Star empires dominion, p.23
TROPIC ENVY: A Luke Angel Mystery (Archangel Aviation Thrillers Book 4), page 23
TROPIC ENVY
A LUKE ANGEL MYSTERY
NATE VAN COOPS
Copyright © 2026 by Nathan Van Coops
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred. The flying procedures in this story are also fictitious and should not be interpreted as recommended practice.
Cover designed by Damonza.
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-950669-32-5
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-950669-33-2
Hardcover ISBN: 978-1-950669-34-9
To inquire about the availability of film or television rights, send email to: inquiries@nathanvancoops.com
For Marguerite Van Coops and Marilyn Bourdeau, two women who inspire me to create from the heart.
CONTENTS
1. Free Fall
2. Jump Scare
3. Whump
4. Checkrides
5. Old Man Syndrome
6. Breeze
7. Rip
8. Phoenix
9. Splash
10. Last Good Day
11. Red And Blue
12. Smeared
13. Invite
14. Tested
15. What’s Up, Doc?
16. Soirée
17. High-Rise
18. Sloshed
19. Chase
20. Tanked
21. Dismissal
22. Saturday
23. Fight Night
24. The Irish
25. Night Owls
26. Reversal
27. Mocktail
28. Defense
29. Copies
30. Popped
31. Last Bad Day
32. Cooler
33. Top Down
34. Team Up
35. Boarded
36. Warning Lights
37. Pursuit
38. Venice
39. Airport Rodeo
40. Incursion
41. Runway Closed
42. Breathe Easy
43. Memorial
44. Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Influencer
Charline Miquel
Emily Herron
Rachael Cardoso
Liam Hawkins
Emma Bryan
Alexandra Gabrielle
Mia Anderson
About The Author
Also by Nate Van Coops
ONE
FREE FALL
Falling out of an airplane is the number one stunt Americans associate with thrill-seeking.
The cocky call it “jumping” to claim a sense of control, but let’s be honest, gravity reigns undefeated.
For a pilot, jumping out of a perfectly good airplane is akin to buying a ticket aboard a cruise ship because you’re excited to try the lifeboats.
The most frequent reasons I’d worn parachutes in my life thus far had been because A: Uncle Sam had told me to, or B: I was doing aerobatics in an airplane that the Feds might ramp check, and I had to play by the regs.
Now I had occasion C.
Hank Martin’s eighty-sixth birthday.
The old man had declared that if George H.W. Bush had done it at ninety, then by God, he certainly could manage at eighty-six. He wasn’t about to be outdone by any politician, especially an Astros fan.
Hank’s wife, Maddie Coleman-Martin, looked me dead in the eye and said, “Luke Angel, I’m trusting you with this one. ’Cause Lord knows, I’m not going.”
So here I was, along with a half dozen other friends Hank had roped into the celebration.
We lingered on the turf at KZPH—Zephyrhills Municipal Airport—waiting for our jump with Skydive America. They operated a fleet of planes that included a pair of DHC-6 Twin Otters, a Pilatus PC-12, and a Cessna Grand Caravan. We’d all signed liability waivers longer than The Constitution and were now waiting for our chance to board.
“How come you aren’t wearing one of these funky tracksuits with your parachute?” Tyson asked, comparing his purple-and-teal jumpsuit to my tactical pants and Archangel Aviation T-shirt. The youngest mechanic on my crew was also Hank’s grandson, so his attendance had been mandatory.
“Jumpsuits are optional,” I said.
“What? They never told me that! Here I’m dressed like I got sneezed out of a nineties Taco Bell, and you look like your normal self.”
“The jumpsuit keeps your clothes from getting scraped up on landing if you skid in on your ass.”
“So you’re saying I’m gonna suck at this.”
“You’ll be fine.”
His eyes widened. “Wait. Then how come none of them look like neon clowns?” He pointed to two members of our group walking up in trendy black jumpsuits with sleek helmets under their arms. The guy was tall, lean, and handsome, with a bright smile on display as he laughed with the stylish blonde beside him. Despite the heat, they looked like they hadn’t shed a drop of sweat.
The guy’s name was Jason Evan Brooks II, and he was a corporate pilot I’d known for years. He asked everyone to call him “Brooks.” He’d been chief pilot during the era Hank had been running the flight school but had since moved on. The twenty-something young woman beside him was new to me, though clearly a veteran skydiver. Her rig was top-notch, and her jumpsuit was embroidered with the initials SJN.
“Who’s that?” I asked Tyson.
“You don’t know?” He arched an eyebrow.
“You must be the only one.” This comment came from the vicinity of my right elbow, and I looked down to discover the petite figure of Nina Yee had appeared beside me, also dressed in a teal-and-purple rental jumpsuit—though hers might have been a kid’s size. She’d worked the front counter at the Bayside flight school since high school, and had been training there for years on the side. “That’s Sierra Noble,” she explained. “She’s got more social media followers than Tom Cruise.”
“Sounds implausible,” I said.
