SUGAR ALPHA
Summer 1982
Gloomy clouds had hung low over Skydive Sandwich most of the Saturday following Billy’s crash, dropping rare June rain on the Illinois farmland. Most of the Bags slept in, but several clusters of hopeful weekend jumpers trickled in, always looking skyward as they got out of their cars, then trudging into the hangar, gear bags over their shoulders, to wait on the weather. Once inside, they talked among themselves, worked on their gear, drank coffee or read newspapers. Some just staked themselves a snoozing spot on a couch or out-of-the-way corner of the hangar and asked for a 30-minute-to-takeoff wakeup call.
The gloom mirrored Roger’s mood as he pondered the recent past. First, choosing Billy, then the tail, then going ahead with Mickey, and now the crash. His long run of good luck and smart thinking seemed to be over and he wondered what might next go wrong. The post-crash cleanup had many moving parts and it was still in progress. Worse, the jury was still out on Billy. Worst of all, his confidence in both Mickey and himself to get it right was shaken. Then Kong’s voice boomed over the hangar.
“Don’t worry, man, we’re gonna take ’em out!”
Roger snapped instantly from his funk as he grinned at his fierce friend and the rest of the team—the one bright spot in his life besides Jeanie and the kids.
The Freak Brothers, of course, had trained the whole morning, with minimal input from him. They’d watched and discussed video of previous jumps, brainstormed about lineup engineering and dive mechanics. And they talked about the head games and mental landscape of national-level athletic competition. Some team members were veterans, but others were new to competition, and with the Nationals just a few weeks away, the jitters were already creeping into the corners of their minds.
“Just remember that the Nationals are like the Wizard of Oz,” Roger said, in support of Kong’s declaration. “In your mind you make it up to be this big scary thing, but it’s only a little man behind a curtain. Right now that may not register because you’re not there, but you’ll know what I mean once you’re there. So right now, you’ve got to trust me when I say, we’re doing fine. We’re right on schedule. Perfection is unreachable because you can always do better. If we do our best, we should outperform the other teams, and they’ll call us the winners. Our objective is to keep improving right through the meet. We want to make our best jump on the last round of competition.”
Roger could see that his words calmed his comrades, but they were jittery for another reason too; they only had a few weekends left to prepare, and this one was rapidly wasting away. Roger felt it too, and sighed as he glanced at the grey blanket wrapping the sky outside the open hangar doors.
“Yo Roger,” he heard someone say behind him. He turned to see Mark gesturing toward the open personnel door on the west side of the hangar. Through it Roger still saw the grey blanket, but there was a hole in it—a big hole—and it was coming their way.
“Soup starts about three grand,” Mark said, guessing Roger’s mind. “I can scrape it and build up airspeed as I head in, then pull ’er up into it about a mile out and let you figure it out from there.”
“Get us four?” Roger asked, crossing his arms.
“More or less. Take off in forty.”
“Good enough,” Roger said, and turned to his team, half of whom were already reaching for their gear, jitters replaced by game-face grins.
Except for Ardis. Ardis was never jittery but she was almost always more cautious than her testosterone-fueled teammates. She walked to the personnel door to see for herself, reeking of skepticism as she stopped just outside, hands on her lean hips, squinting skyward through the still-falling rain. Then she looked over her shoulder at her teammates as they geared up, laughing and joking, then back again at the sky.
“Sucker hole,” she said to herself. “We never learn.” Then she chuckled and walked back inside to get her gear too.
Forty minutes later, Roger gave each team member a high-five and a smiling, confidence-building look in the eye as they boarded the half-empty DC-3. Knowing the weather conditions weren’t entirely favorable, each one flashed back a cocky grin—except for Ardis, who was last on and arched a questioning eyebrow at him. Roger’s smile faded slightly and he winked in acknowledgement of her concern.
