CHAPTER 1
The Freak Brothers
Green water rippled around Carl Nelson Sr. as he paddled his canoedown the Fox River, steering from the rear so he could more easilynavigate around rocks and snags in the meandering watercourse 75 milessouthwest of Chicago. His eldest son, Carl Jr., paddled from the front;youngest son Roger paddled from the middle. Carl Jr. concentrated onpaddling and helping his father steer the cleanest course down the river.Roger's attention alternated between the river, his paddling, his brother'sdeveloping muscles, and getting away with "accidentally" splashing him.
Carl Nelson Sr. was a war hero, though he wouldn't admit it andhe didn't talk about it. Like many of those in The Greatest Generation,he knew that too many young men lay in foreign graves for those stillliving to make hay about what they did and lived through in WorldWar II. The dead and their sacrifice deserved respect and gratitude, notgrandstanding.
To that end, Carl proudly wore his 82nd Airborne Division pins andpatches and his airborne wings on his hats and jackets, including thebaseball cap perched on his head now. His fellow Americans instantlyrecognized these emblems of his service in the "All American" division,and that was enough.
Yet no word other than hero can sufficiently describe a man whowillingly parachuted from an airplane into the dark night above occupiedFrance, behind enemy lines, through enemy fire, carrying 100 pounds ofgear, to fight the world's most feared military machine with no backupexpected for days—and then only if the largest sea invasion ever launchedsucceeded against the most formidable coastal fortifications ever built.That's exactly what Carl Sr. and thousands of his similarly heroic buddiesdid—and several thousand of them still rest in peace in quiet fields nearthe Normandy coast.
Carl's wife, sons, and daughter knew nothing first-hand about thehorror of war, and this suited Carl just fine; he knew there was no gloryin killing young men torn away from their youthful dreams to kill otheryoung men just like themselves. Killing in war was a bloody necessityforced on a man by his government and he did it to save his buddies andhimself more than "for duty and country."
At the same time, Carl knew there was something glorious andmanly in facing down an enemy and conquering fear. If more such menexisted, monsters such as Hitler could never have risen to power. Peoplewould rise up and say, "Enough!" More practically, such men wouldnever live under the boot of life's ordinary bullies and bigots. This wasthe legacy Carl wished to pass on to his children before they reachedadulthood. He just hoped there could be a way to do it without war andkilling.
Then, as the boys alternated between paddling and splashing, CarlSr. heard a sound and saw a sight that stirred his soul and reawakenedlong-dormant memories; three round military parachutes popping openin the sky.
They seemed to appear from nowhere, but Carl Sr. heard the faintsound of an aircraft and searched the sky until he found it, descendingnow, but still almost two miles above them.
"Would ya look at that!" he called out to his boys and pointed withhis paddle.
"Cool!" they exclaimed. "Wow!"
The canoe drifted in the current as the Nelsons watched theparachutists descend and then disappear behind the treeline along theriver."
Wanna go check them out?" asked the father of his sons—but he'dalready made up his mind as he dug his paddle into the water.
"No way!" snorted Carl Jr.
"Really?" said Roger. "Can we?"
Carl Sr. nodded.
"Can we jump?" Carl Jr. asked slyly, thinking he knew the answer.
"Maybe," came his father's unexpected reply.
"Cool!" shouted Roger. "Then let's go!"
And with that they all dug their paddles into the water, and flewdown the river toward their pickup point, all horseplay forgotten, allsplashing truly accidental.
Carl Sr., was at the wheel of the family car as they approached thegrass strip and small hangar grandiosely labeled with a hand-letteredwooden "airport" sign. The boys peppered their father with questions.
"How much does it cost?" Carl Jr. wanted to know.
"Don't know yet, son."
"How do we learn what to do?" asked Roger.
"Not sure, but if they do it the way I did, they'll make sure you'rein shape to do it, then teach you how to land and fall down withouthurting yourself—it's called a PLF, a parachute landing fall. Then they'llteach you how to steer the parachute and what to do if the main doesn'topen."
"But then what?" Roger persisted. "How do we actually jump?"
"With a main chute and an emergency chute and, for at least thefirst few times, you'll be attached to the plane by a 10-foot line thatautomatically opens the parachute when you hit the end of it. Prettysimple, really."
"And you did this, Dad?" asked Carl.
Carl Sr. parked next to the hangar and turned off the engine.
"A few times," he said simply.
"What happens if neither parachute works?" asked Roger.
"Then you have nothing to worry about. Just enjoy the rest of yourlife."
His father laughed. After a moment, Roger and his brother did too.Nervously.
When they got out of the truck, they saw three jumpers...
