The Rescue(73)

“Screw it,” he muttered, sweeping his arms back until his hands were by his thighs.

He instantly tracked forward, chasing Pierce, who continued to open the distance between them. The last vestiges of sunlight kept Pierce visible while Decker tweaked his body position to gain enough forward momentum to stop the rapid separation. He’d forgotten to check his Garmin before initiating the glide, so he was completely relying on his friend to guide them over the drop zone.

They tracked through the air for roughly thirty seconds before Pierce suddenly started to rise. Decker swept his arms forward, arresting the glide and meeting Pierce’s altitude. His altimeter read seventeen hundred feet above ground level; the Garmin placed him just over twenty-five hundred feet from the drop zone due north of their target. He did some quick math and swept his arms back, counting to four before returning to a stable belly-to-earth position. One thousand feet above ground level. Two thousand feet from the DZ. Pierce was nowhere in sight.

Decker glanced along the right side of his body and located the bright-orange pilot-chute handle protruding from his skydiving rig. He pulled it out and to the right, extending his hand as far as it could reach—his body tugged violently, but most reassuringly, upward. The momentarily unforgiving thrashing meant one thing—your parachute had opened.

A few seconds later, he grabbed the toggles dangling from the main harness lines and took positive control of the parachute, using the backlit Garmin to point him in the right direction. Settled on a course for the DZ, he searched the sky, locating another square shape above him. His last-second maneuver to get closer to the drop zone had put him back in the lead position.

Decker scanned the deep-rust-colored landscape, still unable to discern anything remotely resembling what they’d seen in the satellite images. They’d guessed it would be nearly impossible to spot from an angle at dusk, since it had barely been visible in the pictures taken from directly above, but Decker had hoped to see something. Even a flicker of light would give him hope that they hadn’t dropped into the middle of Texas on a fool’s errand.

At four hundred feet, the sun disappeared; the dark-blue twilight swallowed him. Decker checked his Garmin, making a final adjustment to his course by pulling the left toggle until the arrow pointed directly ahead. He took a moment to find the release handle for the drop bag attached to the front of his rig before settling in for the final approach. Pierce must have dumped air at some point during the descent, dropping in right next to him. His altimeter read one hundred feet above ground level.

At fifty feet AGL, Decker released the drop bag, which skimmed the hardscrabble ground, tugging gently on his harness. He pulled the toggles as the ground reached up for him, flaring the parachute and landing smoothly on his feet. The victory was short-lived, as a strong westerly gust filled his collapsing parachute and yanked him off his feet, dragging him nearly fifty yards before he finally slipped out of the harness.

Decker lay there dazed, convinced he had broken every bone in his body, until a dark figure materialized in the distance—headed his way. He sat up and unzipped the cargo pocket holding his pistol, scrambling to draw it. When he finally cleared the weapon from his pocket, a strong hand gripped his wrist, pressing the weapon down.

“Ryan. It’s me,” said a familiar voice. “Let go of the pistol. You look like you’re going to shoot me.”

Decker dropped the pistol onto his thigh. “Sorry. I’m a little messed up right now.”

“Did you break anything?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m pulling you up,” said Pierce, grabbing both of his hands. “Ready?”

“Yep,” said Decker, bracing for pain.

Pierce pulled him to his feet. “How does that feel?”

“Like hell,” said Decker, testing his legs. “But nothing’s broken.”

“We need to get moving,” said Pierce, pushing a nylon line into his hand. “Follow this to your drop bag and get prepped to move on the target.”

“Which way is the target?” said Decker. “Sorry.”

Pierce pointed to Decker’s left. “About a hundred yards in that direction. Just past that slight rise.”

“They shouldn’t be able to see us,” said Decker, his head starting to clear.

“Unless someone saw us land. Which is why we need to get moving.”

“I’ll meet you just below the rise.”

While Pierce took off to find his drop bag, Decker tugged on the line, following it to the overstuffed duffel bag–shaped kit, which lay fifty feet away toward the orange-and-light-blue horizon. He unzipped the bag, removing the two rifle parts first. Priorities. He tore the packing tape off the back of the upper receiver, careful not to yank the bolt carrier or charging handle out with it. Satisfied that everything had survived the parachute drop, he connected the lower and upper receivers, securing them in place with the attached takedown pins.

He pulled the charging handle back and released it, then flipped the selector switch to “fire.” Everything felt right so far. A quick trigger press yielded a definitive click inside the rifle. Perfect. Decker fished a loose thirty-round magazine out of his cargo pocket and inserted it into the rifle before yanking the charging handle back again. He engaged the safety and placed the weapon on the ground next to the bag.