Jumpers

JUMPERS

AUGUST 2021

By late afternoon, there were a lot of pictures and videos of two men, the ones John hadn't seen in time, who'd lost their grip or let go after the Moose was already several hundred feet above the ground. One videographer had helpfully circled the tiny figures in midair.

Another reporter mentioned the discovery of "human remains" in one of the Moose's wheel wells once the plane landed in Doha but didn't go into detail. Add up hundreds of pounds of metal and rubber, factor in the force of all that weight powered by hydraulics against a human body of just about any size, though, and only those lacking in imagination had any doubt about who won that contest.

John and Roni were too busy, initially, tending to the fallout from the stampede to see any of this. To their relief—because the stampede meant they still were low on supplies—most injuries were bruises and scuffs. A few gashes. John saw exactly one bullet wound, a clean through and through in the fleshy part of a man's thigh. John cleaned out the wound, patched the holes with duct tape, and gave the guy some antibiotics. He felt bad about the guy getting shot, but at least the man hadn't ended up as a smashed human blood balloon or crushed into the equivalent of strawberry jam.

Their CO took both John and Roni aside at the end of their shift. Word had come from the Marines on duty along the tarmac, who'd seen the whole thing. The CO thought they deserved a commendation. They declined, pointing out it would be bad press for the military if John Q. Public found out the Army brass were doling out rewards for shooting at civilians.

Besides, sir, Roni said, we're not the story. All these poor people who can't get out…they're the story.

The CO only nodded, unconvinced, mumbled something else about war being hell and then left to go do whatever COs with major logistical headaches do. They watched him go and then Roni said she was going for a walk. Don't take this the wrong way, but I just need to be alone .

Except what other way could he take it? They'd been in this together. She was the one who spilled the beans about him to Driver .

But what could he say? A jokey reference to Greta Garbo? She'd only roll her eyes. So, he said something like okay, have a nice walk or whatever.

After she left, he counted to fifteen. He really didn't want to chance seeing where she was headed. That was, if she was headed anywhere. The problem was, he thought he knew where she might be going.

And why did that bother him? They weren't a couple. Even if they had been , she ought to be able to talk to whomever she pleased, right? Besides, he wouldn't make for the best company at the moment anyway. In the end, he decided he didn't want to know one way or the other.

Stepping into the heat after the relative coolish funk of the med tent was still a smack in the face. His upper lip instantly pearled with sweat. He spied a crowd of civilians a short distance away, behind yellow police tape, like gawkers at a crime scene. There were also many more troops keeping watch. Once burned, twice shy, he supposed. Given the time difference, no one wanted a repeat of this afternoon to be broadcast while Americans sipped that first cup of coffee.

He stepped briskly toward the tarmac. He looked neither right nor left and most certainly didn't look toward the hangar where Driver and the others had been that afternoon.

The tarmac was clear. All the discarded clothes, shoes, bits of luggage, and mementos strewn about in the chaos were gone. Here, as around the med tent, the troop presence had been beefed up, too.

Pulling himself aboard a waiting van, he grabbed a lone window seat at the very back and dragged off his helmet. The sun was close to the horizon, just grazing the spiky peaks of distant mountains. He paused to watch the sun sink lower and lower until, suddenly, the sky turned a deep, bloody crimson as if the mountain's teeth had taken a bite out of the sun.

Stop. Shoving on his shades, he slumped and rested his forehead against the window, which was the temperature of warm milk, and quietly sweated, eyes closed, while the driver waited for others to board. As the van filled, the chatter swelled. Most revolved around resupply planes or which team had it worse, everyone trying to outdo one another like a bad Monty Python sketch.

Then, through the scrum, he heard someone—a med tech, he thought—pipe up, "Those guys are on some CIA thing. Marines, if what I heard is right, but not JSOC, so I dunno?—"

"Man, if they told you that," someone interrupted, "they'd have to kill you afterward. Those guys are hardcore Black Ops. No names, no nothing."

Except Flowers, Meeks, Harris. Driver's name was real, so he assumed the others must be accurate. Interested now, he remained still, head lolling and eyes closed, the better to eavesdrop.

Another guy: "Maybe they're only on loan, you know?"

"Or maybe," said someone else, "cuz this is what I heard, they were Marines, only they aren't now on account of something bad going down on a mis?—"

"How would you know?" opined a fourth man. "No one talks out loud about that kind of thing when it comes to Black Ops. Not unless you want to wake up next morning with a knife in your chest?—"

"That's what I'm saying," the other guy responded. "Telling you, something's going on. Friend works on the flight line. He said these Marines got some Afghans with them. Not Zeros, neither, and one's a woman , and they helped . Like with the Moose, picking off targets, one right after the other?—"

"Naw, man." The med tech, again. "Wasn't just them. It was a couple of docs, too."

Ohhh, eff me. His heart skipped a beat. His ears tingled. Switch out this van for a darkened stairway and a boy overhearing his mother say to his dad: We can't ignore this anymore. We have to talk about Casey.

Casey's fine. His father, testy, impatient. He's just a little ? —

"Really?" someone asked .