“Well, if you base it on engagement,” Nina clarified.
“You’ve lost me.”
“Shit, man. Bet she’s gonna film this whole jump for her YouTube channel,” Tyson said. “I’m gonna be in a tier one aviation influencer’s video for the first time in my life, and it’s gonna show me wiggling around on some dude’s front like a chest hair. I knew I shoulda taken the solo jump training.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Based on the ratio of female jump instructors I’ve seen here, there’s a fair chance you’ll be strapped to a woman’s chest. Like a GoPro. Or a papoose.”
“You’re not making this better, man.”
“And you’re being sexist,” Nina added, “Suggesting it’s a woman’s job to hold babies. Also, using the term ‘papoose’ might be cultural appropriation. I’m not sure. I’d have to check.”
“Should I just leave the parachute here and jump from the plane without it?” I asked. “Save the internet the trouble of cancelling me?”
“Probably,” Tyson replied. “Good thing you’re not on the socials.”
But he stopped talking when Brooks and the influencer in question joined us.
“Luke. Thought you only landed in water these days,” Brooks said. “Somebody fish you out of a lake for this?”
“I was all for celebrating on a beach with a margarita, but when the big man says jump, we jump. Literally, it seems.”
“Oh, that’s right. He’s your landlord too, isn’t he?” Brooks asked. “Heard you were still squatting on his yacht.”
“I’ve had worse setups.” I turned my attention to the blonde. “Hi. I’m Luke.”
She extended a hand. “Sierra. You’re the one with the Grumman seaplane I’ve heard about. Is it a Goose?”
“Mallard,” I said.
“Brooks told me you have a charter service out of Albert Whitted with it. That’s so cool. Those big radial engines? And from an airport with so much history. Talk about nostalgic.”
“He likes getting his passengers there an hour later than necessary,” Brooks said.
“And deaf,” I added. I gestured toward the Pilatus on tie down. “You flying us up there today, Brooks? You’re rated in a PC-12, aren’t you?”
“I’ve moved up to the jet,” he said. “Unless these guys want to give me my 2K a day. Then sure, I’ll fly it.”
“Must be nice,” Nina said.
“Hi, Nina,” Brooks grinned at her. “You’ll get there one of these days, kid. You’re on the right track. I’ll save a spot for you to ride shotgun in the PC-24 anytime you like.”
Nina blushed and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Okay.”
Sierra studied Nina. “You ready to be a rule-breaker with me?”
“Who, me?”
“The state of Florida still has a law that says it’s illegal for women to skydive on a Sunday. Today, you and I are going to be outlaws. And I’m going to highlight the antiquated sexism in my video and see if we can get the law off the books. Maybe we’ll get some other women fired up about it too. And the qua lity men, of course,” she added. She elbowed Brooks. “Right?”
Brooks popped a mint into his mouth. “Hell no. Let’s keep all these pesky women home on Sundays. Sounds perfect.”
Sierra swatted him.
“Speaking of quality men, have you met Tyson?” I asked. “He’s a bit of an influencer too. I’d bet he’d love getting fired up with you.”
Sierra gave Tyson a smile. “Very cool. Have I seen your content somewhere?”
Tyson just stared for a long moment, then finally some words came out. “Yeah. I mean, I do some reels of . . . plane . . . stuff—”
Just then, a tall female jump instructor walked up and tapped him on the shoulder. “You ready to get cinched up? I need to get you into your tandem harness.”
Tyson groaned.
“Okay, I guess we’ll see you guys onboard, huh?” Sierra said. She gave me a nod and winked at Nina, then she and Brooks headed for the plane. They were soon laughing about something.
“I think I’ll go chuteless with you,” Tyson said. “She was probably recording that whole thing. I’m dead. It’s over.”
I slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’re about to jump out of an airplane. We’ll have fun or die trying.”
The rest of our group headed our way too. Hank looked good, hooked into his tandem harness and sporting a cheap pair of rental goggles. At his age, he didn’t rely on fashion to maintain his style. He could have made a cardboard box look distinguished. He was going to be strapped to Tom “Ripcord” Wilson, my senior mechanic and the most seasoned skydiver of the group. He’d logged over three thousand jumps in his forty-odd years in aviation. If any of us were going to struggle, it wasn’t going to be Rip.
The Twin Otter they were using today taxied near and we loaded in. One other face I recognized in our group was that of Chase Dempsey, one of the Bayside Flyers flight instructors. He’d given Tyson some of his primary instruction, and we knew each other in passing from the airfield, but I didn’t know him well. He held a Celsius energy drink in one hand and was lugging a cooler with the other.
“You need a hand with that?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I felt the weight of the cooler. “You must be thirsty.”
“It’s a long ride up to thirteen-five. And Rip swears by ’em.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” I said. Our hangar fridge at work was continually stocked with various brands of energy drinks thanks to Rip’s enthusiasm for caffeine.
