Read Online Nature of the Game by James Grady - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Grady
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plane shuddered as its payload sailed down to earth.
Cold . Jud was so cold.
Cramped, sitting on the bomb-bay rack, heâd been embraced by the cold, numbed by it and by the drone of the jetâs engines. The metallic air he breathed through his oxygen mask chilled his lungs. When the bomb-bay doors cranked open, heâd looked through the steel catwalk under his boots, watched giant, finned barrels roll out into blackness.
One one-thousand. Two one-thousand.
The bomb-bay doors stayed open. In the dim red light, Jud imagined he could see through the goggles and oxygen masks to the eyes of the five men sitting beside him. The four Nungs would show all white. Their throats were dry, like his; their pants wet, like his wanted to be. Next to them was Curtain, the one-one to Judâs one-zero. Curtain was second-in-command. He and Jud filled out the crewâs official full-strength quota, in case Uncle Hoâs boys got lucky with one of their Soviet surface-to-air missles and they had to play it as a normal mission. And donât think about the Nungs, donât think about what would happen to them in the chaos between enemy hit and bailout or impact.
What are you thinking, Curtain? Jud wondered. Whatâs in your heart?
Twenty-three one-thousand. Twenty-four one-thousand.
Curtain could see no better in the light silence than Jud. He was just as cold. God knows what the Nungs feel , thought Jud. This must be colder than any grave they ever dreamt .
Thirty-one one-thousand. Thirty-two one-thousand.
The plane arced, turned south and west, pushing Jud back against his main parachute. G forces sucked Judâs aching guts.
Forty-two one-thousand. Forty-three one-thousand.
Back toward the tail, in the swirling blackness below: silent orange mushroom flashes.
Everythingâs fine , thought Jud. He remembered a sign on the door of the restaurant where heâd worked during high school: PROPER ATTIRE REQUIRED . No shit , thought Jud.
That night Jud wore full thermal long underwear. Double socks. Nylon gloves covered by wool gloves with the fingers cut outârisky but heâd need the flexibility. Next came black ski gloves. Jud had the sergeant major wrap black duct tape from the nylon cuff of each ski glove to Judâs forearms. They knew about another mission in which the wind had ripped the team leaderâs right glove off at 40,000 feet. His Number Two had seen it go, seen the leaderâs hand curl and crack and his fingers freeze solid, snap off. The man went into shock, tumbled in without pulling a cord. No one on his team would die that way, vowed Jud. Over his thermals, Jud wore a black jumpsuit with black zippers, Velcro flaps. Jungle boots. Over his head, Jud slipped a skintight black hood, with eye holes and mouth slit. A second hood went over that, then an extralarge jump helmet.
âYour HALO gear costs two-plus grand,â the instructor had announced during training. âSecure your DZ, then bury that shit.â
Jud strapped an altimeter to each wrist, stuffed a third one into a chest pocket, fastened the Velcro of the pocket shut, and tied the altimeterâs cord around his neck. The wind ate the only altimeter carried by Milder, so heâd had to guess when to pull. He guessed wrong, popped open a mile too high (falling at 185 mph, who could blame him?)âwhich meant a patrol spotted him. The patrol missed seeing the rest of the team drop, and they got Milder back, but it cost the mission and an arm for Milder.
They wouldnât hit the ground. Not at first. First was the jungle, five canopy layers, steam rising from emerald-green trees full of bone-eating bugs and ten-step snakes. Perfumed flowers and rotting swamp. Tigers usually werenât a problem. Theyâd crash through the trees until the branches grabbed the chutes and left them dangling, swinging in the moonless night while monkeys screamed and birds took wing and God please let any patrols think
Cold . Jud was so cold.
Cramped, sitting on the bomb-bay rack, heâd been embraced by the cold, numbed by it and by the drone of the jetâs engines. The metallic air he breathed through his oxygen mask chilled his lungs. When the bomb-bay doors cranked open, heâd looked through the steel catwalk under his boots, watched giant, finned barrels roll out into blackness.
One one-thousand. Two one-thousand.
The bomb-bay doors stayed open. In the dim red light, Jud imagined he could see through the goggles and oxygen masks to the eyes of the five men sitting beside him. The four Nungs would show all white. Their throats were dry, like his; their pants wet, like his wanted to be. Next to them was Curtain, the one-one to Judâs one-zero. Curtain was second-in-command. He and Jud filled out the crewâs official full-strength quota, in case Uncle Hoâs boys got lucky with one of their Soviet surface-to-air missles and they had to play it as a normal mission. And donât think about the Nungs, donât think about what would happen to them in the chaos between enemy hit and bailout or impact.
What are you thinking, Curtain? Jud wondered. Whatâs in your heart?
Twenty-three one-thousand. Twenty-four one-thousand.
Curtain could see no better in the light silence than Jud. He was just as cold. God knows what the Nungs feel , thought Jud. This must be colder than any grave they ever dreamt .
Thirty-one one-thousand. Thirty-two one-thousand.
The plane arced, turned south and west, pushing Jud back against his main parachute. G forces sucked Judâs aching guts.
Forty-two one-thousand. Forty-three one-thousand.
Back toward the tail, in the swirling blackness below: silent orange mushroom flashes.
Everythingâs fine , thought Jud. He remembered a sign on the door of the restaurant where heâd worked during high school: PROPER ATTIRE REQUIRED . No shit , thought Jud.
That night Jud wore full thermal long underwear. Double socks. Nylon gloves covered by wool gloves with the fingers cut outârisky but heâd need the flexibility. Next came black ski gloves. Jud had the sergeant major wrap black duct tape from the nylon cuff of each ski glove to Judâs forearms. They knew about another mission in which the wind had ripped the team leaderâs right glove off at 40,000 feet. His Number Two had seen it go, seen the leaderâs hand curl and crack and his fingers freeze solid, snap off. The man went into shock, tumbled in without pulling a cord. No one on his team would die that way, vowed Jud. Over his thermals, Jud wore a black jumpsuit with black zippers, Velcro flaps. Jungle boots. Over his head, Jud slipped a skintight black hood, with eye holes and mouth slit. A second hood went over that, then an extralarge jump helmet.
âYour HALO gear costs two-plus grand,â the instructor had announced during training. âSecure your DZ, then bury that shit.â
Jud strapped an altimeter to each wrist, stuffed a third one into a chest pocket, fastened the Velcro of the pocket shut, and tied the altimeterâs cord around his neck. The wind ate the only altimeter carried by Milder, so heâd had to guess when to pull. He guessed wrong, popped open a mile too high (falling at 185 mph, who could blame him?)âwhich meant a patrol spotted him. The patrol missed seeing the rest of the team drop, and they got Milder back, but it cost the mission and an arm for Milder.
They wouldnât hit the ground. Not at first. First was the jungle, five canopy layers, steam rising from emerald-green trees full of bone-eating bugs and ten-step snakes. Perfumed flowers and rotting swamp. Tigers usually werenât a problem. Theyâd crash through the trees until the branches grabbed the chutes and left them dangling, swinging in the moonless night while monkeys screamed and birds took wing and God please let any patrols think
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