"Uh-huh," the tech said. "Some of the best shooting my buddy's ever seen. Said it was a miracle they didn't hit the plane."

"You know who?"

"Oh, yeah," the tech said—and then proved that, indeed, he did know, exactly, who'd been doing the shooting.

John stopped listening after that, perhaps because his heartbeat was thundering so loudly, he couldn't—or maybe he just didn't want to listen anymore. What was the point? This was only gossip, and gossip like this would pass eventually, though things never would be the same again. Not after what he'd done.

They'll just never look at you straight in the eye anymore, son, Stan had said. They're always going to be uncertain. They'll always be afraid. Everyone will figure that, no matter how much time has passed, it's in the blood.

He waited for the van to empty then tacked on another thirty seconds as the conga line of soldiers shuffled for the chow hall. When the last soldier had disappeared, he said good night to the driver and hustled in the opposite direction. He'd lost his appetite anyway.

His quarters were adjacent to the gym, where many of the Marines were bunked, and an open patch of improbably green grass the Afghan military had used as a soccer field. He slipped into the building through a side door. The facility was skeletal, but the halls were clean, dimly lit, and relatively quiet. The place was almost like a hotel if you overlooked the cinder block walls. Hurrying down the corridor to his quarters, he caught muted gabble and the occasional swell of what seemed like movie music seeping through a few closed doors. Probably something streamed from the internet which they were lucky to have on this side of the airport.

Roni's room was four doors down from his. He slowed then stopped in front of her door. He knew she wasn't there; she'd gone off to...well, whatever. She might be taking a walk, having a think.

Or looking for Driver.

And if she'd found him, what then? Were they merrily chatting away, catching up, getting all buddy-buddy? Were they not so merrily chatting away?

Were they doing something else?

Don't do it. He felt the quiet of the corridor, the silence pressing against the back of her door, as a prickle on his skin. She would never bring Driver here. Would she? If she had, would they be...

Stop it. Roni wasn't property. They weren't a couple. She could bring whomever she wanted to her quarters. Odds were excellent, however, that she hadn't. Someone would notice and regs were regs. Officers didn't go around sleeping with enlisted...which was kind of a laugh. Besides, Driver and the other Marines...or were they ex -Marines? Or Black Ops? Whatever. If they were no longer Marines, bringing Driver back to her quarters would be totally kosher.

Except Driver and his guys were hanging with a guy from the CIA. Mac would probably cut them a break for this afternoon, seeing as how his Afghan asset had joined in the fun. But slipping off with one of the regular soldiers, like Roni, someone who hadn't been read in, who wasn't part of whatever mission they were on? Mac would probably have them executed. Rubbed out. Quietly erased.

For God's sake. He really did watch too many movies. Suck it up. He gave the door a hard look. He just wouldn't do it, wouldn't even think about checking...

Oh, go on. He knew this voice. This wasn't his but belonged to a nasty imp who squatted in a dark closet at the back of his mind. Every so often, it slipped a few talons through a crack and pulled open that door just wide enough to whisper. The thing had taken up residence in his brain the night he huddled on that stair and eavesdropped on his parents. Go on, you loser. You know she's in there with someone who isn't you .

Turning a guilty look left and right, he put an ear to her door, closed his eyes, and listened...

And got back a whole lot of nothing. No voices, no squeaky springs, no moans or sighs. He listened so hard his ears buzzed.

Nothing.

The hall was so still he heard the squeak of his leather boots as he backed up to study he floor beneath her door. No light. If this were a movie, he'd pull out a paper clip or something and MacGyver his way inside. But what for? Roni wasn't there. He hoped. No, she wasn't , and she most certainly wasn't in bed with Driver somewhere else.

Yeah? The imp let go of a nasty snigger. You sure?

His own windowless room was bare bones: a cot with a thin mattress, a television on a bureau, a small bathroom with stall shower and sink. Shucking his gear, he peeled out of his uniform, kicked off his boots, skinned off socks and undershirt, worked his way to his skivvies, and started for the shower.

But then his gaze snagged on his laptop.

He stopped. He knew what he would look for. He also knew that finding it would be of no use to anyone, least of all himself .

Still… five minutes. That's what he told himself. Five minutes and then he could put this afternoon behind him.

He watched the videos of that Moose and those two jumpers maybe half a dozen times. Watching didn't get easier. Seeing them reminded him of something else, in fact.

His memories of 9/11 were sketchy. He'd been only fourteen and in school when the first plane hit just about the time they were finishing up the Pledge and moving on to morning announcements. His homeroom teacher had snapped on the TV and tuned to CNN. He remembered how his teacher had gasped and put a hand on her chest, like she was going to have a heart attack. A couple of the girls started whimpering. Mostly, they watched in goggle-eyed silent until the intercom buzzed, and the principal came on and said school was letting out. Buses were already out front. His house wasn't far, and he and his older brother always biked in together. They peddled home as fast as they could, and what his clearest memory of that ride was the set of his brother's face: the fury and something much uglier bubbling underneath...

He shoved the memory aside. Instead, plugging the search terms into Google, he kept clicking until he found the CNN video he was looking for: an interview with a woman in New York.

