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Authors: Jim DeFelice, Larry Bond
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job.”
“You know what, Jack? I’m going to take your advice,” said Ferguson. “Tell Corrine she can look me up in Syria if she wants, because I don’t have to like it, but I have a job to do.”
I his time when he tossed the phone, he got up and left the room.
~ * ~
3
OVER SYRIA
THREE NIGHTS LATER . . .
A cold hand grabbed Thera Majed as she fell from the aircraft, wrapping itself around her throat and squeezing tightly. Her heart jumped in her chest, and she felt her eyeballs freeze over. She was breathing oxygen from a small bottle strapped to her side—a necessity when parachuting from 35,000 feet—but even her lungs felt as if they had turned to ice.
“Looking good,” yelled Ferguson over the short-range radio they were using to communicate.
Guns and Rankin had gone out first. Thera’s unfamiliarity with the procedure had cost the second pair a few extra seconds, which at four hundred knots translated into nearly two miles.
And counting.
Between the wind howling around her and the tight helmet, Ferguson’s words sounded more like “luck of gold,” and it took a few seconds for Thera to decipher what he was talking about. By the time she figured it out, the Douglas DC-9 she’d jumped out of had disappeared.
Thera struggled to get her body into the “frog” position she’d learned nearly two years before at the Army Airborne school. Since that time, she’d made no more than two dozen jumps, only three of which had been high-altitude, high-opening forays like this one, and none had been at night. Everybody said it would be easy—her body would remember how to do it once she stepped out of the plane—but the only thing her body remembered was how cold it had been . . . not half as cold as this time.
Ferguson, arms spread and legs raised as if he were a miniature aircraft, zoomed toward her. On his left wrist he wore a large altimeter, which had a sound alert wired into his helmet’s earset. On his right he had a CIPS device that looked like a large compass. An arrow dominated the dial, showing the direction to their destination and a countdown of the mileage. A pair of lightweight night-vision glasses were strapped beneath his helmet like goggles. The aircraft had been going nearly four hundred knots when they jumped out, which meant they were, too. Their trajectory to the landing zone had been calculated before takeoff, then tweaked ever so slightly a few minutes before the jump to account for the wind.
“Let her rip,” he told her, the altimeter buzzing in his ear as they fell through 30,000 feet.
Thera’s first tug on the handle was too tentative, and the parachute failed to release. But her interpretation of the problem was that she wasn’t in the proper position—true enough, as it happened, though this had nothing to do with the chute deploying—and she struggled to push her head downward and get her arms out before trying again. As she did, something whipped by and tapped her on the head.
It was Ferguson. Worried that she was having problems, he shaped his body into a delta to gain speed in her direction, then flared out to slow down. He misjudged his speed slightly in the dark as he pulled close and rather than paralleling, flew past. He recovered, sailing to the left and then back around, inching forward.
It felt like inching. In fact he was moving at over a hundred miles an hour.
“We have to pull now,” he yelled into the radio. “We’re getting off course. Hey! Hey! You ready? Ready?”
Thera thought Ferguson was the one having trouble, and she started to maneuver toward him.
“Pull!” said Ferguson, motioning at her.
She reached to the handle and yanked, feeling the gentle tug of her harness as the chute unfolded above her. And now it really was like they said it would be: her arms moved up as she took stock of the chute and herself, making sure the cells had inflated properly
“You know what, Jack? I’m going to take your advice,” said Ferguson. “Tell Corrine she can look me up in Syria if she wants, because I don’t have to like it, but I have a job to do.”
I his time when he tossed the phone, he got up and left the room.
~ * ~
3
OVER SYRIA
THREE NIGHTS LATER . . .
A cold hand grabbed Thera Majed as she fell from the aircraft, wrapping itself around her throat and squeezing tightly. Her heart jumped in her chest, and she felt her eyeballs freeze over. She was breathing oxygen from a small bottle strapped to her side—a necessity when parachuting from 35,000 feet—but even her lungs felt as if they had turned to ice.
“Looking good,” yelled Ferguson over the short-range radio they were using to communicate.
Guns and Rankin had gone out first. Thera’s unfamiliarity with the procedure had cost the second pair a few extra seconds, which at four hundred knots translated into nearly two miles.
And counting.
Between the wind howling around her and the tight helmet, Ferguson’s words sounded more like “luck of gold,” and it took a few seconds for Thera to decipher what he was talking about. By the time she figured it out, the Douglas DC-9 she’d jumped out of had disappeared.
Thera struggled to get her body into the “frog” position she’d learned nearly two years before at the Army Airborne school. Since that time, she’d made no more than two dozen jumps, only three of which had been high-altitude, high-opening forays like this one, and none had been at night. Everybody said it would be easy—her body would remember how to do it once she stepped out of the plane—but the only thing her body remembered was how cold it had been . . . not half as cold as this time.
Ferguson, arms spread and legs raised as if he were a miniature aircraft, zoomed toward her. On his left wrist he wore a large altimeter, which had a sound alert wired into his helmet’s earset. On his right he had a CIPS device that looked like a large compass. An arrow dominated the dial, showing the direction to their destination and a countdown of the mileage. A pair of lightweight night-vision glasses were strapped beneath his helmet like goggles. The aircraft had been going nearly four hundred knots when they jumped out, which meant they were, too. Their trajectory to the landing zone had been calculated before takeoff, then tweaked ever so slightly a few minutes before the jump to account for the wind.
“Let her rip,” he told her, the altimeter buzzing in his ear as they fell through 30,000 feet.
Thera’s first tug on the handle was too tentative, and the parachute failed to release. But her interpretation of the problem was that she wasn’t in the proper position—true enough, as it happened, though this had nothing to do with the chute deploying—and she struggled to push her head downward and get her arms out before trying again. As she did, something whipped by and tapped her on the head.
It was Ferguson. Worried that she was having problems, he shaped his body into a delta to gain speed in her direction, then flared out to slow down. He misjudged his speed slightly in the dark as he pulled close and rather than paralleling, flew past. He recovered, sailing to the left and then back around, inching forward.
It felt like inching. In fact he was moving at over a hundred miles an hour.
“We have to pull now,” he yelled into the radio. “We’re getting off course. Hey! Hey! You ready? Ready?”
Thera thought Ferguson was the one having trouble, and she started to maneuver toward him.
“Pull!” said Ferguson, motioning at her.
She reached to the handle and yanked, feeling the gentle tug of her harness as the chute unfolded above her. And now it really was like they said it would be: her arms moved up as she took stock of the chute and herself, making sure the cells had inflated properly
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