His smile returned as she disappeared into the plane. Gender equality was a great thing about skydiving; if you could do it, you were in, regardless of sex. Still, that didn’t mean men and women were the same. Men tended to be confident and then get cocky. Women tended to build their confidence slowly—and with that came a truer sense of their abilities and limits—and those of the cocky guys too. It was one reason he’d picked Ardis for the team. There were guys who flew as well as she did, but she was seldom full of herself like the guys almost always were, including himself—and that was good for the team. More than once, Ardis had reality-checked them about jumping in marginal winds or other sketchy weather, or just telling them it was time to stand down when they’d worn themselves out to the point of lessened productivity and heightened risk.
Roger listened to her, too—well, mostly, anyway, but definitely more now than at first, after several of her cautions had been ignored, only to prove correct, much to the pain or at least embarrassment of the boys.
Even Kong, who feared neither God, man, nor devil, didn’t argue with Ardis when she put her size 5 foot down.
Roger followed his reality checker aboard and walked to the cockpit.
“Same plan?” he asked Mark as he pre-flighted the bird with Kristen.
“We’ll know for sure when we get there,” said Mark.
Roger nodded and slapped the pilot on the shoulder and went aft through the seated jumpers again, then stood near the door facing them as the plane rolled.
“We fly to the cloud base, then decide whether to jump or not,” he shouted over the engine noise to everyone, his eyes checking every face. “And don’t worry if the team goes and you have reservations about the altitude. If you don’t feel safe, ride the plane down. No jump’s worth getting killed over.”
He checked the faces again, then, satisfied for the moment, kneeled near Ardis.
“It’s still a sucker hole,” she said quietly, as up front Kristen pushed the throttles forward and Mark steered the DC-3 down the runway, engines roaring, light mist spraying into the fuselage through the open door.
The tail came up and the mains lifted from the ground.
“Blue sky!” shouted the jumpers. “Black Death!” they shouted much louder, and they were sky creatures again, climbing toward the grey blanket.
Roger looked over to his reality checker and patted her knee.
“Don’t worry, Ardis,” he said quietly. “We’re on the same page here. There’s no judging and no pressure if we don’t jump, and it’s too close to Nationals to heal up if someone gets hurt doing a low one.”
“It’s still a sucker hole,” she said just as quietly.
“That’s right, and the only way we know if we can get enough altitude and hit the hole is by going up and seeing for ourselves. I’ll even make you a deal; if you say no, we won’t go.”
“Oh gee, no pressure there,” she growled, “but it’s still a sucker hole.” She eyed Roger coldly for a moment, then flashed a smile, “so we better go fast.”
Roger laughed out loud and tousled her thick hair.
“God I love this team!” he said to no one in particular.
Soon after, he felt the plane level out and he checked his altimeter: 3,200 feet. Wind whipping his hair, he took off his sunglasses and knelt by the door, then stuck his head out to check their approach as the plane went in and out of the cloud layer’s ragged bottom. He smiled at what he saw and stood up, then gestured for Ardis to join him at the door.
“Hole’s over the DZ,” he shouted above the wind noise as she looked out the door. “What do you think?” Ardis checked her altimeter.
“We need four,” she said.
“We’ll have that when we get there.”
Ardis arched her eyebrow at Roger again.
“You guys,” she said, then signaled to the team to take up their positions. They all whooped and lined up. If Ardis was good to go, then they were too.
Roger looked up at Kristen, sitting sideways in her seat waiting for his signal, and pointed one finger upwards. Kristin repeated the signal for Mark. A moment later, the DC-3 accelerated, then zoomed into the clouds for a few seconds and leveled off again.
Roger checked his altimeter: 3,800 feet. He glanced at Ardis.
“Blue sky,” she said, then turned her attention to the lineup. Roger grinned and took his place at the back of the line as it tightened up for exit. He glanced at Bob, who wore his rig and cameras, but wouldn’t be jumping into possible rain with them. Instead, he’d film their exit from inside. Roger high-fived him, then tapped Kong.
“Hot!” roared Kong.
“Ready!” roared Ardis.
