Armed Response. Don Pendleton
then checked the altimeter on his right wrist.
The parachute was deploying too early.
The automatic activation device fitted to the chute had to have been faulty. Bolan hadn’t had the time to thoroughly check all of the equipment himself, and when he had preset the required height, he hadn’t noticed anything unusual.
An invisible hand grabbed Bolan by his neck and jerked him into an upright position, his head snapping backward. His hands flew automatically to the risers, which would enable him to have some semblance of control over his descent. They were not there, and his terminal velocity had not significantly decreased.
Bolan looked up and cursed. The black parachute, all 370 square feet of it, had collapsed and become entangled on itself.
Bolan plummeted toward the ground completely out of control.
He had only seconds to react. The gear bag had slipped from between his knees and was now hanging by its quick-release cord. The weight of the equipment in it was causing him to gyroscope, spinning him to the left in ever-quickening circles. Soon it would be impossible to maneuver. The centrifugal forces would prevent him from moving his arms. He forced his right hand slowly down to his belt, fighting the gravitational force. He fumbled for several seconds, unable to locate the emergency-release cord.
Suddenly it was in his hand and he tugged hard. Immediately the gear bag dropped away, disappearing into the darkness. With the loss of ballast, Bolan began to spin slightly slower. His fingers were throbbing, his head felt as if it were about to pop from the blood being forced into his extremities. Gritting his teeth, he found the emergency release for the parachute with his left hand and depressed it.
There was a snap as the faulty parachute let loose.
Bolan was once again in free fall.
Instinct told him that his time was almost up. He curled in a ball, rolled over and threw his limbs out in a star formation. He pushed aggressively down with his right arm and leg, and the spin quickly was brought to a halt. Reaching down, he tugged on the cord for the reserve chute.
Once again there was a crack, and Bolan was grabbed from behind into an upright position. Above him the black canopy of the reserve chute opened to the familiar rectangular shape, its 270 square feet fully spread. Bolan’s unchecked descent slowed.
He reached for the risers and checked his altimeter.
He was a mere two hundred feet above the ground. Swiftly he pulled them to further slacken his speed and braced for impact. He began running as he landed on the soft sand, which absorbed the shock. His left foot went out from under him, and he fell down the side of a dune, dragging the parachute with him. Bolan rolled several times before coming to a stop. He was now wrapped up in the collapsed parachute.
Could anything else go wrong?
Bolan released the straps and cut through the cords and material with his Cold Steel Tanto fighting knife. Once free he quickly crawled away from the landing site, all the time listening for sounds that somebody had spotted his parachute, that they were coming to investigate.
There was no movement. The desert was silent.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
BARBARA PRICE, mission controller at Stony Man Farm, felt her heart thud as she watched the thermal image of Bolan falling out of control on one of the digital screens in the Computer Room. She and Aaron “the Bear” Kurtzman, head of the Farm’s cyberteam, quickly surmised that there was a problem when Bolan’s body began to windmill. What exactly was happening was impossible to say. They couldn’t see what the situation was with the parachute or the gear bag. But for several long seconds they watched as Bolan plunged through the sky.
“How high is he?” Price asked Kurtzman, a slight tremor in her voice.
“Not high enough” was the muted reply.
“What went wrong?”
“I have no idea.”
They could only observe the imminent death of the Executioner, a man they had known, admired and supported through the years, a man who was Price’s occasional lover.
It was a huge relief when they saw the falling man resume a normal position in the air, then suddenly slow. They watched as the figure rolled and tumbled on the ground. He was down and very much alive.
Kurtzman turned back to his computer, tapping at the keys. After several seconds he looked up at Price, his expression grave.
“There is a slight problem.”
Price looked away from the screen, shifting her focus to her friend and colleague. “What?”
“Striker is here,” he said, pointing at the main screen, “but his equipment, including the transmission gear, is here.” The image on the main screen zoomed out. “He must have dropped it when he lost control during the free fall. The problem is these two guys.” On the screen they could clearly see two shapes advancing toward the gear bag. The bag contained not only Bolan’s long-range weapons but also the transmission equipment needed to contact base. The two men were believed to be a foot patrol, one of several that monitored the area.
“When they open it and find the guns, they’ll run all the way back home and show their treasure to the boss. If it is Qutaiba, then he’ll disappear, and a hunting party will be looking for Striker.”
“And there’s no way we can contact Striker to have him intercept the patrol.”
“No way at all,” Kurtzman confirmed.
“Inform our contact in Yemen that there’s a problem. See what assistance he can offer,” Price ordered.
Kurtzman nodded and immediately got to work.
Southern Yemen
MACK BOLAN STAYED at the landing site for ten minutes, waiting, watching, ignoring the cold night air. Nobody came. He had quickly regained his breath; he had hundreds of hours of experience with parachute jumps and had been extensively trained in what to do when things went wrong, but even so, an uncontrolled free fall was something to be avoided. It wasn’t his first bad experience during a jump, and most likely it wouldn’t be his last.
His biggest worry now was the loss of his specialist weapons and equipment. The electronics would be smashed, the guns damaged beyond use. He was now only armed with two pistols, a .50-caliber Desert Eagle and a Beretta 93-R, with its custom sound suppressor. Two hand grenades hung from his combat webbing. He also had a garrote, the knife he cut the chute with, a small map and compass, a tiny flashlight and two hundred US dollars along with several spare magazines of ammunition in various pouches and pockets. Everything else was gone.
Bolan considered the situation for a moment. The mission objectives hadn’t really changed. He would be able to find the terrorist camp from the map; he would still be able to locate and identify Qutaiba. The only difference was his inability to communicate with the Farm. They would in all likelihood still have him under observation via the drone. If he could find a way to signal them, then the mission was still a go. And if he was unable to do so, then he would find a way to remove Qutaiba himself. Then get out of Dodge, avoid the Yemeni army should they show up, rendezvous with the contact and leave Yemen as fast as possible.
Yes, the mission was definitely still a go.
A thousand things could yet go wrong. The drone might have been called off. The powers that be might decide to fire the drone’s Hellfire missiles despite Bolan being unable to report in. His main parachute might be discovered, alerting the terrorists. And who knew where his gear bag had landed. The mission could go to hell in an instant, but the soldier had been in tight spots before and knew exactly how to get out of them. This time would be no different.
Bolan buried his reserve parachute in a shallow hole that he dug with his bare hands. The warm jumpsuit joined the chute in its grave, unlikely to be seen ever again. Now dressed in his combat blacksuit, he quickly checked his weaponry for damage and for sand blockage, before