"No, you're the only civilian on the jump. If something goes wrong, the others will catch you." Roam clapped Remo on the back. Remo was not amused and said so.
"What's eating you?" Roam asked.
"Never mind. Let's say this wasn't what I expected." The flight was short. When the pilot called back that they were over the drop zone, Bill Roam worked his way forward to the cockpit. He looked out the window. Down on the desert floor, a worm of purple smoke lifted lazily. It showed perfectly against the color of the sand. He spotted the green-and-white tent where the ground camera crew was positioned, and a pair of APC's. "Try to find the camera ship," Roam told the pilot.
"Got it." The pilot pointed to a tiny red-and-white dot at one o'clock. It was the Bell Ranger helicopter.
Roam nodded. "Okay. Radio the other pilots to drop their gates when I give the word."
"Roger." The pilot spoke into his microphone. Then he handed it to Roam, saying. "You're all set."
Bill Roam watched the mountainous expanse of the Yuma Desert roll down below.
"This is your jumpmaster," Bill Roam said in the mike. "Stand up!"
Instantly, in each Hercules transport, airmen jumped to their feet and formed three lines down the center of the cargo bay.
"Hook up!" Roam called.
The airmen attached their chute lines to the nylon static lines suspended the length of the cargo belly. "Drop gates!"
As the grinding sound of hydraulics came from in back, Bill Roam saw the two leading transports start to open up. Then he called "Jump!" and rushed back to the cargo belly.
"You're on," he told Remo, as wind rushed into the cargo bay. "Happy landings!"
The men went out single file, clutching their chest packs. Once out, the wind whipped them to one side. Their drag lines pulled taut from static-line tension.
So rapidly did they jump that the last man in each transport was in free-fall before the first chutes deployed. The first man in the lead plane was Colonel Frederick Davis. He had served his country for over ten years in peacetime and he was never prouder of himself than on this day as he led his men into cinematic greatness. He didn't notice that his back chute hadn't deployed. He twisted his head around and saw that, above him, his men were falling, their arms jerking like the legs of beetles that had been turned on their backs.
He realized their chutes weren't yet open. And, with a shock, that his hadn't deployed either.
"Goddamn cheap Japanese equipment!" he snapped. He yanked the D-ring of his reserve chute.
"Jesus Christ!" The ring had pulled free of the tab. He threw the useless ring away and grabbed at the tab with both hands. He pulled. The tab tore free like cheesecloth, leaving a tiny shred. Cursing, Colonel Davis pinched at that little shred with his fingertips. It was all that stood between him and a hard, hard landing.
Colonel Davis was so absolutely enthralled by that ragged, frayed bit of cloth that time seemed to stand still. The piece of frayed nylon became his whole world. He pulled at it until it was down to three threads. And even though it was hopeless, he pulled at those too.
But time wasn't standing still-not when you're falling at terminal velocity.
Colonel Frederick Davis struck the Yuma Desert so hard he bounced four feet. He was only the first of many. Remo Williams was the last to leave his plane by a scant second. He felt a tug as the drag line, still attached to the static line, pulled free. It felt weaker than he expected. But he wasn't worried.
He began to worry when he realized that although there were approximately five hundred airmen freefalling in nine lines that stretched for nearly two miles above the desert floor, he wasn't seeing any parachutes. Including his own.
Remo went for his D-ring. It tore free of the tab. Remo threw the tab away and clawed at the folds of his reserve chute. The canvas separated and a billowing eruption of white silk spewed in front of him.
The updraft filled the chute. It turned into a white bell, as perfect as a big silk flower.
Remo vented a gusty sigh of relief. The sigh was short-lived as Remo realized that while the parachute was floating gracefully above him, he continued dropping like a stone.
The shroud lines had pulled free of their anchorage. Remo looked down and saw a gentle puff of sand. It looked like smoke. Another puff followed it. And another. And then, as the first concentration of bodies reached the ground, there came a silent spattering of puffs, which repeated until the beige desert floor erupted into a pocked lunar landscape, and Remo realized that he was witnessing cold-blooded, wholesale murder in which he was simply the last to die.
Chapter 13
The waitress at the Shilo Restaurant and Lounge set two steaming plates on the table.
The Master of Sinanju looked at the boiled brown rice on his plate and his face broke into a pleased smile. His hazel eyes shifted to Sheryl Rose's plate and his mouth wilted in prim disapproval.
Sheryl Rose let the succulent smell of steak fill her nostrils and start her mouth juices flowing. She regarded Chiun's brown rice with muted distaste.
"How can you eat that for breakfast?" she asked.
"How can you eat that at all?" Chiun snapped back.
"I'm a western gal. I was raised on steak and home fries for breakfast."
"It is a wonder you survived your childhood," Chiun sniffed disapprovingly.
"You're right welcome," Sheryl returned tartly. What a pain, she thought. Well, it beat holding up cue cards for the local news airheads.
"There's no one in the production office," Sheryl told Chiun after they had chewed their food in silence for several moments. "No call sheets either. 'Course, if there were, I'm not sure I could read them, But it is powerful odd, you know."
They were seated in a window booth with a spectacular panoramic view of farmland north of Yuma. Beyond, flat desert stretched for miles. It seemed to reach all the way to the Mohawk Mountains.
"I do know," Chiun returned. "There is something wrong with this so-called shooting schedule."
"You're not going to start with that Alexander stuff? I mean, you're not going to write it up that way."
"A true author does not discuss his work before he has written it," Chiun said flatly.
Sheryl sighed as she cut off a wedge of steak. Red juices ran freely, causing Chiun to look away. He noticed, high over the desert floor, three tiny dots. To his magnificent eyes, the dots resolved into bulky aircraft. Tiny figures began to drop from them like jimmies falling off an ice-cream cone.
"They are performing the parachute fall," Chiun said testily. "Why are we not there to observe it?"
Sheryl looked up. "What?"
"There," Chiun said, pointing. "They are doing it."
Sheryl squinched her gray eyes. "I don't see anything."
"Are you blind? They fill the sky."
"All I see are a couple of itty bitty dots."
"There are three of those. They are aircraft."
"If you say so," Sheryl said, returning to her steak. "I can't make out a dang thing."