“. . . GO!” the team shouted as one and exploded out the door into a pelting blast of stinging rain that rippled over their goggles, but the exit was among their best ever, so they could see each other. Still, they flew more by feel than by sight and their star was halfway built before they burst from the clouds and saw the ground already rushing up at them. Their altimeters needles were well into the yellow warning zone when Dave and Roger closed the circle and they immediately shook off their hand grips and flew apart to deploy their chutes.
Roger and Kong had the same idea: track farther and open lower to give the others more space higher up. It was a good plan—except that they both tracked the same way and deployed dangerously close together. Roger grabbed his risers to steer his still-opening canopy away from a collision. Kong’s parachute opened, but Roger’s maneuver made his streamer for several seconds. It gave him separation from Kong but he opened less than 1,000 feet above the dirt—lower than pattern entry altitude. He had little time to set up his landing and zoomed across the grass at high speed. He flared, but his parachute ran out of lift before it ran out of forward speed and when he set his feet down to run out the landing he slipped on the wet grass and tumbled to a stop amid much laughter.
He stood up and saw skid marks all over his jump suit, a bad-landing badge he’d have to wear all day. Chris pulled up alongside him in the golf cart, face grim.
“You almost killed yourself,’ he growled quietly and coldly in a perfect Roger Nelson imitation. “Now get your butt over to the school and watch the basic canopy control video, then write me a report hitting the ten key points—and then I’ll think about whether you can jump again this weekend. Are we clear, Roger?”
They stared each other down for a long moment, then laughed as one while Roger climbed into the cart, wet canopy bunched in his arms.
“Did Patrick see it?” Roger asked.
“Everybody saw it,” Chris chuckled.
“Tell him his next jump’s on me and I’ll—” Roger said, stopping short as he realized that the windsock had turned 180 degrees since they took off. Then he realized something else and turned toward the end of the runway to see Mr. Douglas on short final—for a downwind landing. He grabbed the radio from the cup holder.
“Abort, Mr. Douglas! abort,” he shouted as he watched Mark float the DC-3 over the threshold toward a mid-runway touchdown so he wouldn’t have to taxi as far.
No response, no change in flight path. The DC-3 touched down as Chris reached over and turned the radio on.
“Abort-abort-abort!” Roger shouted again, but it was too late. The plane rolled out and the tail dropped. Roger gestured for Chris to follow the plane, then they watched helplessly at the tail waving side to side as Mark tried to stop his beloved machine before it reached the end of the runway.
He failed. The Three skidded all the way to the end, then up and over a small hill and out of sight. Roger and Chris heard the sound of breaking trees and crumpling metal.
Chris and Roger followed the tire tracks over the hill, expecting the worst, as Roger got out of his gear and put on his sunglassses, and Mike trailed behind them in the drop zone’s pickup.
“We’re okay,” Kristen yelled from the rear door as they approached the plane, its tail wheel dug so deep into the grass that she stepped out of the plane without jumping, gear pins in hand. “Mark’s freaking out about Mr. D, though.”
Chris grabbed the gear pins from her, crawled under the plane’s belly, and pinned the landing gear in place. Mark stuck his head out from the pilot’s window and mumbled as he surveyed the damage. Several trees were smashed against the wings; one had, remarkably, passed between the nose and engine without hitting the propeller. He shook his head disgustedly and pulled his head inside. Moments later, he too stepped from the rear door onto the wet grass and looked sharply at the windsock. It was back to the way it was when he took off. Mark looked at the others, bewildered.
“What the hell happened?”
“Wind swung one-eighty when you were on final,” Roger said quietly, and gestured at his stained jumpsuit. “Got me too.”
“Yeah, all you gotta do is wash that,” Mark said as he ducked under the wing and between the trees to see how bad it was. He looked up at the nose and pointed where a now-broken-off tree had smashed right in its center. “Now look, I went and hit a tree.” Mark sank to the ground in grief. Roger turned to Mike and Chris.
