They Threw Her From a Helicopter at 12,ooo Feet Then She Walked Back With the Evidence That Destroyed Them. - Page 2

Better than the cliff face.

I twisted hard, felt something rip in my shoulder, and aimed my body toward the slope.

Impact didn’t feel like pain at first.

It felt like being unplugged.

Then everything came back at once.

Rock punched my ribs.

My helmet cracked against stone.

My left arm folded wrong under me.

I rolled, hit again, slid, bounced, and slammed through scrub brush that clawed at my uniform.

My mouth filled with dirt.

The world turned gray, black, white, gray again.

Finally, I crashed into a shallow ravine and stopped face down in mud so cold it felt engineered by somebody who hated comfort.

For three seconds, I did nothing.

Not because I was calm.

Because my body was running a systems check and most departments were reporting damage.

I spit out mud.

Then I laughed once.

Small.

Ugly.

Private.

Still alive, Captain.

Not your best work.

Above me, the helicopter fought the storm.

Then came the explosion.

A flash bloomed behind the clouds.

The Black Hawk didn’t go down right away. Birds like that are built by people who respect physics and hate failure.

But the tail swung wild.

The pilot fought it.

The aircraft dipped behind the ridge.

Then the sound came.

Metal tearing.

Fire breathing.

Men shouting over comms I could no longer hear.

I rolled onto my back and stared up at the rain.

My left side burned.

My ribs felt like someone had taken a Louisville Slugger to them for fun.

My radio was cracked.

My GPS screen was dead.

My rifle was gone.

Sidearm still holstered.

Knife still there.

Two magazines.

One compression bandage.

Half a canteen.

A busted flare.

A packet of electrolyte powder because some supply officer somewhere believed in optimism.

Good enough.

I pushed myself upright and nearly blacked out.

That annoyed me.

So I stayed awake out of spite.

The ravine was narrow, steep, and hidden under a shelf of rock. If enemy patrols swept the area, they might miss me unless I did something stupid like bleed brightly or breathe loudly.

I checked my arm.

Not cleanly broken.

Bad sprain or hairline fracture.

Usable if I hated myself enough.

I hated Whitaker more.

Leave a Reply Cancel reply