The Cloud Atlas

“But this is a big chance for us-it's in excellent condition.” The pilot didn't reply, and then I heard a burst of gunfire. The entire plane shook, and for a moment, I thought we had been hit.

“Bad news, Sergeant,” the pilot said. “It's in lousy condition.” I went to the blister. The balloon had already dropped from sight; a surprisingly thin plume of smoke was all that remained.

“Did you hit the basket or the balloon?” I asked. There was still a chance we might recover something.

“It's not that big a target,” said the pilot. He banked so I could see the balloon, which had plummeted into lighter-green waters just off the island's coast. “I can't really say we were aiming for one or the other.” The plane pulled up. We were heading home.

“We can't leave,” I said quickly. “It's in shallow water. What if someone finds it, what if one of the bombs attached hasn't exploded? What if it went off and killed them?”

“I can drop you off, Sergeant.” The pilot laughed. “Answer all your questions.” I heard him radioing coded results of our mission back to base. I was feverish not to return. The balloon I'd seen-it wasn't just a balloon, it was magic, or more. Not just my magic. The magic of an entire nation-Japan had managed to send a bomb several thousand miles, from their shores to ours-and the magic of a palm reader in Anchorage, the magic of a whisper, a touch. I did want to see that balloon, and desperately. Not because I wanted evidence for Gurley but because-because it was somehow the gateway to another world, a world I had invented, or that Lily had invented for me. And if I could grasp some piece of that world-that balloon-I'd make the dream real. I would prove to myself that all the rest of this awful dream- Alaska, Gurley, war-was controllable by me as well.

Or I would die in the attempt, which struck me as both noble and expedient. At least God wouldn't take me for a coward, which I was sure was what He thought when I ducked the seminary. (Don't smirk-He watched my every move in those days.) I cinched tight the parachute I'd been issued.

I had never leapt out of a plane before. Parachuting had been offered as part of our training, but few men took the course who were not required to. “Why jump out of a perfectly good airplane?” I heard a flight surgeon once ask. And the PBY didn't make the task easy-it was built to float, after all, and so holes in the fuselage were few. If I wanted out, it looked like I'd have to wriggle out the blister.

But I was invincible now, full of faith and magic. I could escape the PBY, and I could master the art of jumping after exiting the plane. I ducked quickly to read the emergency instructions I'd seen before and then reached up to open the blister.

The crewman at my right pulled at me. I elbowed him away. Another man came from the left. I kicked.

The pilot started shouting in my headset. “Don't go batty on me, Sergeant. You're not going anywhere. For starters, I can't afford to lose that headset you're wearing.” I handed it off. I heaved myself up into the blister opening. The harness caught on something. The wind tore at me. The air was freezing. The men behind me were grabbing at my feet, my legs. I lost a boot to one of them and then the other.

One or two bruising kicks later, the wind snatched me away. The last thing I heard was “Head!” I looked up to see the tail assembly flash past my nose. And then I was flying, as free and fast as a shaman.

WHEN HE LATER HEARD about it, Gurley could not believe that I had jumped out of the plane. Neither could I, nor had I, technically speaking. I had kicked myself halfway out, but the wind had ripped me the rest of the way. It could as easily have been Lily's hand pulling me earthward, as surely as she had pulled me toward Shuyak when she whispered in my ear.

And some spirit was with me that day. As chance would have it, the plane was flying slowly enough for someone who knew how to jump, to jump. And parachutes are not so complicated that a man of great faith cannot come to a decision as to which toggle to pull and deploy his parachute. Had I known a little more, however, I might have been able to actually land myself on the slip of rocky shore. Instead, I plunged into the ocean. Just fifty or so yards offshore-swimmable, were I in the summertime waters of my childhood Pacific Ocean, but here, the ocean was December cold and patrolled by what looked like, at first glance, miniature enemy submarines (they were, in fact, sea lions).

The pilot later told Gurley-who told me-that, all in all, it was a good thing I landed in the water. For one, I had deployed my chute late; I would have broken bones on land. And two, he likely would not have turned back to collect me had I landed on the island. Rather, he would have dropped supplies and called for a rescue mission. Any idiot-here Gurley must have smiled-could survive for a night or two.