“Leave me the cart, take Kristen with you and find somebody who can tow this thing outta here.” He pointed to some approaching jumpers. “And take them too. We don’t need gawkers.”
The others climbed into the pickup as Roger turned back to Mark, who still sat disconsolately on the wet ground, oblivious to his now-soaked jeans.
“How could I have been so stupid?” he said. “Now I’m ruined; no insurance, no money to fix it. I saw it’d be close but I was too late to lift back off. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
“Come on, get up,” Roger said as he laid a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “Stupid is how you look sitting there looking like you peed your pants.”
“How do you know I didn’t?” Mark shot back. Roger laughed.
“Okay, maybe you’re not so stupid,” he said, and helped Mark to his feet, the evil mood now broken. Roger cupped on hand behind Mark’ neck. “Hey man, be thankful you didn’t end up like Hanoi. We all make mistakes.”
“Yeah, but this one just wrecked my plane and reputation. I’m screwed!”
“Hey, Hanoi is screwed,” Roger persisted, “so get over it. You’re not only still alive, nobody got hurt and your plane isn’t even totaled. You have a lot to be thankful for, my friend, so let’s stay positive and figure out how to solve this.”
Inside, though, even as he bucked up Mark, Roger was as numb and forlorn as the DC-3 pilot. Well, now I know what went wrong next, he thought, and now I’m the one who’s screwed on the most important thing in my life right now . . . the Nationals are lost before we even got there if I don’t hurry up and find another—
“Yo boss,” Chris’s voice intruded on Roger’s reverie. “Look what I found!”
Roger turned to see a fertilizer truck with 10-foot-high tires bouncing over the small hill, Chris standing on the driver side running board. It stopped next to Roger and the cab door swung open.
A young man in overalls climbed out, chewing a piece of straw. Roger recognized him as a neighbor he’d seen watching the DZ action from his porch or from his tractors as he worked the fields around the airport.
“Hi Roger, I’m John,” he said, extending a hand. He and Roger shook. “Figured you might need a hand when it went over the hill.”
Roger’s mood brightened as he looked at the massive rig, while Mark hung his head in shame.
“Looks like you can pull her out with that pretty easy,” he said.
“Most likely,” said Farmer John. “Let’s have a look.”
The two men walked around the Three. Mark sat down in the rear door, still nursing his bruised ego and broken attitude.
Farmer John eyeballed the scene, then checked the hill angle, stomped the wet grass with a boot and chewed on his straw. Mark joined them as he ruminated.
“Cut down a few trees, drag away the broken ones and jack that tail outta the mud and it should pop right out,” he said after a few moments.
Mark sighed in relief as he heard Farmer John’s verdict. Roger smiled and slapped him on the back.
“Phase One complete,” he said. “Only one way to go from here, man; onward!”
Mark finally cracked a smile.
“You’re right and I’m good to go from here. You go take care of your team.”
When Roger drove back to the hangar, he parked the cart next to Mike, who sat in the DZ pickup listening to music. He turned it off and joined Roger in the cart.
“Man, I can’t believe this,” he said in a low voice. “That’s two crashes in less than a week. What the hell’s going on?”
“Good luck meets bad luck. Coulda been a lot worse.”
“True, but I’m sure glad that you’re the boss. I wouldn’t want to deal with all this.”
“Neither do I, but that’s the hand we have to play.”
“Kristen told the team everyone’s okay, but I didn’t want to go in there yet and have to look at those faces.”
Roger flashed the confident smile he knew he had to show, not just to Mike but to everyone from this very delicate moment forward. As he had with Mark, he had to use all his leader skills to dampen the team’s despair and refocus them on their mission.
“Thanks for waiting, Mike,” he said, “and those faces’ll be fine in no time. We’ll figure it out. You know we always do.”
Mike laughed as he got out of the cart.
“Can’t argue with that, buddy.”
They walked into the hangar and the team’s blue mood struck them like a wave. Mike sat down with them while Roger stood in front, looking from face to face.
