Soar (21 page)

The troops pulled the arming pins from their ARR assemblies, performed buddy checks, then signaled Yates with upturned thumbs.

“PRICE check,” the sergeant major growled into his mike.

Wei-Liu turned to find Ritzik and shrugged when she caught his eye.

Ritzik reached around and brought them face-to-face. “It’s an acronym we use to examine our O-two systems: pressure, regulator, indicator, connections, and emergency equipment.” He tapped each element on her gear as he spoke the word. “You’re good to go, ma’am.”

31,500 Feet Above Kumblun, China.
1810 Hours Kazakhstan Time (2010 Hours Local Time).

R
ITZIK CHECKED
the global-positioning-unit readout on his PDA, then shifted screens to make sure the convoy was more or less where it should have been. It was. He pressed his transmit button and said, “TOC, Skyhorse Element.”

“Skyhorse, TOC.” Roger Brian’s voice was five-by-five.

“Sit-rep, Dodger.”

“No news. Are you getting picture?”

“Affirmative. Anything from home base?” Ritzik would have liked to hear that Langley was finally doing its share of the work.

“Nothing new.”

So much for interagency cooperation. “What’s the imagery?”

Dodger said, “No changes. Changii is quiet. No other developments.”

“Roger that. Skyhorse out.”

Ritzik changed frequencies so he was on the insertion element’s net. He looked up the aisle. Talgat emerged from the cockpit, his arm extended, his thumb upraised.

There were less than sixteen minutes to go.

He looked at his men as they ran their hands over one another’s web gear, weapons, and combat packs, checking and double-checking. Until now, they’d been quiet, each one lost in his own thoughts. That was SOR They’d been preparing themselves mentally for the challenges: working out emergency scenarios, running flight sequences, dealing with the absolute certainty of the uncertainties that make up the practice of warfare.

Now they’d become decidedly animated: their eyes were wide, their respiration shallow but accelerated. It was the body’s way of dealing with the imminent physical dangers: depressurization, the shock of subfreezing air, the blackness of the void outside the aircraft’s hull, the total aloneness of HAHO insertion.

Like them, Ritzik’s breath was thin. There was a knot in his gut, too, and his sphincter was tight—all normal reactions prior to the stress of combat. He could feel the beat of his heart, rushing, and he fought to control it. There’d be enough time for a huge adrenaline surge once they’d exited the plane.

29,500 Feet Above Subexi,
China. 2019 Hours Local Time.

T
ALGAT CAME AFT
,
his O
₂
bottle dangling from the waist strap of his harness. He threaded his way past the Soldiers and made his way to the rear door of the aircraft. He straddled the curved metal sluice. “Time to depressurize,” he called out, and reached for the door handle.

From the middle of the aircraft, Rowdy shouted, “Talgat.
Tokhta
—stop.
Qozghama
—don’t move!”

The Kazakh froze.

Quickly, Yates unplugged from the prebreather, thrust his O
₂
hose connector into the jump bottle’s regulator, and pushed aft. He withdrew the demonstrator seat belts, looped one of them around the back strap of Talgat’s harness, then pulled it tight. Then he buckled the male end of the second belt to the buckle end of the loop and ran the loose end to the closest seat, where he snapped it into a seat-belt buckle. He slammed Umarov on the chest. “Now,” he shouted. “Now you’re safe.” He motioned to the Kazakh, instructing him where to stand. “Stay there—and open the door when I give you the signal, okay?”

Umarov saw that Yates had taken him out of the door’s path and gave the American a thumbs-up.
“Maqul
—okay.”

27,500 Feet Above Tashik Tash,
China. 2023 Hours Local Time.

N
OW YATES
’
S EYES
turned to Ritzik. The major had attached his harness to Wei-Liu’s, and he had to contort his body so that he could be seen clearly. Yates shouted, “We’re ready, Loner.”

They heard the change in turbine pitch as Shingis throttled back to slow the aircraft down. Ritzik took a quick glance at his GPS. He focused on the coordinates, calculated, raised his arms above his head, and held all ten gloved fingers up where everyone could see them. Then he folded one finger, and then another, and then another, and another. When his left hand displayed only four, Rowdy turned, pointed toward the rear as if he were leading a cavalry charge, and screamed, “Talgat—
go!”

