CHAPTER TWO
Cassiopeia did not want to hear that.
Not in the least.
The plane continued to buck. Nothing about this scenario seemed good. Her gaze darted to the altimeter, and she noted that they were approaching a thousand meters.
“Why are we going up?” she asked.
Cotton was fighting the plane’s controls, which seemed to resist his every command. “Beats the hell out of down. Unstrap and go back and see if there are any parachutes.”
She stared at him with disbelief, but knew better than to argue. He was doing the best he could to keep them in the air, and for that she was grateful. She released the buckle and slipped out of the shoulder straps.
The plane lurched hard.
She grabbed the back of her seat, then stumbled into the rear compartment. Benches lined either side of the open space. Other than those, nothing else was there.
“It’s empty,” she called out.
“Look inside the benches,” Cotton said.
She lunged for the right side of the plane and dropped to her knees. She grabbed the bench and lifted the long cushion, which was hinged. Inside lay one parachute. She freed it from the compartment, then shifted to the other side and opened the bench. Empty.
Only one parachute?
Come on.
* * *
Cotton kept fighting.
Roll and pitch seemed responsive, but it took effort to maneuver. He had to be careful to avoid a stall. He retracted the flaps, which increased speed. Planes were judged on what they carried, where they could go, and how fast they got there. Under the circumstances, this one was doing great.
The RPG had damaged the wing and control surfaces. Fuel was spilling out from the carnage, draining part of the half-full tanks they’d had at takeoff. The engine continued to struggle, the prop not so much biting as gumming the air. The yoke had gone loose between his legs, which meant he’d probably cracked the cowl flaps on the climb. But he managed to level off with positive trim at just over four thousand feet.
All along they’d continued southwest.
No more projectiles had come from the ground, which he hoped meant they’d crossed into Poland. But that was impossible to know, as nothing but trees stretched below.
The control stick wrenched from his hand and the plane stopped flying. The gauges went crazy. Pressure and oil indicators dropped to zero. The plane bucked like a bull.
“There’s only one chute,” Cassiopeia called out.
“Put it on.”
“Excuse me?”
“Put the damn thing on.”
* * *
Cassiopeia had never touched a parachute before, much less donned one. The last thing on earth she’d ever anticipated doing in her life was leaping from a plane.
The floor beneath her vibrated like an earthquake. The engine was trying to keep them up, but gravity was fighting hard to send them down. She slipped her arms through the shoulder harness, brought the remaining strap up between her legs, and clicked the metal buckles into place.
“Open the side door,” he called out. “Hurry. I can’t hold this thing up much longer.”
She reached for the latch and slid the panel on its rails, locking it into place. A roar of warm air rushed inside. Below, the ground raced by, a really long way away.
“We have to jump,” Cotton said over the noise.
Had she heard right?
“There’s no choice. I can’t land this thing, and it’s not going to stay in the air any longer.”
“I can’t jump.”
“Yes, you can.”
No, she couldn’t. Bad enough she was inside this plane. That had taken all she had. But to jump out? Into open sky?
Cotton released his harness and rolled out of the chair. The plane, now pilotless, pitched forward, then back. He staggered over and wrapped his arms around her, connecting his hands between the chute and her spine.
They faced each other.
Close.
He wiggled them both to the door.
“Cotton—”
“Put your hand on the D-ring,” he said to her. “Count to five, then pull it.”
Her eyes signaled the terror coursing through her.
“Like you told me once, when I panicked,” he said. “It’s just you and me here, and I got you.”
He kissed her.
And they fell from the plane.
* * *
Cotton had jumped before, but never in tandem clinging to another person without a harness, with no goggles, and at such a low altitude.
Once free of the cabin they immediately began spinning. A jet of burning air whipped away his voice and deafened his ears. A sour dryness scraped his throat and washed his eyes. He felt like he was inside a tumble dryer. But he had to keep his wits and hope that Cassiopeia did the same and remembered to count to five, then pull the rip cord. No way he could do it for her, as it was taking every ounce of strength he had to keep his hands locked around her body.
Their spinning lessened and he spotted the Airvan as it plunged downward. They needed to be as far away from that disaster as possible, which did not appear to be a problem.
Suddenly his head whipped back and they were both tugged hard as Cassiopeia apparently made it to five. He saw the chute emerge from the pack, its lines going taut as the canopy caught air. They were both wrenched upward, then they settled, slowly dropping downward in a now quiet morning.
“You okay?” he asked in her ear.
She nodded.
“I’m going to need you to reach up and work the lines and steer us,” he said.
“Tell me what to do.”
He was impressed with how she was holding up. This had to be the worst nightmare for someone with acrophobia.
“Pull hard with your left arm.”
She followed his instruction, which banked their descent in a steeper approach. He was angling for a clearing he’d spotted, free of trees. Hitting the ground there seemed far preferable to being raked by limbs.
“More,” he said.
She complied.
But they weren’t moving far enough toward the target.
And they were running out of air.
He decided to try it himself and released his grip from behind her, quickly grabbing one set of lines, then the other, using his full weight to shift the canopy and alter their trajectory.
Only a few seconds remained in their descent.
He was holding on for dear life, his body twisting with their every movement, only ten fingers between him and plunging to his death. Cassiopeia recognized the threat and wrapped her arms around his waist and held tight.
He appreciated the gesture.
And kept working the lines.
They cleared the trees.
“When we hit, fold your knees,” he said. “Don’t fight the impact. Just let it happen.”
The ground came up fast.
“Let go of me,” he yelled.
She did.
And they pounded the ground.
She was pulled with the canopy. He fell away from her, landing on his right side, then rolling across the rocky earth.
He stopped.
And exhaled, settling his jangled nerves.
Nothing seemed broken.
Amazing that his nearly fifty-year-old body could still take a hit.
Cassiopeia lay on the ground, the canopy settling beyond her.
In the distance he heard an explosion.