“NO!”
CHAPTER 53
Wilson awoke to cold — and pain.
Hanging in his straps, his helmet and mask gone, he realized that he was out — and alive. The pain grabbed him immediately. His left arm was immobile, and his shoulder hurt like hell. He felt moisture on his neck. Blood? With his right hand he felt it and figured it was rash caused by the nylon straps. Wilson lifted his head and saw the parachute canopy above him. Four-line release. He felt for it, but the pain made him lose interest. With his good hand he found the beaded ring and pulled, and, with a loud whoosh, his survival vest inflated around his neck and waist. The minor exertion caused his body to go limp with exhaustion and pain.
Sharp pain dug through his right thigh. Wilson tried to move his leg and couldn’t. One arm and one leg out of commission. They must be broken, he figured.
His flashlight was gone, ripped out of its grommet snaps by the force of ejection. He sensed something next to him… a wall, a milky wall. Wilson realized he was in more trouble when a sudden flash lit up the wall. He was next to the storm.
A boom from inside stung his ears and caused him to flinch. He was regaining his senses. How did I get out? he wondered, having no memory of even touching the handle. He looked for his jet below. Nothing. What happened to it? What happened?
In the ambient light he could detect the clouds reaching out toward him. He was over the coastline, and the winds at altitude would push him back over land. He had been so close — if only his Hornet could have survived another roll. Then, he felt his pouch. His survival radio! Gone! Lost like the flashlight in the ejection. He now had no way to communicate with potential rescuers. He tried to come to grips with this dreadful development. Severe injuries and no radio. No way even to call the rest of the Slashes to tell them he was alive. He tried to see and hear any of them. Nothing.
Feeling the cold moisture on his face, Wilson entered the cloud and lost all bearing in the milky darkness. At least he had his gloves. Even though he had no depth perception, he felt as if he were climbing, not falling, and realized he was caught in an updraft. A rumble from inside the cloud reminded him of the danger he was in.
He was hanging from a parachute inside a thunderstorm.
Ice crystals pelted his face from below, and he raised his hand to shield his chin. Soon they became marble-sized balls of hail that, on the way up, bounced off his inflated life vest and the soles of his feet. Wilson looked up at his parachute canopy, and it appeared to be full, still undamaged.
Another frightening rumble came from nearby. Then, blasting the air with the sound of a rifle shot going off in his ears, a horizontal tube of translucent electricity, rectangular, appeared out of nowhere in front of him. Wilson recoiled in terror, feeling close enough to touch it. The intensity of the light was blinding, and he felt its power down to his marrow. The lightning bolt disappeared as quickly as it had come, but Wilson’s ears continued to ring in pain. He knew he was in deep trouble.
Hail shot past him, going up, up, up. Wilson sensed himself turning, feeling it in his only flight instrument, the seat of his pants. As raw fear enveloped him, he remained braced for the next bolt of energy. Every hair on his body seemed to stand up as positive and negative electrons worked him over. He kept one eye shut and squinted with the other to defend them from the blinding flashes.
The twisting increased, and Wilson felt nauseous again. He became fearful the chute would collapse from the interaction of the turbulence and the barrage of hail from below. Wilson shivered with cold.
A thunderous bolt from behind almost knocked him unconscious, and he realized he had lost control of his bowels. He was amazed to see hail floating, just floating in front of him. Then, as the hail — and Wilson — reached the apex of the climb, they began to fall. As if caught in a runaway freight train of air, he and the hail were now riding the downdraft in the very middle of the storm. More rumbling, constant and muffled flashes. Wilson could feel the parachute’s nylon cords vibrate from the hail pounding the top of the canopy as the surrounding air became even colder. How could he escape? When would this end? Powerless, and damn near freezing, he wished he were on the ground, even if it meant having a Venezuelan soldier pointing a rifle barrel at him.
WHAM! A dazzling bolt materialized and then disappeared in front of him. A flash of heat from the main stump cast off jagged saplings of electricity. Oh, God, please! Even wearing his nomex gloves, Wilson was losing the feeling in his fingertips from the bitter cold. His ears, wracked with pain from the booming lightning bolts, were painfully cold. He felt he could reach out and touch the lightning, but he didn’t dare. His working arm and leg were drawn inward, in fear and because of the cold.
Wilson sensed he was climbing. He then realized he was caught in the cycle of the storm, caught inside a giant washing machine of charged particles, ice, and speeding air molecules. Wilson was in the middle of them as they shot up through the storm. Once the spinning started again, he vomited. The vomit went up into the storm with him, as had everything else.
Let death come, Wilson thought. Surrounded by the rumbling of the unpredictable evil that would hit him the next time, he was freezing. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, he could see the frost on his vest and gloved hand. He knew he could not last much longer.
Down. A hailstone smashed into his bare head, then another. Cold. Breaking the relative silence of flowing air, ice particles beat on the parachute — and Wilson. A booming crack sounded behind him. Further away but damn close! Wilson hung in his straps in misery. Beyond caring, he waited for the end to come.
Rain. Another deafening rifle shot next to him turned night into day. Tingling. Drenched, cold skin. Pain — everywhere. Weakness. Resignation.
A light. A point of light someplace below. Wilson picked up a slow rotation. There’s water. He saw a dark land underneath. Venezeula… his enemy, his foreign enemy. Wilson checked for his .45 pistol and was relieved that he had it. Rain, instead of hail, beat on his body. Warmer. Out of the washing machine. Another crack behind, then one in front. From the light, Wilson could detect trees below, a forest. Another spin. There’s the coastline again. So close to safety. What hit me?
Wilson licked at the rivulets of water flowing down his face. He was thirsty. With luck, he would have time to drink from his canteen before the soldiers showed up. He could drink three canteens.
Wilson scanned for vehicle lights below. None. He saw a settlement in the distance, and, using the line of storms to the east as a reference, he determined the settlement was northwest. A smaller one was located to the southeast. A bolt illuminated the ground. About 1,000 feet to go. Wilson deployed his seat pan which fell away with a painful jolt. Four-line release. He found it on the risers. Who knows what the surface winds are, he thought, but it doesn’t matter. He pulled the release.
Lighting was striking all around Wilson, and one bolt exploded into a treetop below. He knew he was falling at seventeen feet per second. He would hit the ground hard, as if he had jumped off the roof of a one-story building. Proper body position, bend the knees, eyes forward, hands on risers. Five-point contact.