“Three weeks ’til Nationals and no more practice,” glowered Kong when their eyes met. “We’re out of it.”
Roger said nothing, just moved on to the next face. Some were bummed, some were angry, all were looking to him for leadership. He looked last at Ardis and, true to form, she did not have an “I told you so” expression on her face; in fact, she was the least agitated and most unreadable of them all. He smiled at her.
“Once again,” he said, “Ardis made the right call and I should’ve listened to her and because I didn’t, we now have a problem.”
The boys shifted uncomfortably but several of them also nodded appreciatively at the girl in their midst. Then they looked back at Roger and his smile was gone, replaced by the hard face and jutting chin that always appeared right before he challenged someone or something.
“Time to check your composure,” he demanded, and he looked straight at Kong. “You guys got any composure? Huh? We’ve been practicing all summer, kicking butt all summer, and we hit one speed bump and you whine that it’s over?”
Several team members dropped their eyes and heads, still bummed but also not a bit ashamed at their behavior. Kong kept his eyes locked on Roger’s, still glowering. Then Ardis looked at her teammates.
“Roger doesn’t think it’s over, so I don’t either,” she said quietly. “He’s our captain, and I have confidence in him. I think getting us another DC-3 by tomorrow is a bit much even for him, but he and all of you can count on me being here by 7:00 A.M. next Saturday morning, ready to go. That’s the commitment I made, and that’s the commitment I’ll keep. And I’ll be here tomorrow too—just in case!”
“And you know,” chimed in Jeff, “that was a hell of a jump we did in the rain and clouds. We closed it about two seconds out of the cloud—”
“So that puts it at nine seconds, give or take,” added Dave, completing Jeff’s thought. Then Kimmers jumped in.
“Even if we don’t get any more practice,” he said, “when we do a jump like that I can’t believe anyone’s gonna beat us, practice or no practice!”
Kong’s glower turned to a snarl and he winked at Roger.
“Rain, clouds, low altitude—no problem!” he boomed. “If we can handle that, we can handle Nationals. We’re gonna take ’em out!”
Roger held out his hand. They all jumped to their feet and formed a circle of right hands, each grabbing the thumb of the teammate next to them, and looked at their leader.
“You know I will find a way to get us back in the air,” Roger said, “so do your part and keep your heads in the game. Make this situation the event that leads to victory in three weeks and from this day forward our new motto is ‘onward!’” He looked into the center of the hand star.
“Hot!” roared Kong.
“Ready!” roared Ardis.
“. . . GO!” the team shouted as one, at the same time moving their hand up and then down breaking it with a growl.
“Okay, now let’s go get Mr. Douglas,” Roger said, outwardly unchanged but internally much relieved at the change in attitude. I love this team, he thought.
“I’ll handle it,” Kong said. “You go find us another ride.” He turned to go, then stopped and looked back. “But first, follow your own advice and put your feet up on the desk for a few minutes, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Roger said, and gave Kong a thumbs up as he walked off to gather a crew to help Farmer John drag the plane out of the trees.
Roger went into his office, followed by Mike and Dave and, as Kong had directed, put his feet up on the desk, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. Dave and Mike followed suit and stretched out on the sofas for a quick recharge.
Minutes passed as Roger cleared his mind and let his body relax, trying not to think of anything in particular. Mickey and Billy kept popping into his thoughts, though—how they were making out… how much heat there was… his conversation with Mickey about Belize and Hanoi… the—
Roger sat bolt upright, startling Dave and Mike.
“What?!” exclaimed Dave.
“Y’okay?” asked Mike. “What’s up?”
Roger grinned his leader-confident grin and this time he felt it in his own soul too.
“Sugar Alpha,” he said quietly.
“How?” asked Mike. “He has an airshow contract.”
“Not any more,” Dave said. “Firestone cancelled it.”
“After he painted it in their colors?” said Mike. “That sucks.”
“Wife wants a divorce, too,” Roger added.
