Terminal velocity

The rickety panels of this outdated small-cabin Cessna reminded Sam of the loose panes of glass on his old school bus's sliding windows. How some days they would vibrate incessantly as it traversed his bumpy neighborhood roads, making it impossible to get some before-school shuteye, or to even think. Simpler times, he reckoned. His mind drifted to the next coach he would board, which would arrive courtesy of the United States military, the Air Force to be exact, and would see him off to Fort Benning, GA. Before he knew it, most of his time was spent off-roading, approximately five miles above it; moving four times the speed of sound.

Sam had a passion - and maybe even a gift - for flying or (in some very rare cases) jumping, out of all types of winged and unwinged flying machines. Basic training wasn’t easy for Sam. Let’s just say he has a deep-rooted enmity for authority, which no doubt stems from his many trips to time-out as a small child. Time-out, was a cruel and destructive amercement devised, unintentionally, by his mother in an attempt to slow an unruly, energetic and impulsive young man. Unknowingly setting him up for a life of steady disciplinary actions. It is during these “time-outs”, these moments, sometimes even hours of silence, that Sam learned how to brood with dyspepsia but eventually was able to ruminate and self-soothe. In short, Sam got very good at cleaning toilets during bootcamp, but that was a lifetime ago. Now he spends his weekends shuttling rich criminals from one place to another or doing other scrupulous deeds for rent or booze. But mostly booze.

The task he's been hired to perform is a simple one. A job description as familiar as a home address. Fly the plane. Sure, he'd seen better vessels with which to cruise at 30,000 feet, but clear skies gave way to a gorgeous panoramic lava lamp of orange and red, with nothing below them except the Mojave. A disarming view if ever there was one. The cockpit door behind his right shoulder separated him from the cabin, where a handful of the seats on the plane were occupied.

Gigs like this... there are things that you know, and details that you don't. In regards to the latter, he couldn't tell you who these men were or where they were coming from, even with a loaded gun to his testicles. He didn't know any of the other three participants' real names, and he sure as hell didn't know where they were headed afterwards. As the pilot, he also accounts for inventory pertaining to flight risk management. Anything that factors into the beautifully complex equation known as air travel is noted in his small black notebook, and then ripped and discarded post-haste. The weights of four people, four emergency parachute bags, four travel suitcases with clothes, one briefcase with two notebook computers, four bags with twenty grand each, one bag with a small scanner, two more bags of paper documents and flash drives, food and beverage and fuel and bags of guns and ammo. The list went on. And writing it all made Sam feel his job was the easiest. Fly the plane.

It perturbed him that their cargo was sprawled about on the seats of the plane instead of safely packed in the available overhead bins. As a stickler of routine and adversary of mistake, he saw no reason to take chances this far into the game, but he was willing to keep quiet. A few minutes before takeoff, what sounded like a muffled argument between the men had commenced and quickly subsided into a mix of chatter and quiet laughter. Not wanting to stir the pot, Sam would let bad housekeeping habits triumph over possibly rubbing someone the wrong way. He had to focus on the job at hand, and so far had only to contend with the rattling panels in the cockpit.

In all his years as a pilot, Sam never felt like he had lost control of a situation. He participated in a war he did not fully support, nor understand. He had flown under anti-aircraft fire as people he knew, and some he would never meet, went down for good. He had flown Boeing 747 jets through turbulent storms and navigated single-passenger planes around hurricanes for island-going newly-weds (only because those served him double, as a drug-runner). Despite it all, he accepted long ago that a pilot who feels fully in control is at least half a fool. He was quickly reminded of this when he heard an abnormal THUD on the side wall.

The shouting was obvious and immediate. Sam removed his headset. "Hey, everything cool back there?" he muttered, probably too quietly for them to hear. The response was a more forceful THUD on the opposite wall. That one shifted the plane, he thought. "Hey! I need you guys to take it easy back there!" he yelled, frustration now clear. The yelling continued. Something about someone being promised something. Not now, he thought. We're so close.

It all happened too fast. He reached around to open the cockpit door, and no sooner than his hand touched the latch did a spread of bullets fly through the door, narrowly missing Sam's face, putting a small chasm in the windshield. Leaning tightly against his pilot seat, he tried to grab control of the yoke. The jerking of the plane caused one of the gunman to lose his footing, firing another round into the main control dashboard. Amidst gunfire, and screaming, and system notifications, the loudest sound Sam had ever heard in his life was that of the engine shutting down. Funny, in all the years flying since leaving the military, this is the first time his initial reaction was to eject the pilot seat.

His second thought - as the plane began its slow nosedive toward oblivion - the parachutes! The cockpit door was closed, and before he could open it again, Sam felt a loud burst of air that nearly ripped the hatch off its hinges. Out of his window he could faintly see briefcases and duffle bags flying over arrid California. He pulled himself up towards the cabin door again to see the side exit door open, and the sole survivor of the cabin fight, jettisoning their items, which also included (much to Sams dismay), the extra parachutes. The man must have strapped his on moments before, and just threw the last remaining bags out of the plane. Sam isn't even sure he noticed him before he leapt, probably intending to keep the money and let whatever evidence remained crash into the sands.

Sam did not want to be part of that evidence. In a moment that can only be described as desperate at best - insane at worst - Sam looked back out the cockpit window one last time and knew it was now or never. He sped toward the open door and jumped out into the atmosphere. I could at least get to that last bag, throw the chute on and pray the landing doesn't cripple me, he thought. After all, deserts aren’t famed for their trees and lakes. He knew how to hit terminal velocity shortly after exiting a plane. Making a beeline for the bag, the coldness stung his entire body, and his eyes went dry as paper. All of the life he led in the past had come back to him, more lucid than before. For some reason this jump and freefall felt different than all the others, and it wasn’t because he felt lighter without a parachute, or because he was fighting against gravity to save his life. There was something peaceful about this plunge... something quiet and familiar... but before he could put his finger on it, he reached the parachute bag.

It was in this moment, with a firm grip on the bag, that time stopped, and he flashed back to his black book, this wasn’t a briefcase or a suitcase, it wasn't a small bag or a big bag, there were no guns or food in this bag. This bag was made for one reason and one reason only, and that was not to house a parachute. He opened it with ferocity. Like a kid on Christmas who knew what he was unwrapping, and had waited all his life for it. As the zipper came undone, a few loose dollar bills escaped. And then the rest of it: twenty thousand dollars in cold hard cash, just one of the loot bags from the day’s trade now fluttering above his plummeting body. At first his feelings were of complete terror, but almost instantaneously that gave way to acceptance. Sam closed his eyes and tried to enjoy his final time-out, as he descended down into the dark.