Thirteen-thousand-five-hundred feet was the target altitude we’d climb to before jumping. Aviation regs stated that flight in a non-pressurized aircraft above twelve thousand feet for more than half an hour required the use of supplemental oxygen, so thirteen-five was about as high as the pilots of the aircraft could get us and still have adequate time to get back down below twelve thousand before the thirty minutes was up.
There was supplemental oxygen aboard in the form of small portable tanks, but most people didn’t need them for such a brief climb. Even so, I took a spot on the floor near Hank and kept an eye on him as we ascended. He may have believed himself undiminished by age, but if he had a health complication on this flight, Maddie would have my ass.
Tyson sat on my other side with his eyes glued to the Otter’s jump door. Huddled on the floor of the plane in a circle, things were getting real, and the idea of jumping out of an airplane hits harder once you’re inside and contemplating your exit options.
“Doing okay?” I asked.
Tyson’s eyes stayed wide. “Yeah. No problem,” he shouted back over the noise of the engines. “This’ll be cake.”
Chase opened the cooler. “I propose a toast. To the man of the hour!”
Hank raised a hand. “The birthday boy. That’s me.”
The open cooler revealed a mix of energy drinks and sodas with a few waters and seltzers thrown in.
“You forgot the beers,” Brooks said.
Chase offered the cooler to Hank and Rip first, then we each took turns choosing something. I settled for a Sprite.
Chase lifted his Celsius. “To Hank. The reason so many of us have jobs in this crazy, awesome career.”
“Hear, hear!” Sierra shouted.
“You are all my proof I did something right in life,” Hank shouted over the noise.
“You may be old, but you’ve got cool friends,” Brooks said.
“Who you calling old? In a minute you’re gonna see this old dog’s still got a few tricks in him yet.”
Our drinks met in a salute in the center of the circle for the cheers, and even the jump instructors joined in.
Above ten thousand feet, we jostled into our exit positions. Sierra ended up next to me. She’d donned a pair of sleek-looking goggles but was having trouble getting them to go on inside of her jump helmet. The helmet already had a visor, so the goggles seemed redundant.
“Double wind protection?” I asked.
“They’re a prototype,” she said. “Friend of mine gave me a pair to promote for his startup. But I didn’t realize they’d feel so bulky inside the helmet. I’ll have to tell him. You want to try them? They give you in-flight data.”
“Like what?”
“Look and see.” She handed over the goggles and I slipped them on. She wasn’t kidding. They were smart lenses and mimicked a military-style heads-up display with altitude information, ground speed, and even an artificial horizon.
“Hang on,” I said. “Is that traffic?”
Even though I was looking at Sierra, there was a virtual dot in the distance showing as an airplane.
“It projects the traffic data from the app on my phone. Cool, right?”
“Amazing.”
She pressed something on her phone screen and a little camera icon appeared in my peripheral vision.
“You can be my bonus cameraman today.” She reached up and adjusted them on my face. “Just don’t lose them. Pretty sure they’re like five grand.”
“Noted.” It was a fancy upgrade from the altimeter already mounted to my wrist, and probably overkill, but having options never hurt.
Next I knew, the red jump run light was on and we were shepherded toward the door.
The light turned green, indicating the aircraft had reached the jump zone.
The tandems were due out first.
I slapped Rip on the shoulder. “You two all set?”
“Totally chill, man,” he replied. “Feeling Zen to the max right now.”
“He’s the calm one,” Hank said. “I’m pumped!”
Rip pointed to me. “Remember, there’s no AAD in that swooping rig. We all pull at five thousand. Scenic cruise down.”
“Got it,” I said. “No worries.” The AAD or Automatic Activation Device came standard in a lot of other rigs, but at least I had a manual reserve should I need it.
Chase and his instructor went out first.
Behind them, the woman jumping with Tyson guided him to the open door.
“Hang on, I’m not sure this is a great ide—aaaaaaah!” Tyson shouted as they vanished out of the plane.
Nina and her instructor went out silent but smiling.
Hank and Rip reached the door next. Hank gave a big thumbs up, then a whoop as they went out. Rip threw up a pair of “hang-loose” Shaka gestures as they fell.
Next came the solo acts.
“Ladies first,” I said to Sierra and let her go ahead of me.
I found the sight of human bodies hurling themselves into the wind was giving me the same rush it had the first time I’d made a jump. These friends weren’t wearing fatigues, but the sensation was the same.
Sierra went out, then I was at the door, heart pounding. The trick is you just keep walking.
I gave one last pat to the straps of my chute for luck, then stepped out into open air.
Free fall would only last about a minute.
But a lot can happen in sixty seconds.
TWO
JUMP SCARE
The thing you don’t anticipate the first time you free fall from an airplane is the noise. We might have left the high-pitched whine of the aircraft’s turboprop engines behind, but traveling at one-hundred-and-twenty miles an hour through the atmosphere is the auditory equivalent of confronting a chainsaw with your face. Anyone who’s ever raced down a freeway on a motorcycle can tell you with some accuracy how the velocity of the air can siphon tears from your eyes and relocate your cheeks to your temples.