“Poor guy,” said Mike, “but he hates the business. Can’t use it for that again.”
“Weren’t using Mr. D for that, either,” said Roger as he thumbed through his Rolodex, “so maybe he’ll haul us for a few weeks.”
Dave and Mike traded expectant glances as Roger dialed the number and kicked back again in his chair. Roger and Mickey had once owned Sugar Alpha, so named because its registration number was N85SA. They’d used it early in their smuggling days, then sold it to Paul Feden after he landed an airshow contract at an amusement park owned by Firestone. Now the gig was done, and the marriage was done, so maybe Paul was interested in making some changes. He heard the phone pick up.
“This is Paul.”
“This is Roger. Want to put Sugar Alpha to work for a few weeks?”
“Depends on the work. What’s up?”
“Got a team that needs to practice for Nationals and Mr. Douglas just ate some trees.”
“Bad?”
“No, but it’ll be a month before he’s running again.”
“How soon do you need it?”
“Tomorrow.” Roger heard a hearty laugh on the other end of the phone.
“How many loads a day?”
“Ten or more on the weekends, two or three on Friday evenings.”
“Twenty plus?” Paul blurted. “Didn’t know you were that busy!”
“It’s the team working the Three because I’m really serious about being the first team from the Midwest to win ten-way at the Nationals, but, yeah, biz has really taken off.”
“For ten a day, I maybe could be there tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Paul, but Thursday will be fine. Then Rumor Control will make sure everyone knows that we’re back in business.”
“Well, I’m sure we can make this work, Roger. Just one thing—do you have a Cessna or something we can get back and forth in? We can’t just relocate there on five days notice.”
“No problem, you can use my Aztec.”
“OK, deal. I’ll have her up there Thursday. By the way, was Mark scheduled to fly at Nationals?”
“Yeah.”
“Then I’ll call and see if I can get that slot too—but do me a favor, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Tell Mark I hate profiting from his misfortune, but better me than a stranger and let him know I’ll help however I can to get Mr. D back in the air as soon as possible.”
“Sure. I’ll let him know.”
“How’s Jeanie doing?”
“She’s doing fine and keeping real busy.”
“Wish I could say the same. You’re the first good news I’ve had for ages. First I lose the air show, then they sold the airport to a cargo outfit so I have to shut down the DZ, and yesterday I found out the divorce is going through. Sure don’t want to lose that woman but it looks like she’s gone and without the DZ, I gotta sell Sugar Alpha too. Are you interested?”
Roger’s heart jumped at the notion as his Belize conversation with Mickey echoed in his head, but now that he’d taken care of his team, he was all business again.
“Not really,” he lied. “I’ll leave getting all greasy to you guys that love wallowing in DC-3 blood.”
“So far I’m only telling a few friends, because I want to keep her in the jump circle. “I’ll make you a good deal. She’s got to go.”
“I’ll think about it,” Roger said, “and I’ll definitely pass the word and see if I can get you some leads. Thanks again. See you Thursday.”
He hung up the phone and turned to see Dave and Mike already high-fiving.
“Woohoo!” said Mike. “Maybe our luck’s turning!”
“As long as things go like that for our friends in the Bahamas,” Roger cautioned, but he was smiling too. After all the trials and tribulations of the past few weeks, this mountain of a potential problem had not only just evaporated into thin air, it provided an opening to put his retirement run back in play.
“All right,” Roger said, getting up from his desk and heading for the door. “Let’s go tell the team.”
Thursday afternoon Sugar Alpha made its Sandwich entrance at 250 miles per hour about ten feet off the landing area grass. Paul had replaced Roger’s custom paint job with Firestone’s corporate colors, red and white. On either side of its fuselage and under its wings blazed the name “Firestone” in letters several feet high.
