A Knife Edge

THIRTY-NINE

I dreamed of silent mushroom explosions, puffed-up orange balls of dust and flame, but the specifics had gone by the time I opened my eyes, a damp sheet wound around me clinging like Gulf seaweed. Before Sergeant Fester's Humvee rumbled up to the front door, I'd showered and dressed and inhaled a large can of beans I found in a kitchen cupboard. It was cold and wet and miserable outside. I threw on a jacket and walked out into the rain.

We drove in silence out to Pope AFB, pulling up to a building I knew from the old days. Seeing it again made my nuts go light and my feet heavy. I walked into supply. Other men and women were being issued equipment; most were eager, a few quiet, shitting themselves. I was handed a flight suit, helmet, O₂ bottle, and the MC-5 ram-air chute. I'd used MC-5s before on numerous occasions and, unlike Ruben Wright, had walked away every time.

I sat through the one-on-one briefing Fester conducted via a whiteboard and took mental notes in silence. Emergency procedures — malfunctions, cutaways, entanglements… all the things that could go wrong and sometimes did. Fester covered off jump commands as well as the oxygen system. There was also a nav board refresher — the instruments strapped to the chest that facilitate navigation at night and in all weather conditions.

I'd done almost as many jumps as Sergeant Fester but there was no apology for the spoon-feeding. The first jump would be from 10,000 feet with minimal equipment. The second — if everything went well with the first, he informed me reassuringly — would entail a group exit from 25,000 feet with a full hundred and seventy-five pounds of equipment, including survival gear, M4 carbine, plus ballast to simulate ammunition. On this and all subsequent jumps, I'd be required to land within twenty-five yards of the group leader — Fester. This was leap frogging the course. I knew that and so did Fester. If he knew why we were in such a big hurry, he wasn't saying and I wasn't offering.

A group of us walked across the apron to the rear end of a C-130. On this first jump, Fester and I were the only pair exiting at 10,000 feet, and so we entered last.

The ramp at the back of the plane came up, blocking out the natural light, and a low growl grew from somewhere, from within my belly, in fact. After a minute or so, the plane's turbines joined in. No escape. My fingertips were going numb, there were pins and needles in my toes, and my mouth filled with saliva that tasted metallic. My body was going through its own preflight checks. My breathing became shallow as my heart rate soared. A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead into an eyeball, causing my eyelids to blink rapidly. The loadmaster seated opposite blew me a kiss.

On the flight deck, the pilot edged the throttles forward and we began to move. A few twists and turns later and we were screaming down the runway on the takeoff roll. The aircraft rotated and climbed away at a steep angle. My stomach reacted: I vomited into the O₂ mask.

The Hercules continued to climb, leveling off at 10,000 feet. Ten minutes later, the red light began to flash as the ramp came down and the aircraft filled with the roar of its own jet blast and slipstream. I felt a slap on my helmet. From the corner of my right eye, I saw Fester's boots. The sergeant was standing beside me. I didn't think I could move.

I heard Fester scream in my ear, “Get up, mister!” I felt a hand under my armpit, lifting. I stood and swayed while he checked my gear again. “You can do this, sir,” he yelled. “You've trained for it. You've done it.”

I thought for sure my legs were going to crumple beneath me. I took a step and then another, walking backward toward the edge of the ramp, knowing nothing but air lay behind if not this step, then the next.

“You're not fit for this,” said Sergeant Fester over a Heineken in the club.

I didn't reply.

“You might get to where you have to go but then you're going to freeze up.” He looked me straight in the eye, searching for clues. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“Whatever you think you have to do about it.”

Fester didn't answer right away. He thought about it, drank his beer, and thought about it some more. Waiting for enlightenment, I guessed.

“What if I do nothing?” he asked.

“That's an approach.”

“You need to see someone.”

“When the job's done.”

“That's the point, ain't it? What if you can't get the job done?”

Fester had seen the yellow bile bubble out from under my oxy mask and streak my webbing and BDU. He'd seen my hands shake. For a moment up there, my knees had almost caved. I thanked the God of Clean Underwear that He had at least heard my prayer.

Fester said, “Jumping when every part of you says don't takes a lot of guts.” He had another long conversation with his beer before getting back to me. “I'm going to pass you,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “even though you've got a mountain of fear to climb every time you get in a plane.” He ordered another round by pointing his chin at the enlisted man behind the bar. “I'd still get help if I was you.”

“I'll buy a book,” I said.