Line of Control - Tom Clancy [102]
Rodgers glanced at his large, luminous watch. He had been aloft for nearly fifty minutes. He was at a low enough altitude to remove his breathing apparatus and goggles. He strapped them to his belt. The water vapor in the clouds condensed on Rodgers's exposed face. It cooled the hot perspiration on his forehead and cheeks, invigorating him. Below him the clouds began to thin. He could see the terrain rushing up.
This was not going to be easy.
Technically, the formation below was a valley. It was an elongated lowland between two mountain ranges. A shallow, fast-running river cut through the center. To Mike Rodgers, however, the small, barren formation was just a rocky depression in the rugged foothills. The sloping, sharp-edged terrain made a soft landing impossible and a safe landing problematic at best. At least the air was calm. He could work the chute to try to avoid the most precarious spots.
As he dropped under the last level of clouds he saw the first of the Striker parachutes. It was bunched like an orchid in the middle of the river. The Striker was apparently below it. A moment later Rodgers saw the other chutes. Two of them were tangled together at the foot of one of the mountains.
The Strikers were sprawled beside them. Their cold weather outfits were smeared with blood. He saw the fourth Striker beyond and above them. The canopy was caught on a small outcropping about thirty feet up. Sondra Devon the was suspended close beneath it. She was rocking gently at the end of the shroud lines.
Don't think about this now, Rodgers warned himself. He had to look ahead, at the cause for which these soldiers had sacrificed their lives.
Otherwise there would be many more casualties.
Further beyond, to the south, he saw smoke curling up from behind a turn in the valley. Something had either exploded or crashed there. He did not think it was the AN-12.
If the aircraft had been hit, the Strikers probably would have heard and certainly would have seen it go down. He glanced briefly to the north.
He could see the foot of the glacier ahead. That was why this valley was so damned cold. The glacier had probably cracked this place from the mountains eons ago.
The ground was coming up quickly. As much as he did not want to hit the slopes, Rodgers did not want to land in the water. With the sun setting, his suit would freeze in a matter of minutes. He also did not want to hit one of the ragged slopes bordering the river. That was a good way to rip his cold-weather uniform or break some bones.
Unfortunately, the cliffs tapered so sharply toward the river there was not much of a bank to land on.
That left him one other option. It was one that Rodgers did not want to take. But the choices in war were never easy.
The general made his decision and forced it to go down.
Rodgers guided himself toward the downed parachute that had blossomed in the lake. The fabric straddled the shore on the eastern side. There were glints of ice around the edges still in the water. The shroud looked as though it would be stiff enough to take his fall without dumping him into the river. Hopefully, Rodgers would be able to stay on his feet and jump to the narrow shore before the canopy folded altogether.
With just seconds to impact, Rodgers positioned himself over the chute.
On one side he could see an arm lying underwater.
The flesh was blue-white. Rodgers did not want to land on the Striker's body. He kept his eyes on the other side of the canopy.
The target site loomed larger and larger. Its rapid approach created the distinct sensation that gravity had really grabbed Rodgers. Now he felt as if he were falling, not floating.
Rodgers landed lightly on the canopy. The rigid fabric gave in the middle where he landed, but the fringes remained flat. Rodgers managed to remain on his feet. He immediately popped his chute