streamed through the one-piece camouflaged undergarment made of breathable compounds laced with Kevlar fibers, designed to keep the jumper comfortable but armored, ready for combat.
He frowned, realizing that the only thing in his possession that qualified as combat equipment, besides the suit, was his old trusty SOG knife from his SEAL days, which Jack had insisted on strapping to the battle dress clip on his left thigh especially made for it. He touched the handle of the sheathed seven-inch blade, verifying it was properly secured.
Giving his parachute a parting glance, Jack started for the distant tree line, feeling the soft ground beneath the spring-action soles of the carbon-fiber and rubber-compound boots integrated into his battle suit, which Angela had designed per Pentagon specifications to be worn by the jumper for the ground mission that would follow a real insertion into hostile areas.
He glanced at the sky, feeling dehydrated, wondering again what had happened, but also wishing to just be home, to be with Angie.
Jack approached a wall of tall pines separating the field from a dark road, one lane going in each direction divided by a narrow grassy medium.
Slowly, cautiously, he crossed the twenty-some-feet of forest, amid waist-high bushes, stepped onto a gravel shoulder, and just stood there staring at the dark road, trying to decide which way to turn. Since he landed just northeast of Orlando, that meant Cocoa Beach was to the south. But he lacked a compass or a working GPS.
When all else fails, you still have the stars.
Glancing back at the heavens, he ignored the moon and looked for the Big Dipper, spotting it high up in the northern sky and nearly vertical with the bowl at the bottom pointing to Polaris, the North Star, which formed the very tip of the handle of the Little Dipper, also vertical but with its bowl at the top. Tonight everything looked about the same as last night, when he had stared at the stars on the way to the Cape, though for some reason he thought that the stars had shifted a bit more than normal for just one dayâs difference.
Maybe itâs just my imagination.
Or ⦠maybe I really did drift way off course.
And that could at least explain the lack of cloud coverage.
He remembered dropping out of the sky into a blanket of lightning resembling Claudette. Could it be possible that he caught the leading edge of the storm and somehow got caught in its southerly winds in the stratosphere?
But where did it push me? Miami?
He shook his head. This certainly didnât look like Miami or the Everglades.
What if it pushed me farther south ⦠like, to Cuba?
That would explain why there was no one here greeting him and why he could see the stars and the moon. Claudetteâs track kept it clear off Cuba and the tip of Florida.
Shit!
He stared at the road again, but with different eyes. There was a chance he was no longer in the United States but perhaps in Cuba, wearing this damned high-tech suit.
At least you didnât splash down in the middle of the ocean, he thought, deciding to look at the bright side of this surreal event. Besides, he had been in far more exotic destinations during his years with the SEALs, from deep in the Colombian bush taking out drug lords, to the mountains of Afghanistan smoking Taliban commanders.
His SEAL training took over, forcing him to accept the undeniable meteorological facts while ignoring the gastronomical chaos in his stomach.
He retreated to the safety of the tree line, fingers brushing the handle of his SOG knife, still secured to his left thigh, but suddenly wishing that this jump had included some of the high-tech weaponry that the DOD was developing to arm the new generation of orbital soldiers.
Jack needed to reassess his next move while further inspecting the road, looking for any sign that would tell him where he was.
But he saw nothing. Just an empty, dark road.
He waited, remembering the passing lights of
He frowned, realizing that the only thing in his possession that qualified as combat equipment, besides the suit, was his old trusty SOG knife from his SEAL days, which Jack had insisted on strapping to the battle dress clip on his left thigh especially made for it. He touched the handle of the sheathed seven-inch blade, verifying it was properly secured.
Giving his parachute a parting glance, Jack started for the distant tree line, feeling the soft ground beneath the spring-action soles of the carbon-fiber and rubber-compound boots integrated into his battle suit, which Angela had designed per Pentagon specifications to be worn by the jumper for the ground mission that would follow a real insertion into hostile areas.
He glanced at the sky, feeling dehydrated, wondering again what had happened, but also wishing to just be home, to be with Angie.
Jack approached a wall of tall pines separating the field from a dark road, one lane going in each direction divided by a narrow grassy medium.
Slowly, cautiously, he crossed the twenty-some-feet of forest, amid waist-high bushes, stepped onto a gravel shoulder, and just stood there staring at the dark road, trying to decide which way to turn. Since he landed just northeast of Orlando, that meant Cocoa Beach was to the south. But he lacked a compass or a working GPS.
When all else fails, you still have the stars.
Glancing back at the heavens, he ignored the moon and looked for the Big Dipper, spotting it high up in the northern sky and nearly vertical with the bowl at the bottom pointing to Polaris, the North Star, which formed the very tip of the handle of the Little Dipper, also vertical but with its bowl at the top. Tonight everything looked about the same as last night, when he had stared at the stars on the way to the Cape, though for some reason he thought that the stars had shifted a bit more than normal for just one dayâs difference.
Maybe itâs just my imagination.
Or ⦠maybe I really did drift way off course.
And that could at least explain the lack of cloud coverage.
He remembered dropping out of the sky into a blanket of lightning resembling Claudette. Could it be possible that he caught the leading edge of the storm and somehow got caught in its southerly winds in the stratosphere?
But where did it push me? Miami?
He shook his head. This certainly didnât look like Miami or the Everglades.
What if it pushed me farther south ⦠like, to Cuba?
That would explain why there was no one here greeting him and why he could see the stars and the moon. Claudetteâs track kept it clear off Cuba and the tip of Florida.
Shit!
He stared at the road again, but with different eyes. There was a chance he was no longer in the United States but perhaps in Cuba, wearing this damned high-tech suit.
At least you didnât splash down in the middle of the ocean, he thought, deciding to look at the bright side of this surreal event. Besides, he had been in far more exotic destinations during his years with the SEALs, from deep in the Colombian bush taking out drug lords, to the mountains of Afghanistan smoking Taliban commanders.
His SEAL training took over, forcing him to accept the undeniable meteorological facts while ignoring the gastronomical chaos in his stomach.
He retreated to the safety of the tree line, fingers brushing the handle of his SOG knife, still secured to his left thigh, but suddenly wishing that this jump had included some of the high-tech weaponry that the DOD was developing to arm the new generation of orbital soldiers.
Jack needed to reassess his next move while further inspecting the road, looking for any sign that would tell him where he was.
But he saw nothing. Just an empty, dark road.
He waited, remembering the passing lights of
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