Drew focused on the two aft hatches. One directly beside him. As the colonel, the commander, he would be first out. In charge.
At least here, anyway.
"Stand up," the jumpmaster shouted, his order rippling back.
Focus. Routine. Clear-cut. Drew stood.
"Hook up."
Reaching up, he hooked his lanyard to the static line, which would trigger his chute to deploy on time. He checked the static line. Clean. Straight. Not looped around to rip off an arm when he jumped. He inspected for the man next to him, a routine that mirrored down the row just like the calls. By rote, his hands checked his Kevlar helmet, both buckles.
Focus settling. Hoo-uh.
"One minute."
Shifting, he made his way toward the open hatch, suited and geared up as he had a hundred times before. Eighty pounds of rucksack. Chute weighing thirty-five pounds. Reserve chute adding fifteen more. And he wasn't even carrying near as much as the medic behind him.
Sweat poured down him from the weight and adrenaline. Welcome familiarity. Nothing throwing his world off balance like...
Nope. Not going to go there in his mind.
He stepped into the open hatchway, assumed the position. Pitch-black void waited.
Clear-cut. Absolutes. His dependable life. He could already feel the exact timing of what would happen next, a precise replica of times before—
"Go!" The jumpmaster signaled with the traditional slap on the ass.
Jump out the door and count to four...three... two... one.
Whoomp.
The chute deployed. Streaked. Filled. Jerked.
Drew pumped his feet in the air to spin himself and untangle the cords. Even though visibility was next to nil, he watched for others in the air, checked the chute for a line streamed over, creating a Dolly Parton or a Mae West as they used to call it. Hell, the new recruits were probably calling it a Pamela Anderson.
He'd been around a helluva long time.
And in the middle of all the familiarity he was always stunned anew by the silence, the peace after the roar of the airplane. With a sneak attack, it wasn't like being dropped into a hot zone rife with gunfire below.
Just opaque, silent sky. The calm before the storm to come. He could lose himself in that sensation.
Just like he'd lost himself in Yasmine the night before.
Hell. He wanted the sky back. He owned it. And now she was even here. He could almost see her damned daisy scarf calling to him on the horizon.
Thank God, his body worked on instinct. She hadn't stolen everything.
Fifty feet to go. He pulled release straps on his rucksack and grabbed his risers, pulled toward his chest, changed the drift of his parachute. Listened for the reassuring thump of his rucksack hitting the ground, his eyes on the horizon. Pulled in harder. Harder. Arms straining. Drawing risers in until by landing his fists met.
Feet and knees together. Fall to the right, M-16 strapped to his left leg.
He hit the release straps on his chest, cutting the top half free to deflate the chute. Lightning-fast, he outrigged from the harness. He whipped out his 9 mm, ran a function check. Unstrapped the M-16 from his leg. Repeated function check.
Troops ditched chutes and converged in preplanned groupings, spreading. And even as he hooked up with his RTO for radio transmissions, threw himself into full battle mode, Yasmine trickled into his thoughts. As much as he told himself she was nothing more than a mistake in his past, he couldn't stop the soul-deep relief over knowing she was safe at the airbase.
Plaster raining from the ceiling, Sydney slid farther under the desk, hugging her knees to her chest and praying the roof wouldn't collapse in on her. Gunfire stuttered outside. An explosion. Light splashed through the window. Brighter.
Closer this time.