Briggs banked to the left, aiming for the smoke and mountains, and Fisher began twisting his arms and legs in small but appreciable movements to drop in behind the man. The key was to make gradual changes, no sharp or chaotic moves that could result in a loss of control. As a former SEAL, Fisher likened the maneuvering to swimming underwater and shifting one’s body to change direction. Flight was simply the relationship of four opposing forces: weight, lift, thrust, and drag, and as expected, Grim adroitly reminded him of those facts:
“Sixteen thousand feet and falling. Airspeed 191. Your glide ratio looks excellent. On target.”
They might be on course, but that airspeed was too slow for Fisher. “Tighten it up, Briggs. Let’s get in there a little faster.”
“Roger that.”
Briggs narrowed his position even further and dropped like a missile, picking up so much speed that Fisher found it difficult to follow his lead.
“Airspeed 210,” reported Grim. “Take it easy, Briggs.”
“I’m good. I’m good.”
“Sam, you’re up to 215. Slow down! You can’t afford to get sick.”
Fisher rolled his wrist slightly inward to check his altimeter and airspeed, verifying it against Grim’s report. He shifted his arms a little wider. No, he wasn’t going to break any records today. They’d never get reported anyway. And who knew if that speed record still held? He’d read that report a few months prior. Better to just take a deep breath and enjoy the ride.
He soared in behind Briggs, and they swooped down like a pair of vultures, tiny against the mountains, impossible to see by most distant aircraft whose radar systems would filter out slower moving blips like themselves, mistaking them for birds.
His breathing grew even as they approached the mountainside and the long rings of talus and scree scattered like broken necklaces across the valley. The peaks thrust up in crystalline white arches that made him feel insignificant. These were the Caucasus Mountains, a broad range considered the dividing line between Asia and Europe, with the northern section in Europe and the southern in Asia. The region was split between Russia, Turkey, Iran, Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan, and it was bounded on the west by the Black Sea and on the east by the Caspian Sea. This was a land of rugged people and even more rugged terrain.
Briggs turned again, coming in for their final approach, but the wind was suddenly gusting. He adjusted quickly, once more pulling away from Fisher. It seemed the younger man was schooling Fisher in wingsuit drops, and it took everything Fisher had to stay with the man.
“Ten seconds, Briggs,” Grim reported.
“Just say the word,” he answered.
The treetops were visible now, blurring by in a dozen shades of green.
“Five.”
Fisher ticked off the seconds and watched as Briggs released his drogue then main chute and suddenly shot upward. Good opening.
“Ten seconds, Sam,” came Grim’s warning.
He didn’t know exactly why it was, and he’d discussed the issue with other paratroopers, but during free fall there was always a tingling sensation at the back of his neck that urged him to tempt fate and delay his chute opening. The adrenaline pumped harder, and the thrill magnified as he whispered in death’s ear: “No, not today. You can’t have me.”
Even so, if for some reason Fisher became incapacitated or listened too intently to the siren’s call, the CYPRES would kick in and save his life. An acronym for Cybernetic Parachute Release System, the CYPRES was an automatic activation device, or AAD, that could open the chute at a preset altitude if the rate of descent was over a certain threshold.
“And three, two, one!” cried Grim.
Bracing himself, Fisher reached back, deployed the drogue chute, then, three, two, one, boom! The main chute deployed, ripping him upward and swinging him sideways for a few seconds until he took control of the toggles and began to steer himself down, once more falling into Briggs’s path.
Relief warmed his gut like a good scotch, although at the moment, he’d rather have the scotch. During his SEAL days he used to joke that his uncle was the navy’s greatest parachute packer: no operator ever came back to complain that the chute didn’t open.
“Nice work, gentlemen. Continue on track,” Grim reported. “Radio blackout now.”
Fisher wanted to tell Briggs how impressed he was with the man’s jump, but that could wait until later. They floated at a painfully slow rate now, drifting in toward the smoke directly ahead, and as they descended to within a thousand feet, Fisher’s chest tightened.
His reservations were voiced by Briggs, who’d suddenly broken radio silence: “Dense canopy down there, Sam. I can’t . . . I can’t find a good opening.”
“You’ll need to call it at the last second. We’re on our own here.”
“Shit, the wind’s knocking me all over the place.”
Fisher grimaced. “Just get off the channel and focus. You own this landing.”
“Roger that.” Briggs cursed again and then, out ahead of Fisher, with the smoke about a quarter klick north of them, Briggs was swallowed by the canopy.
Even as Fisher was tugging his lines, buffeted hard by the wind and fighting for a spot between two giant pines, a long string of curses erupted from Briggs, followed by a breathy groan . . . and then . . . silence.
“Briggs, you all right?” Fisher cried, just as he came slicing between the trees, his seven-cell canopy missing the branches by only inches before he thumped down hard on some patches of snow and beds of pine needles. He ejected his parachute and pack, then turned back and gathered up the chute. “Briggs, you there?”
No reply. Shit.
He unbuckled his helmet and oxygen gear and buried them in a pile of snow, then did likewise with his chute and pack. Holstered at his right hip was his FN Five-seveN, which he immediately drew, and on his left hip he’d packed a secondary weapon, one equally impressive and having a lot of sentimental value: his SIG SAUER P226 semiautomatic 9mm pistol, the one he’d carried as a Navy SEAL. The gun was now known as the P226 MK25 and was one of the most reliable firearms in the world.
Fisher’s updated OPSAT, or operational satellite uplink, was strapped to his left wrist, facing inward. The full-color screen, which could also be set to dim green stealth mode, glowed and provided real-time data integration with field intel collection. Fourth Echelon comms and onboard access to the SMI analytics engine up on Paladin were newer additions to the software. The OPSAT was like having a powerful computer, a satellite phone, and a smartphone in one device. It even offered ambient sound readings to check his own movements, along with light and temperature measurements. As its name implied, the OPSAT also linked Fisher to Keyhole spy satellites and drones like the Hummingbird wheeling overhead. He was capable of downloading data directly from them and from Grim on Paladin. The device even offered a rudimentary alarm system in the form of a T-shaped rod that nudged his wrist.
Willing himself into a moment of calm, Fisher worked the touchscreen, keying in on Briggs’s GPS location. A satellite map with glowing grid overlay marked each man’s position. He sprinted off in the direction of Briggs’s landing zone, with the OPSAT serving as navigator, muttering course corrections to him via his subdermal.