The Kazakh threw the thick handle to the left. The door blew inward, smashing into the rear bulkhead. The loss of heat and pressure was immediate, palpable. Wei-Liu’s ears popped painfully. She saw Rowdy, Gene Shepard, and the one they called Goose wince, too. The plane vibrated violently from the stress to its airframe. It bucked and twisted left, then right, before regaining level flight. The noise from the three rear-mounted engines was overwhelming.

The interior lights went out, plunging the cabin into darkness. From his position in the aisle, Curtis Hansen produced two pairs of chem-lights. He twisted them, then shoved them between seat backs and cushions, providing the aisle with a path of glowing red light.

Doc Masland, who stood just forward of Umarov, snared the door handle and secured it with a long Velcro strap to the closest seat arm. He stepped in front of the Kazakh and, leaning into the darkness, peered out to make sure that the rear stairway had extended properly.

Masland shouted something, but his voice was lost in the roar of wind and turbine scream inside the plane. The vibration increased now, keeping them all off balance, as if the plane were driving on cobblestones. Masland reached back, waved at his comrade, then reached for the leading edge of the metal sluice and pulled it aft. As Masland pulled, Curtis Hansen pushed. The pair of them muscled the sluice onto the top end of the extended folding stairway. Then, with the Kazakh’s help, they forced the concave sheet into the blackness, covering the treads of the descending stairway with a smooth slide. Only the wide flanged end of the slide prevented the whole apparatus from slipping past the top banister of the stairway railing and falling.

The Yak shuddered once more as Shingis banked the plane ninety degrees to the left, turning from south to east.

The unsecured metal slide shifted by twenty-five degrees
and rolled in the same direction as the plane. Doc Masland lurched aft and grabbed the top-end flange. For a few seconds he seemed to have lost his grip, but he finally managed to regain control of the unwieldy slide. Without waiting for the aircraft to recover, the American ripped a Velcro strap from his coveralls, slid it through a handle welded just below the flange, turned the slide straight, wrapped the strap twice around the top banister of the stairway, and attached it to itself. Then he stepped across the aisle, knelt, and repeated the action on the opposite side.

Masland crossed back to the plane’s starboard side. He tapped Talgat’s chest with a gloved index finger, as if to say,
You …

The Kazakh tapped him back, then pointed at himself.

“Iye
—yes.” Masland mimed ripping the Velcro off.

Umarov gave him an “okay.”

Then Masland showed the Kazakh how to twist the slide so the flange wasn’t restrained by the banisters, and when Umarov indicated he’d got what the medic was trying to show him, Masland aimed a mock kick at the upper end of the slide and pantomimed the slide tumbling down.

The Kazakh indicated he understood.

Masland pointed at the exit door, swung his arm as if he were pushing it closed, and mimed securing the lock.

Umarov’s hand made a fist. His thumb stuck straight up.

Doc returned the gesture, steadying himself as Shingis deployed the flaps to slow the aircraft down.

Rowdy Yates made his way up to the rearmost row of seats. His right arm extended fully straight out from the shoulder, then bent smartly, his fingers touching his helmet as if he were saluting—the silent signal for “Move to the rear.”

The medic unhooked his safety strap, swiveled, and faced forward. Curtis Hansen waddled up directly behind
him and squeezed Masland’s right shoulder. Gene Shepard followed, squeezing Hansen’s right shoulder when he’d reached his position. He was followed by Mickey D,
Ty
Weaver, Goose Guzman, and Bill Sandman. Ritzik and Wei-Liu came next. Ritzik nudged Wei-Liu, bent down, and crushed the chem-sticks on her legs. Then he stood, reached around her, and squeezed Sandman’s shoulder. Wei-Liu squirmed out of Ritzik’s grasp and craned her neck. Joey Tuzzolino stood in back of them; Barber Sweeney brought up the rear. Tuzz grinned behind his O
₂
mask and wriggled his eyebrows at Wei-Liu. She tried to smile back.

From his position, Rowdy Yates exaggeratedly tapped his ears. One by one the Soldiers mimicked him, then turned thumbs up, signing that their comms were tuned to the insertion element’s secure net and signaling to confirm they were working.

