate, without deploying his parachute, he’d hit the ground in under a minute. Ticktock. He glanced at the Garmin, the illuminated arrow telling him that he was pointed roughly ninety degrees in the wrong direction. A few minor upper-arm adjustments turned him toward the drop zone. Now for the hard part—gliding toward the drop zone.

During his skydiving heyday, he could track through the air with a one-to-one glide ratio, which meant for every foot dropped vertically, he glided the same distance laterally. Tonight, he’d be lucky to see a one-to-two ratio, which meant he needed to start tracking toward the drop zone immediately. Pierce simultaneously came to the same conclusion, sweeping his arms back and rocketing forward at an alarming rate. Decker hesitated, fully aware that every second he delayed would cost him distance on the ground.