Ammon puzzled on that for a moment. It seemed kind of odd. The lack of pain. Was that good? Was that okay? What did the lack of pain mean?
He continued to shiver uncontrollably. His muscles jerked. His teeth jammed together. He could feel his heart race in his chest. He knew that he had to get warm. He had to find some kind of shelter. He needed protection from the cold. And food. And a long drink of water. Yes, water was extremely important. A critical step in the treatment for shock.
Everything that he needed was inside his survival pack — the sleeping bag, plastic containers of water, fire kits, food bars, chocolate, and a warm set of clothes. Yet he was feeling so tired. So very tired. His eyelids were heavy as thick, velvet curtains. His legs were already asleep. All he wanted was to close his eyes and let the world drift away.
He shook his head and tried to think. He had to do something. Reaching deep inside himself, he forced himself to his feet, wobbling on unsteady legs. His arms flopped at his side. He fumbled in the night, searching through the darkness for his survival pack. He found it laying under a small evergreen tree, and fell down in the snow beside it.
For a long moment he stared at the pack. It was vacuum-sealed and extremely tight. It only had one tiny zipper. Ammon pushed at the pack with his right shoulder. A scream of pain shot down his arm and he fell back, suddenly faint, his head swimming. The pain seared to the marrow of his bones. He lay still, waiting for it to pass. Slowly it faded, receding to the back of his mind, where it seemed to throb with the beat of his heart. Ammon rolled gently to his knees. His arms flopped in the snow beside him. He turned the pack over, pushing it around with his chin until he found the tiny copper zipper. He tugged on it with his teeth. It didn’t move. He jerked a little bit harder. It still didn’t give.
And then he remembered. The zipper was soldered shut, a final protective measure to ensure the pack didn’t open and spill its contents when the pilot ejected from his plane. It took twenty pounds of pressure to break the solder molds. Much more pressure than Ammon could exert with his teeth.
Ammon’s heart sank. Leaving the survival pack, he stumbled to the base of an enormous white pine and fell down beside it. There, the forest floor was soft and dry. On the downhill side of the tree was an old fallen log. He burrowed himself into the bed of pine needles and pushed himself under the log. Using his teeth and feet, he wrestled the parachute together, bundling it and spreading it over his body. He buried his face in his jacket.
He wasn’t so cold any more. He felt kind of fuzzy and warm, light-headed and free, as if his body were slowly sinking into a tub of warm water. It was where he wanted to be.
And he felt so tired. It was quiet and peaceful. The trees swayed over his head. The late-night stars were shining, sharing their innocent light. Maybe he would just close his eyes. Just for a moment. Rest. He needed to rest. Then he would get back to work. He would gather up his equipment and make some sort of plan. But for now he needed to rest.
It was so comfortable. This wasn’t so bad. He could spend the night here. That’s what he would do. Just lie here and rest until morning. His arms were feeling a little bit better. Maybe they were healing already. Wasn’t that nice? The pine needles were so soft. He was feeling quite warm. He would close his eyes and sleep until morning.
Tiny vapors of white breath escaped from his mouth and disappeared into the black night. Ammon’s eyes closed. His breathing became measured. He fell asleep. His head rolled to the side of his chest.
Inside his survival pack, an emergency locator beacon automatically beamed its emergency signal to the satellites that passed overhead.
Jesse awoke with a start. Her eyes bolted open, and she sat up quickly in her bed, her heart pounding, a tight catch in her throat. She wiped her eyes and swallowed hard.
She looked at the clock. Six-thirty. She looked to the window. It was just getting light. Slipping out of bed, she tiptoed to the bedroom door and cracked it open. The agent was spread out on the couch, still asleep. She went to the closet and dressed quietly, then slipped out of the apartment through the kitchen door.
The rain was slowly dissipating into a heavy mist. It was cold and wet, but Jesse didn’t care, she was so anxious to get out of the house. She stepped out onto the wet grass and headed across the small lawn to the wooden walkway that led down to the pier.
Jesse walked along the beach slowly, her hands thrust into the pockets of her light jacket. She had on knee-length shorts and brown sandals, leaving her legs exposed to the cool morning air. Her hair was tied with a single white ribbon. A north wind blew at her face, blushing her checks and lifting her loosely wrapped hair past her shoulders.
The hard-packed sand gave a little under her light feet as she made her way from the beachhouse and walked north along the shore.
A pale sun tried pitifully to break through the thin overcast that covered the eastern hills, but it would be several hours before it would generate enough energy to warm the cold sand. By then, a dreary and wet fog would have formed over the bay.
It promised to be another miserable day in southern California. Just like the day before. Just like the day before that.
A flock of seagulls followed Jesse as she walked along the beach. They screeched in chorus at her, begging for food. They hopped along behind her, always maintaining a safe distance, occasionally spreading their wings as if to fly, then seemingly changing their minds. Too much effort to take to the air. Too much work. Better to stay on the ground and hobble along, hoping for a handout for breakfast.
Jesse ignored the gulls and their insistent noise and followed the beach for a mile. By then, the sun had risen completely, but still its warmth and heat remained hidden, robbed by the thin overcast and the cold ocean air.
Jesse turned and put the mountains to her back as she stared out over the waves. White caps turned the ocean frothy and washed hollow deadwood and black seaweed up onto the shore.
She turned and started to walk back to the beachhouse. The seagulls turned as well and continued to trail her as she made her way across the pale sand.
As she approached the apartment, she saw him. He was waiting for her on the back porch.
Jesse froze in her tracks. She saw the blue uniform. She saw the look on his face. Her heart stopped. Her breathing stopped. The wind stopped. The whole world stood still.
The officer reached out his hand. “Mrs. Ammon,” he said with a struggle. “My name is Lieutenant Colonel Oliver Tray.”
Jesse’s hand shot to her mouth. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to curl into a little ball and just disappear. She fixed her eyes on the officer and managed to mutter in a dignified tone, “He’s dead, isn’t he? Just tell me now.”
Oliver Tray shook his head. “No, ma’am, he’s not dead,” he quietly said. “Now, will you please come inside? I have something to tell you, and we don’t have much time.”
FORTY-TWO
The HH-60 Pavehawk rescue helicopter dropped back from the air-refueling basket and descended toward the Sea of Azov. The HC-130 air refueling aircraft peeled off to the right and climbed up to 3,000 feet. Only a pale light defined the horizon. In six hours, it would be dawn. The mission had to be completed by then.
Thirty hours earlier, about the time that Richard Ammon was crossing over the northern Bahamas, the U.S.S. Ticonderoga had received her orders from the President of the United States. She immediately sent sail at top speed to the east, passing the southern coast of Greece before turning north into the Aegean Sea. As darkness fell, she sailed unannounced through the Dardanelles Straits and into the Sea of Marmara, pushing as close to the coast of Turkey as she dared. Two rescue helicopters were towed out of their hangar’s, readied on deck, and put on a five-minute-launch-time alert. At six o’clock in the morning, they had received the call, but a decision was made to wait until nightfall. The mission was going deep, and they would need the cover of darkness. So the day was spent in intense mission planning. The satellite imagery was checked again and again. The coordinates and flight route were fed into the helicopter’s internal navigation computers. The air refueling aircraft was quickly deployed to a remote airstrip in northern Greece. At twelve-eighteen local, the EYE satellite was moved 800 kilometers to the south in order to get a closer look. Peering down from space, it saw the signal. The orange and white parachute had been spread out in the clearing and folded into an X. He was still there. He was still alive.