Read Online Defender by Chris Allen - Free Book Online Page A

unyielding juggernaut. The incessant roar of the C-130 Hercules intensified its menace as it sliced through the night sky. High above, the anxious gaze of a full moon cast a ghostly aura upon the flying giant's back. And deep inside her ample belly, the paratroopers waited in silence.
    For the last time, Morgan pulled his chinstrap tabs down tight, and immediately felt the comforting pressure of his para-helmet close firmly around his head, the padded chin piece biting into the flesh of his jaw. He started working through the mental checklist of his equipment: chin strap, cape wells, chest strap, reserve hooks, reserve handle, belly band, suspension hooks, lowering device, jettison device - mirroring his thoughts by physically checking each item, the routine inspection procedure carrying him down the length and breadth of his body to the dozens of separate pieces of kit that had to be checked prior to any military parachute descent. The gear was uncomfortable, heavy, cumbersome. His 40 kilogram pack, suspended from the 'D' rings at his chest beneath the reserve chute, felt like a bank vault hanging across his aching thighs, and grew heavier as the minutes wore on. Gripped to his back, the ballast effect of the main chute was as if he was shouldering a ship's anchor, only mildly counterbalanced by the reserve on his chest. In most cases, paratroopers would leap from an aircraft carrying more weight in parachutes, equipment and weaponry, than they weighed themselves. Morgan felt weary, and was sure that, if forced to linger just another minute, his knees would finally disintegrate and he would collapse under the burden of his load. Somewhere amidst the chaos of equipment, weapons, ammunition and the harness strapping that cocooned him, a water bottle had twisted and was burying itself painfully into his flank like a football-sized tick.
    Suddenly, the Loadmaster outstretched his right arm above his head with one finger pointing skyward. "One minute!" he bellowed down the fuselage. They had done it countless times before, always under the cover of darkness, and always with the promise of a fight to welcome them when they hit the ground: shock troops - the ones who were sent in when all else had failed. History had documented that, at Arnhem, Entebbe, the Falklands and, most recently, Iraq. That was the game they'd all volunteered for, every generation, and this time was to be no different. If it was easy, anybody could do it. But, it wasn't.
    "Action stations!" cried the Loadmaster. Again, the outstretched arm.
    This time, two fingers were crossed in a tight 'X'.
    The men were on their feet, they'd already checked each other's gear: front and back, top to toe. Morgan cast a discerning eye over the faces of his troops. There was Sean Collins, just a few men ahead, barely recognisable beneath the camouflage cream and the shadows cast under his helmet by the dim red hue of the overhead cabin lights. As usual, the cold metal floor of the aircraft was awash with vomit, still detonating in florid bursts from those who, despite their seasoned experience, had been unable to control the effect that claustrophobic conditions and hours of contour flying, imposed upon the human body. And so, as always, the confined interior of the Herc hummed with retching and nervous tension. Morgan prayed for the cold comfort of exit, and the escape it would deliver from the stench and the crushing embrace of his equipment.
    It was time. From the edges of both the port and starboard para doors, red jump lights blazed into life.
    "Stand by!"
    On either side of the aircraft, the para doors were up and clear. The deafening howl of punishing, ice-cold winds screamed into the fuselage. The men automatically packed up hard against each other, facing the door, one behind the other, ready for exit. They were just seconds from the drop zone - moments from the green light, an instant away from the life-and death decision to leap into the ominous call of the