Line of Control - Tom Clancy [96]
They were flak rockets used against low-flying aircraft.
The shells were fired from shoulder-mounted launchers like the Blowpipe, the standard one-man portable system of the Indian army. They fired metal pellets in all directions around them. Within a range of twenty-five meters, the fifty seven shots in each shell hit with the force of 38caliber bullets.
August had never been so helpless in his life. He watched as the first shell popped among the parachutists. It was followed moments later by another, then by one more. The canopies obscured his view of the Strikers themselves. But he saw how close the bursts came. There was no way his people were not being peppered with the hollow steel shells.
It did not occur to August that the shrapnel could take him down. Or that he could miss the plateau.
He forgot the cold and the wind and even the mission.
All that mattered was the well-being of his team. And there was nothing he could do to ensure their safety right now. August's eyes had darted from canopy to canopy as the rockets burst around them.
Five of the lowest shrouds were heavily perforated within seconds.
They folded into their own centers and dropped straight down. A moment later the chutes turned up, like inverted umbrellas, as the Strikers below dragged them through free fall.
Two parachutes in the middle of the group were also damaged.
They dropped with their cargo onto another two canopies directly below.
The shrouds became tangled in the swirling winds. The lines knit and the jumpers spun with increasing speed toward the valley below.
Even if the soldiers themselves had not been hit by shrapnel there was no way for them to survive the fall. August screamed in frustration.
His cry merged with the wailing wind and filled the sky above him.
The attack left just himself and three Strikers still aloft.
August did not know who they were. He did not know if they had been struck or if they were even alive. At least now they were below the line of the intervening mountains. They were safe from additional ground fire.
There was a fourth burst. It exploded white-and-black above and in front of August. He felt two punches, one in the chest and another in his left arm. He looked down at his chest. There was dull pain but no blood.
Perhaps the vest had protected him. Or perhaps the colonel was bleeding underneath the fabric. He did not feel anything after the initial hit and his heart rate seemed the same. Both good signs. In his heart he was too sick over the Strikers he had just lost to care.
But he knew he had to care. He had to survive to complete this mission.
Not just for his country and the millions of lives in the balance, but for the soldiers and friends whose lives had just been sacrificed.
There were only a few hundred feet to the plateau. He watched as two of the Strikers landed there. The third missed by several meters, despite the efforts of one of the commandos to grab him. August used the guidelines to maneuver toward the cliff wall. He was descending rapidly but he would still rather hit the peak than miss the ledge.
August's left arm began to sting but he kept his attention on the cliff.
He had dropped below the mountaintops. The tors were no longer hazards.
They were once again towering, stationary peaks that surrounded and protected him from Indian fire. The enemy now was the valley on two sides of the plateau and the outcroppings of rock that could snap his back if he hit one. The updraft from the cliff slowed August, allowing him to guide the parachute down. He decided to stick close to the steep cliff and literally follow it down, thus avoiding the sharp outcroppings toward the center. Every time the wind would brush him toward the valley he would swing himself against the rock wall. The air rushing up the cliff gave him extra buoyancy. August hit the plateau hard and immediately jettisoned the chute. The shroud crumpled and scooted across the ledge, catching on a three-meter-tall boulder and just hanging there.
Before examining himself for injuries,