The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [45]
The plane banked, and Adams looked out through the wide opening beside him, still nothing but gray. He could feel the plane descending, saw motion along the rows of men, the plane dropping to the jump altitude. Adams tried to turn in his seat, to see farther out the wide jump door, but there was too much gear, every man carrying exactly what he would if this were the real thing. Dammit! How the hell are we supposed to jump if we can’t see what’s below us?
The plane continued to descend, and suddenly the red signal light came on. Adams stood quickly. “Stand up! Hook up!”
The men obeyed, automatic, each man hooking the static lines from his chute to the cable above their heads.
“Check equipment!”
It was the routine order, each man checking the gear on the man in front of him, no dangling straps or buckles that had come loose. Adams watched carefully, then turned and looked out the doorway; solid gray, wet mist soaking the inside of the plane. What the hell is going on? The weather isn’t better, it’s worse, and if I can’t see the ground, neither can the damned pilots. Dammit! He focused on the men again, the red light still glaring above him.
“Count off!”
Marley, close in front of him, staring past him, shouted, “Eighteen! Okay!”
Behind him, each man followed suit, counting down, until the last man closest to the cockpit shouted, “One! Okay!”
Adams looked at the signal light, still red, and glanced outside again, a low curse growling through his brain. Wonderful. Just wonderful. He tried to see past the row of men to the cockpit. What the hell are you jackasses thinking? Now the light turned green, the answer to his question, and there was no thought, just the training. Marley moved to the doorway, quickly out and gone, the next man a second behind him. They moved past him quickly, no one slowing, no hesitation. Adams waited for the last man and followed him out into the gray mist.
The ground came up quickly, a house, fence lines, and he jerked the riser, tried to spin to one side, saw a small rooftop, a low stone wall, round, a well. He dropped close beside the roof, hit the ground hard, crumpled sideways, awkward, tried to roll to ease the shock, but his back slapped into the stone, stopping him cold, his helmet popping off his head. The chute came down around him, no wind, thank God, no jerking him across the ground. He felt a sharp pain in his side and lay still for a few seconds, his own routine, testing, checking each bone. There were pains all along his legs, but the worst jolt came from his ribs. He kept the pain inside, no sound—the training—and thought, What the hell did you do? His legs were moving now, and he tried to push forward, away from the stone, his face rolling into muddy water, a puddle, dammit! The chute was on top of him, draping the well itself, a soft white tent, and now he heard voices.
“I say! What have we here? Oh, my God! Henry!”
There were more sounds now, a woman shouting, footsteps on the muddy ground. He tried to stand, grabbed at the chute, to pull it away, to see, but there was something in his back now, pushing him down into the mud.
“Bloody Nazi bastard!”
Adams spit water from his mouth, couldn’t see, put his hands down, the pressure in his back stabbing him. He thought of the well, the house: These were farmers, the sharp point was…a pitchfork?
“Hey! American! I’m American!”
The chute was pulled away, and he saw legs, moving closer, one man still pushing him into the mud.
“Oy, Nigel, he’s not a Nazi. Look here. Helmet’s all wrong.”
“You sure? Been expectin’ this. Bloody