Roger and a few dozen DZ regulars watched in awe as the plane pulled up into a climbing barrel roll to 2,000 feet—and then two people jumped out and opened their canopies. Everyone on the field was hypnotized as the pilot circled for landing, then cranked the big bird 90 degrees right off the end of the pavement and touched down on the threshold. Ordinarily hard to impress, Roger shook his head in admiration.
“Never seen anyone make a DC-3 dance like that,” he said to Mike.
“Make you forget all about Billy,” Mike whispered.
“Don’t remind me,” Roger said. “I’m trying to enjoy myself here.”
As Sugar Alpha taxied in, Roger drove the pick-up over to help unload the tools and parts all veteran DC-3 operators carry. Sugar parked alongside Mr. Douglas, where Mark and his helpers labored to remove damaged parts.
Mark’s mood darkened as he watched Sugar Alpha shut down. He threw down a wrench and stalked into the hangar to sulk. Kristen just shook her head as he went, and kept on working, her striking Nordic face streaked with grease.
“Do you think bringing in Sugar Alpha will take the wind out of Mark’s sails?” Mike asked as they got out of the pickup between the planes. “May take him longer to get it running again.”
“To tell you the truth,” Roger smirked, “I think he’ll get it done in half the time now.”
Roger lowered the door and welcomed Paul to the airport with a backslapping hug.
“Welcome, my friend,” he said. “Now introduce me to your pilot.”
A fit young man whose face shared Roger’s mysterious grin and confident eyes stepped through the rear door and extended his hand.
“Roger, meet Andy,” said Paul. “Andy, Roger.”
“Honor to meet you, man,” said Andy, and it was clear from his body language that he meant it. “Paul’s told me awesome stories about you.”
“Some of them may even be true,” Roger said disarmingly, “and the feeling’s mutual, Andy.” Roger let go of Andy’s hand and ducked his head inside the fuselage for a moment, then withdrew it grinning broadly. “Where do you keep your balls in there? I thought I’ve seen it all, but I never saw anyone do that with a Three. How much stress does that put on the plane?”
“None,” Andy grinned back, “if you know what you’re doing!”
Roger knew immediately that he and Andy would get along great.
Chris drove up in the cart with the two jumpers, and they greeted Roger warmly.
This is Don and Linda,” he said to Chris. “Old friends from Paul’s side of town. Why don’t you find them lockers in the hangar and send Mark out.”
Chris nodded and drove off as Roger, Mike and Andy unloaded Sugar Alpha.
Mark reappeared as they were checking out Mr. D’s injuries, and stood obstinately silent as Andy and Paul discussed the wing root damage. Then Andy flashed Mark a sunny smile and held out his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Mark. I’m Andy.”
“Hi,” said Mark, taking the hand without enthusiasm. Andy and Paul both ignored the slight and gestured toward the pickup.
“Roger told us about the damage,” said Paul congenially, “so I brought some parts that may work for you.”
“And we’ll both be happy to wrench for you whenever we’re free, man,” added Andy. “I hate looking at bent airplanes, especially Threes!”
“And Mr. Douglas is one of the greatest Threes flying,” Paul continued, “so we’re honored to help however we can to get him back in the sky.”
Mark was taken aback by their generosity and good cheer and embarrassed by his rudeness.
“Thanks, guys, I don’t know what to say,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry I—”
“Forget it,” Paul interjected with a dismissive wave. “I’d be pissed off at the world for a month if I was in your shoes. Beer’s on me tonight, okay?”
“Us too?” asked Mike. Roger elbowed him. “Just kidding,” he wheezed.
Everyone laughed and even Mark relaxed. Roger walked to Sugar Alpha with Paul and Andy to inspect the interior.
“Nice work, guys,” Roger said. “Mission accomplished.”
“Meant every word,” Andy said, and climbed aboard. Paul held up Roger for a moment.
“You’ll soon notice that’s SOP for him,” Paul said.
“Already have,” Roger replied.
“He’s a good egg, and absolutely the best pilot I’ve ever seen, myself included.”
“Praise doesn’t get any higher than that,” Roger grinned and the two men joined Andy inside.
