He spoke the words "Activate HUD" to his helmet, and his heads-up display turned on, hair-thin lines lit against the backdrop of night. A red X showed near the top: the target. Near the bottom was a green arrow point, himself. The arrow pointed to the right, so he pulled lightly and evenly on his left control line until the arrow aimed at the X. Small numerals at bottom left read 29,612-his altitude, referenced to the landing site. Next to it was the wind vector, an unobtrusive arrow with a shaft, the windspeed indicated by the shaft length and small numerals. At his altitude, there wasn't much wind at the moment. Then he jettisoned his reserve chute and its weight.
They'd been forbidden to activate their comm headsets till they were on the ground, in case the electronic signature was too strong. Again two key words activated his night vision. Peering around, he could see other parasails, higher, lower, ahead, behind… Deactivating the night vision, he settled down for the long, slow glide to the target. He could already sense the cold around him.
Isaiah Vernon felt his usual pre-jump tension and post-jump exhilaration. Glancing up, he saw his black canopy against the stars, then unclipped his reserve chute and let it fall, just as he would on a combat jump. But he did it out of sequence; he hadn't checked his HUD. When he did check it, the position arrow was rotating, not pointing somewhere.
Pulling on a control line-either control line-made no difference. Something was seriously wrong! His first impulse was to radio his predicament, but this exercise was to simulate reality. Besides, there was nothing anyone could do for him, and once he was down, he could call for help.
Again he checked his canopy, this time with night vision. His problem was a lineover, presumably due to faulty packing. Two suspension lines had gotten across the canopy, and instead of one large airfoil, he had what amounted to three small airfoils. One was ejecting air sideways, producing the rotation. His HUD showed him falling much faster than he should.
He responded quickly, climbing a riser hand over hand. When the connector link was in his reach, he pulled on its suspension lines. His thickly gloved hands were clumsy and the lines thin, but he was strong, and under the circumstances, driven. He continued climbing, partly collapsing his parasail, his rate of fall increasing markedly. Reaching the skirt of the parasail, he struggled to dislodge what seemed to him the lineover most susceptible to dislodging. What he succeeded in doing was collapsing the canopy entirely.
He let go. A moment later the sail caught air and reopened, but still with the lineovers.
I am going to die, he told himself, then shook the thought off and looked again at his HUD. His rate of descent was sixty-seven feet per second. At that rate, he thought, he'd end up mush when he hit. They'd bring him in in his helmet. Then he remembered a Masadan officer telling them the nearer they got to the ground, the thicker the air would be. That should slow him, but would it be enough? It seemed highly unlikely.
His rate of fall slowed to 64 fps. Possibly, just possibly… On the elevation readout, the tens column was a blur. The hundreds were peeling off rapidly, and the thousands inexorably. He jettisoned his blaster, his rucksack, and everything else removable, slowing to 47 fps.
Speaking to his helmet, he switched off all displays and deactivated his night vision. "Father in heaven," he said quietly, "into your hands I commend my spirit." Briefly he looked downward. A few miles to the north was a town, electric lights in its windows. There were people there-families, children-living their lives and worshiping the same God he worshiped. For a moment he felt love swell in him for those unknown Luneburgians. It seemed the most natural thing in the universe to do.
Then he turned his attention to David's most beloved psalm. "… Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death," he recited, "I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff-they comfort me. You prepare a table before me…"
Jael Wesley was intent on her HUD. She'd timed her forward speed well; she'd make the paddock nicely before she hit. Hopefully without having to spiral in.
Briefly she activated her night vision. Too far to see yet; she switched it off. The HUD gave horizontal distance to center target as 2.07 miles, and altitude 915 feet. At this level there was an eight-knot breeze, not enough to worry about, as long as she didn't have to buck it. The paddock was said to be about one acre. At one mile she slowed her forward speed, and at half a mile tried her night vision again. Now she could see the intended prisoners clearly, scattered but mostly near the fence. She'd hoped they'd be bunched up.
Deactivating her HUD to avoid distraction, she adjusted her speed and direction by night vision. Her job was to land at the far side of the paddock and suppress fire from outlying "enemy guard positions." She swung wide, sizing up the guard positions while button-hooking to use up altitude and avoid the fence. Somewhere out there, A Company should already have arrived, and be lying in support, ready to attack the guards.
But A Company made too much noise, and from the enemy outposts came blaster fire, directed not toward the paddock, but outward. In response, A Company's grenade launchers flashed, followed quickly by the pops of training grenades around the guard positions. No sooner had the grenades landed, then with blood-curdling shrieks, A Company's raiders rushed the enemy positions with fixed bayonets, blasters spewing soft pulses. Jael freed her rucksack and felt it jerk the dangle line.
She was almost down, and braked. Her feet touched lightly, three running steps using up her momentum. She hit her harness release, released her blaster tie-down, and crouched by the fence, ready to provide supporting fire as needed.
The capture teams were already in action. The intended prisoners consisted of twenty calves, each weighing about 250 pounds Terran. Unarmed though they were, the calves resisted, running madly to avoid would-be captors, and struggling when caught. One nearly trampled Jael. She fired a burst of soft pulses as it careened toward her, so that it fell skidding in its effort to turn. Someone grabbed it, threw it back down, and struggled to tie its hooves. After several minutes of running, wrestling, and whooping with laughter, the capture action ended with the landing of two floaters inside the paddock. Jerries dragged the "prisoners" to the ramps, then cut the ties and let them go. All that was left to do was muster, board the floaters and leave.
The mission was over.
It was at muster they learned that Isaiah Vernon was not with them, and no one had seen him since they'd jumped. Nor could anyone there pick up his transponder. Using one of the floaters' high-powered radios, Captain Mulvaney called Division.
Yes, he was told, Isaiah Vernon's transponder had activated, giving his geogravitic coordinate. An ambulance floater from the artillery range had already picked him up, and he was being rushed to the division hospital.
Why Division? Jael wondered. Didn't the artillery training camp have a hospital? Or perhaps his injuries weren't so bad. Somehow, though, it seemed to her they were.
They learned the next day how severe Isaiah's injuries were, when Captain Mulvaney reviewed their graduation exercise with the entire company. Division's umpires had given B Company's paragliders a grade of "very good." Then he told them about Isaiah. "Apparently Trainee Vernon's parasail malfunctioned," he said gravely, "after he'd jettisoned his reserve chute. He hit the ground very hard; his knees and leg bones were shattered. He also had broken lumbar vertebrae and critical internal injuries. The medics kept him alive with life support equipment and an injection of Stasis 1. They assured me there was no chance at all that he'd have lived long in that devastated body."