Free Nature of the Game by James Grady Page A

never dared to talk to.
    Panic seized Jud: What if he couldn’t understand the asset waiting for them on the ground? The asset was a survivor of two groups of North Vietnamese the CIA smuggled out of Haiphong in 1955, trained in Saigon, then sent back to the communist north. He was supposed to speak French and English, plus Curtain spoke beaucoup Vietnamese, but what if the asset didn’t make it to the rendezvous? What if Jud couldn’t see the amber light that was supposed to be flashing through the trees to guide them to the DZ? What if the asset had been picked up, hot-ironed, and hell, what if he wasn’t an asset? Double, NVA, Pathet Lao, or even Chinese? What if he just fucked up? What if—
    Then , Jud told himself, pulling it all down to one word he could manage, one word he could keep from mutating into a million shapes and sounds: then .
    Two red dots glowing in the bomb bay violated light silence and let Jud see not much, not far. But enough to realize the Nungs had joined hands, each gripping the hand of a man from their tribe whom they might not care about but whose fate they were destined to share. Jud reached out, gripped the free hand of the Nung next to him, raised it. The Nungs stared. Curtain made the chain complete. Slowly, all the joined hands rose, triumphant. Jud felt energy flow through their chain, knew the Nungs felt it, too. The right move at the right moment, and even if it wasn’t, what the hell, Jud loved the energy, too.
    He was already linked to the two Nungs closest to him, as was Curtain to the other two. Two clusters of three men, each cluster bonded with a rope. Jud had tied the Nungs twenty feet apart, giving Curtain and himself more slack. The Nungs only knew they were going to jump, that it would be like on the tower. That they would fall a long time, then Jud would pull himself in close, cut their daisy chain, and jerk their rip cords before he popped himself. Jud knew they thought the free-fall would last about ten seconds. If he’d told them three minutes, they would never have jumped. The plan called for them to panic, falling, blackness all around, the wind rushing, the cold … freeze-up. They’d drop like stones. If they didn’t panic enough, one of them might find his rip cord, and they’d all be jerked out of free-fall, too much weight for one too-soon chute, tumbling out of control….
    That happens , Jud told himself, you can still cut free. You’ll have time. Cut free, stabilize, skim away like a bird. Pop your chute, improvise a ground plan. You mind will be clear and your will won’t fail you .
    Someone tapped his left shoulder. He looked up into the body of the plane and saw the copilot, oxygen mask, safety line. The copilot made the okay sign, then in the air drew an L .
    Laos.
    Jud stood. Watched his team follow him, watched them remove the plane’s oxygen masks and affix their own self-contained breathing apparatuses. Again Jud grabbed the hand of the Nung behind him, had that man do the same, only this time the chain was two separate sections, with Curtain leading the second group. Jud was One-Zero, so first out. The copilot pulled away the catwalk’s rope railing. The steel grate trembled beneath Jud’s feet. The giant bomber pitched and swayed, dropping down to 41,000 feet. Jud fought to keep his balance and not tumble into the open blackness. The cold rushed in through the bomb-bay doors. Wrapped in his layers of clothing and gear, Jud was sweating. And he was cold.
    Down the line, he saw Curtain’s black form. Jud pointed his forefinger at him, and Curtain nodded.
    I’ll see you on the ground , thought Jud. I’ll see you then .
    The copilot’s hand chopped up and down, a metronome counting off seconds relayed over the intercom to him by the pilot as Jud and his team watched. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat.
    He hit Jud’s shoulder.
    And Jud rolled off to his left, his daisy chain slipping