The next day at noon, the Freak Brothers 10-way team gathered at the airport, more excited than they’d been since acing the jump right before the crash, and thanked Roger more than once for bringing in Sugar Alpha.
“Thank me by winning Nationals,” he replied.
“And I apologize to you and the team for doubting you, brother,” Kong rumbled, humbled but unbowed. “We’re gonna take ’em out!”
Minutes later, Sugar Alpha roared into the Illinois sky with 14 excited jumpers aboard, “Blue Sky! Black Death!” echoing over the engine noise.
The first exit through the slightly different door was clean and as Roger cleared it he flared and looked back for a moment. When he turned back to the star he was right on top of it and desperately de-arched and opened his body wide to avoid a hard collision. To his amazement, he finished decelerating just as his grips completed the circle.
An electric thrill went through the team, and they all kicked and screamed with excitement, then some flipped upside down while still holding on, funneling the star. They tumbled joyfully on top of one another, then separated in good order and finished the jump without incident.
They gathered happily in front of the big screen, only to discover that they had one more “new-door” adjustment to make.
“Didn’t get it,” Video Bob said glumly. “Hit my ring sight on climbout. Sorry about that.”
“Oh man, you got to be kidding,” said Tommy. “That was our best time yet!”
Others on the team started fussing. Even Ardis frowned in disappointment.
“Composure check!” Roger said above the grumbling, and everyone quieted immediately, realizing how foolish they were acting over a video from their miracle-find airplane.
“Well, we know what we did,” Kong rumbled, “and if we’re as good as we think, we’ll do it again.”
“And again and again,” Paul added as he sauntered into the hangar. He stopped in front of the screen.
“Don’t sweat it,” said. “Time only counts when the meet starts and until then we live on magic—Sugar magic!”
The team cheered his words.
“I felt it from the moment Roger called,” he went on. “I needed this gig and you needed me and Sugar Alpha needs us all because you are destined to win! There’s something going on here that I’ve never felt before. Now pack up and let’s go again. We’re burning daylight.”
The team dispersed to repack while Chris worked with Video Bob to re-zero his camera sight.
Mike squatted over Roger’s partly packed parachute.
“Mickey and Billy’ll be at O’Hare eleven p.m. tomorrow,” he said quietly. With Paul and Andy at your house, where should I take them?”
Roger thought for a second.
“I better pick ’em up. We’ll get a motel in Aurora.” Mike nodded and turned his attention to his own repack.
Two jumps later, the team was finished for the day and well-satisfied. They knew they’d be rotating through all the different DC-3s at the Nationals, so jumping today from Sugar Alpha—and performing well after a short layoff boosted their confidence that they could maintain their level no matter what plane they drew.
“Competition is a mental experience,” Roger said to them at the end of their last debrief. “It’s a mind game between the teams. If they feel they can’t beat you, they’ll try to break your confidence. The best thing to do stay together and lean on each other for support. We’ll be the best team there. Don’t let anyone get you to doubt it—and if they try, tell Kong and he’ll talk to ’em.”
“Yeah, and then we can all visit them in their private hospital rooms,” he growled as everyone laughed at the thought of Kong “counseling” another team about playing head games with the Freak Brothers.
Roger related this last bit of camaraderie to Jeanie as they lay in bed after tucking in their guests on the downstairs couches and checking on the sleeping children in their rooms. She smiled at her husband and tousled his hair.
“Really proud of you, honey,” she said, “but not surprised. It’s always something to watch you solve a problem when you set your mind to it, no matter how big or unexpected it is. I’m telling you, if your teammates respected you before, they’re way past that now. They will literally follow you anywhere.”
Roger kissed his wife and snuggled against her.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said. “It seems to have worked out okay, but I gotta tell you, for a while there, I didn’t know how I was gonna do it.”
“I know,” Jeanie said sweetly, “but I knew you would. That’s why you’re so good at this.”
Those were the last words they spoke until they fell asleep quite some time later.