night.
The lights blazed green. "Green on!"
"Go!"
Without hesitation, each man in turn shuffled to the para doors. Stumbling under the weight of their gear in a macabre parody of waddling penguins, slipping on the vile carpet of vomit and spit, they scrambled for the freedom of the sky and the rollercoaster ride of the slipstream. Seconds later, Morgan was out, discarded from the bowels of the aircraft, grateful for that familiar instant release of weight, and relishing the sting of the cold, fresh air upon his face, sucking it deep into his lungs. The exhilaration of the experience found him every time, as he was thrown out into the darkness.
It was a perfect exit. Feet together, hands clasped firmly at the top of his pack and a good strong leap.
Already he was counting to himself: "1000!"
Falling. "2000!"
Falling. "3000!"
Routinely counting down until the reassuring tug of the parachute deployment and the billowing beauty of a full canopy would take control of his life and carry him safely back to earth.
"4000!"
Still falling.
Morgan felt the tug of the static line and the parachute reluctantly deploying from his back.
"5000!"
Concern. It was taking too long.
He felt the snap of the risers, and the suspension lines as they were dragged violently into the air, and then nothing.
"6000!"
Still nothing! Nothing but nerve-racking speed straight down, and the ominously mocking noise of useless silk whipping high above his head - a streamer! A totally failed canopy.
Morgan knew it couldn't be worse. He looked up again, praying to gaze up into the centre of a full and strong canopy mushrooming overhead, only to be confronted by every paratrooper's worst nightmare.
Falling, falling. Speed. Wind. Noise.
A mess of twisted risers and rigging lines engulfed his tunneled view, all the way from his helmet and upwards to the parachute skirts. There was no chance of a full, dark green dome billowing majestically on the slipstream. His retarded chute was totally collapsed, struggling to catch even the slightest breath of wind.
Dropping like a rock. Speed. Wind. Noise.
Without warning, the parachute began to disintegrate, shredding mercilessly in huge chunks under the relentless onslaught of his uncontrollable descent. Like rats from a sinking ship, great chunks of silk tore free, disappearing forever into the endless darkness of the night sky. Morgan's blood was boiling, his body's automatic response mechanisms trying desperately to ignite every instinct and skill hewn solely to ensure his survival.
Suddenly at the pitch of his struggle, clawing at the last remaining seconds of his life, Morgan caught the unmistakable image of Victor Lundt, the missing SIS agent, withdrawing back inside the Hercules, his twisted face broken in a snarl, as he pulled down the para-door hard, shutting it tight. Then the tail of the giant bird lumbered on into the night, free of its cargo, leaving Morgan behind to his fate.
Lundt? Missing, presumed dead.
Without a moment to spare, Morgan tore at the risers that extended uselessly from the harness at his shoulders to the rigging lines above. With all his strength, he grasped as tightly as he could, and tried to wrench the twisted lines apart, kicking his legs in a bizarre imitation of riding a bicycle, furiously attempting to propel his own body motion in the reverse direction of the rigging line twists.
"Come on! Come on, you bastard!" he swore through gritted teeth. The chinstrap bit into his face as he yelled, and the cruel blast of cold air stung at his eyes as the ground beneath grew imminently closer by the microsecond.
He was fighting for his life, his mind racing, searching for solutions, scanning for obstacles to his survival. He found one. His field pack! The bank vault strapped across the front of his thighs was hampering his efforts to kick free of the twists. He reached down for the release strap, fumbling clumsily in a blind search, before finding it and pulling hard. The
The lights blazed green. "Green on!"
"Go!"
Without hesitation, each man in turn shuffled to the para doors. Stumbling under the weight of their gear in a macabre parody of waddling penguins, slipping on the vile carpet of vomit and spit, they scrambled for the freedom of the sky and the rollercoaster ride of the slipstream. Seconds later, Morgan was out, discarded from the bowels of the aircraft, grateful for that familiar instant release of weight, and relishing the sting of the cold, fresh air upon his face, sucking it deep into his lungs. The exhilaration of the experience found him every time, as he was thrown out into the darkness.
It was a perfect exit. Feet together, hands clasped firmly at the top of his pack and a good strong leap.
Already he was counting to himself: "1000!"
Falling. "2000!"
Falling. "3000!"
Routinely counting down until the reassuring tug of the parachute deployment and the billowing beauty of a full canopy would take control of his life and carry him safely back to earth.
"4000!"
Still falling.
Morgan felt the tug of the static line and the parachute reluctantly deploying from his back.
"5000!"
Concern. It was taking too long.
He felt the snap of the risers, and the suspension lines as they were dragged violently into the air, and then nothing.
"6000!"
Still nothing! Nothing but nerve-racking speed straight down, and the ominously mocking noise of useless silk whipping high above his head - a streamer! A totally failed canopy.
Morgan knew it couldn't be worse. He looked up again, praying to gaze up into the centre of a full and strong canopy mushrooming overhead, only to be confronted by every paratrooper's worst nightmare.
Falling, falling. Speed. Wind. Noise.
A mess of twisted risers and rigging lines engulfed his tunneled view, all the way from his helmet and upwards to the parachute skirts. There was no chance of a full, dark green dome billowing majestically on the slipstream. His retarded chute was totally collapsed, struggling to catch even the slightest breath of wind.
Dropping like a rock. Speed. Wind. Noise.
Without warning, the parachute began to disintegrate, shredding mercilessly in huge chunks under the relentless onslaught of his uncontrollable descent. Like rats from a sinking ship, great chunks of silk tore free, disappearing forever into the endless darkness of the night sky. Morgan's blood was boiling, his body's automatic response mechanisms trying desperately to ignite every instinct and skill hewn solely to ensure his survival.
Suddenly at the pitch of his struggle, clawing at the last remaining seconds of his life, Morgan caught the unmistakable image of Victor Lundt, the missing SIS agent, withdrawing back inside the Hercules, his twisted face broken in a snarl, as he pulled down the para-door hard, shutting it tight. Then the tail of the giant bird lumbered on into the night, free of its cargo, leaving Morgan behind to his fate.
Lundt? Missing, presumed dead.
Without a moment to spare, Morgan tore at the risers that extended uselessly from the harness at his shoulders to the rigging lines above. With all his strength, he grasped as tightly as he could, and tried to wrench the twisted lines apart, kicking his legs in a bizarre imitation of riding a bicycle, furiously attempting to propel his own body motion in the reverse direction of the rigging line twists.
"Come on! Come on, you bastard!" he swore through gritted teeth. The chinstrap bit into his face as he yelled, and the cruel blast of cold air stung at his eyes as the ground beneath grew imminently closer by the microsecond.
He was fighting for his life, his mind racing, searching for solutions, scanning for obstacles to his survival. He found one. His field pack! The bank vault strapped across the front of his thighs was hampering his efforts to kick free of the twists. He reached down for the release strap, fumbling clumsily in a blind search, before finding it and pulling hard. The
Similar Books
Copper Lake Confidential
Marilyn Pappano
Chase Me (Paris Nights Book 2)
Laura Florand
Chosen Child
Linda Huber
Copping Attitude
Ava Meyers
Mimesis
Willard R. Trask Edward W. Said Erich Auerbach
The Widows’ Cafe: A Short Story
Camilla Läckberg
Around India in 80 Trains
Monisha Rajesh
On Something (Dodo Press)
Hilaire Belloc