Her hair was black. Her New York accent was thick. She was crying hard, her mascara streaking her cheeks in black rivulets: And if you go over by there, you can see people jumping out the window. They're jumping out the windows right now.

As she said that, the cameraman panned to the North Tower—and was just in time to catch the moment the second plane hit.

He watched it again and again. Listened to the screams and the wails and the shrieks over and over. Then he ran more searches. The more he ran, the more he clicked and watched, clicked and watched, clicked and?—

Why are you doing this to yourself? He'd done what he could this afternoon. Forcing those people away from the plane had been the only play. If something had gotten sucked into an engine; if a civilian had managed to squirrel away a gun and started shooting at the plane…it could have been a catastrophe.

He needed sleep. His eyes, raw and gritty, burned. He checked the time. Four past midnight. What was he doing? He had to get up at six and report back for work at 0700. He wasn't hungry but knew he should eat. The chow hall would be empty. If he was lucky, there'd be a couple of MREs lying around. Probably the crappy ones no one liked. Forcing down the veggie omelet was an exercise in masochism, but he was past caring. All he needed was calories .

This is not your fault. Those falling men, those jumpers, that boy who was crushed...They aren't on you. You did your best.

"Take a shower," he said, aloud, reaching to close his laptop. But then his gaze snagged on a title in a list of his most recent search. A documentary he'd never seen: 9/11 The Falling Man .

Don't. His finger rested on his trackpad. Don't do this to yourself. Don't click.

And then, the imp: Go on. You deserve this. You've got a lot more blood on your hands than just those people from today. So, go on, you loser.

Three guesses what he did.

Sometime after 0200.

He stood, head bent, both hands pressed against one side of his shower stall. Hot water gushed over his shoulders and thrummed against the back of his throbbing skull. Steam rose in plumes; the shower sluiced dirt from his body. The water swirling down the drain changed from brick red to beige to clear. The sound of water was thunderous yet couldn't drown out the voice of the photographer from that damn documentary, what he'd said: Like a sack of cement . That was the sound. When those jumpers hit, it was just like a sack of cement.

Get out. His fingertips were prunes. He was clean. He was also past exhaustion. How he was still upright was a bit of a miracle. He should go to bed. But he couldn't make himself leave, hadn't the energy to turn off the water, never mind pull aside the curtain. So, he leaned his forehead against slick tile and let the wall hold him up. The bathroom was filled with fine mist and for a brief moment, it was almost as if he'd stepped aside from time and this world and was, instead, some futuristic traveler in a capsule just popping by for a visit. Out there was real life, one which demanded that he dry off, get some sleep because, in the immortal words of Scarlett O'Hara, tomorrow was another?—

The curtain suddenly billowed. The movement was slight, but he felt it and then just as his brain was catching up with that, a sudden chill sliced through steam as the curtain was pulled aside—and then all he could think of Vivian Leigh screaming her head off as Tony Perkins, in drag, plunged that knife?—

"Roni?" He must've left the door unlocked. "Roni," he said, "you shouldn't…" Embarrassed, he tried backing up and covering himself with crossed hands at the same time. "Roni, what are you?—"

"Shh." Her feet were bare. Her body was swathed in a light blue terry cloth robe knotted at the waist. Tugging at the knot, she let the robe slide from her shoulders before slipping into the shower and under the gush of hot water .

"Roni." His windpipe narrowed to a straw. His gaze roamed her body. Her skin was tanned along her neck and arms but milky and smooth where her uniform didn't cover. Her legs were long and muscular, her back and line of her spine toned and supple. "Roni, what are you...?"

"I think it's obvious, don't you?" She stood only inches away. Water cascaded over her shoulders and streamed over her breasts, which were small but solid, their nipples pink and stiff. "I thought you might need someone to wash your back. I know I do."

"Roni." He was so hard, it hurt. His gaze trailed from a splash of crimson staining her collarbone, to the underside of her jaw, and the domes of her breasts. She might be blushing—or perhaps it was only the heat. "Roni." His voice was husky with desire, but they shouldn't, he couldn't allow himself to… "Roni, I don't think we should?—"

"Please be quiet, John." She picked up a bar of soap from its dish. "And if you tell me this reminds you of Sylvester Stallone and Sharon Stone, I might never speak to you again."

They'd watched that particular film during one very slow night on-call; he didn't think he'd taken a deep breath for that entire, steamy sequence. "Well," he said, though his heart was hammering, "it sort of does. Except they had a much nicer shower." He didn't mention that Stallone was way more ripped than he'd ever be. But Sharon Stone...she didn't hold a candle to Roni. Not even close.

"Oh, for God's sake." Roni wrapped her soapy, slippery fingers around him and squeezed. "What part of be quiet don't you understand?"

He opened his mouth to say…well, something; he wasn't quite sure what…but then she tightened her grip and pressed her breasts against his chest and stood on tiptoe. She covered his mouth with hers as his fingers found her, his thumb gently teasing her moist and swollen nether lips as she gasped into his mouth—and then anything else he might have said dissolved into a moan.