As always, the drone of the engines, loud as it was, had a soporific effect. This time they had drawn a DC-3, one of the oldest and most reliable of airplanes. Even the internal lines of the cabin had a certain Art Deco flavor. But also, she remembered, a defective heater in one had killed Buddy Holly. That was definitely not a problem now. Even at 10,000 feet, and with the roaring slipstream booming through the cabin, the oppressive Texas heat made itself felt. She leaned back against the hard pads and tried to relax. Across from her sat a large, haggard, vaguely military-looking man, with pale blue gaze fixed on something far away. Further from the door was a pair of middle-aged twittering women, apparently egging each other on to jump. The rental helmet on her head had once been a flashy metal-flake purple, but time and wear had rendered it a dusty grape color with occasional glints of silver. The sour-looking jumpmaster, hobbled by a plaster cast on one ankle, arose from his seat in the head of the cabin, and made his way down the cabin, checking all their gear, occasionally adjusting something to his own satisfaction with a twist or yank, and finally stood by the door. “One minute,” he shouted.
And then, it was time to go. As the one nearest the door, she leapt first. Instantly the noise of the plane fell away from her, leaving only the soughing wind of her fall. She enjoyed it for a minute, and then, as planned, removed her helmet and let it fall up and away, leaving her long hair to whip in the wind. She watched the landscape below slowly gaining resolution, with more interest than she had felt for anything in a long time. She once felt her right hand stealing toward the ripcord, but forced it to her side with an effort of will. Just training, she supposed. She could now see winding, thread-like country roads and a few cows standing around. Somehow her fall seemed to have an endless quality, as if she were falling forever. A hoarse shout interrupted her reverie. She rolled over with a grace impossible on land, and saw the military man trying to intercept her fall, shouting something about holding on. She rolled face downward again and straightened her legs, increasing the angle and speed of her fall to an extent he, with his bulky profile and need of control, could not match. She fell away from him. The landscape was very clear now.
The sound of her impact was not really very loud. She had been a small woman, but it was enough to startle the crickets for several feet around into silence. The boldest of them was just starting up again when the helmet arrived nearby, striking the ground with a loud POK and rebounding high into the air, to fall back, tumble and roll to a final dusty stop on its shattered neck ring, regarding the scene with its broken empty gaze.