2024.
“Stand by.” Rowdy Yates held his right arm high above his head. Wei-Liu peered forward and stretched onto her toes so she could see what was happening. She watched as Doc Masland quickly lowered his legs over the edge of the slide and grabbed the exit-stairway banisters. Then she was shoved against Bill Sandman’s parachute as the jumpers scrunched together as tightly as they could, and she lost sight of Masland altogether.

The no-smoking, seat-belt, and exit lights flashed on and off three times. Rowdy’s right hand swung downward, pointing toward the exit. And then the jumpers began to move up the aisle. The stick’s progress was far faster than Wei-Liu had thought it would be. In fact, the constant movement gave her very little time to think about what she was about to do, because it was enough of a challenge simply to put one boot in front of the other without tripping
over all the gear. She tried to remember all the things Ritzik had told her, all the things Rowdy had told her, but her mind had suddenly turned to mush.

And then Ritzik’s voice burst into her brain. “Goggles secure?”

Her head bobbed up and down. There was a red chem-light jammed into the seat on her right. “Gloves on?”

She wiggled her fingers at him. She saw a second chem-light jammed into a left-hand seat cushion.

“Remember—?? control us immediately after we exit the aircraft. As soon as we’re facedown, extend into the Frog position.”

She raised her right thumb.

“Do what I do.”

And then Bill Sandman vaulted feetfirst onto the slide, shoved himself forward, grabbed the two thin aluminum banister rails at the top of the stairway, launched himself down the slide, and vanished into the darkness. And there was nothing between her and the void but the open doorway.

All of a sudden Wei-Liu felt an enormous measure of fear; a visceral, instinctive, primeval animal terror she had never before experienced.

She pulled up short like a horse refusing a jump. “Michael, don’t let me die.”

Ritzik’s voice exploded inside her brain. “Tracy—sit.”

She did as she was told. She felt Ritzik’s body up against hers; felt his legs on her hips, her back against his chest. Well, okay, against his reserve chute. He wouldn’t let her die.

“Tracy, let go of the banisters.”

She hadn’t realized she was holding on to them; holding on for dear life. She tried to let go, but her hands wouldn’t budge.

Ritzik’s gloved hands pried her fingers open one by one. “Make fists,” he commanded.

She obeyed the voice in her brain, cursing her damnable instinctive compliance. And then his hands grasped the banister, and he was tight against her and he was pushing and pushing and all the while her legs were pumping, too, except she was trying to go backward, not forward. And then his arms were wrapped around her so tight she couldn’t budge and all of a sudden they were traveling down the slide going faster and faster and even though there was a huge amount of noise in her ears she could hear her heart pounding even louder than the wind and it was freezing cold and the mask lens began to fog and she started to see spots in front of her eyes and then and then and then
Oh … My … God
she shot off the end of the slide into the abyss.

“D
ON
’
T HYPERVENTILATE.
”
That was Mike Ritzik’s voice in her head. He was still there. She was, too.

“Okay, okay, okay.” She struggled to keep her breathing under control.

“Frog position, Tracy—Frog. Help me. Help me.”

Wei-Liu’s scrambled brain searched for input and finally achieved a rough synapsis. She arched her back, extended her arms, bent her knees, and tried to hold her legs apart.

“Good girl.”

Above her, Ritzik’s head turned slightly left so he could read the altimeter dial. He was delighted with how she’d performed, although he wasn’t about to say anything right now. She hadn’t panicked, causing the pair of them to tumble, or worse, go into a flat spin. And although he could feel her trembling under him, she was performing like a trouper—or more to the point, like a trooper. Even in the freezing air he could sense the warmth of her body pressed close up against him.

He felt Wei-Liu shift slightly. He used his thighs to keep her exactly where she was. Movement was dangerous. They were still well above terminal velocity—the maximum constant
miles-per-hour rate for a falling object—because the plane’s forward speed had thrust them into the sky at more than 200 miles an hour. They would have to fall more than 2,500 feet before their airspeed would drop to 125 miles per hour—180 feet per second—at which point it would be safe to deploy the parachute.

They’d left the plane at twenty-seven thousand five and would open at twenty-five thousand. That gave them about twelve seconds of total free fall.