Page 35 of Keeping a Warrior

What a suckfest.

“Okay, people, listen up for the stack order.” The jumpmaster’s voice crackled over their helmet receivers. “Hovland, Maddox, Halloran...”

As the lightest one in the group, Devon would be the last to jump. Shane, Aaron and Rhys were the tallest and heaviest, so they’d lead the stack down to the ground. She regarded Shane worriedly. As jump leader, he carried a lot of responsibility for getting them down safely.

And the dude is scared shitless. Great.

She glanced over at Rhys, who was sitting sprawled out, relaxed. His gear looked more streamlined than hers, and definitely more well-fitting.

Suddenly Devon was angry at herself. She should’ve asked for help, both with her gear and her exit. The guys had no problem helping each other out, and it was ridiculous for her to keep acting like she had something to prove.

Devon firmed her lips and resolved to do better. Once she made it through this stupid jump, that is.

The whoosh of air as the ramp lowered startled her. Outside, the ground spread out fifteen thousand feet below them, drifting by, looking like a patchwork quilt. Twin jolts of adrenaline and fear turned Devon’s blood to ice. She started to shiver.

What if I screw up my exit? What if my parachute doesn’t open?

The picture of the dead SEAL’s boots flashed sickeningly through her mind. Had it hurt? Was he aware of what was happening to him?

“Stand up!”

At the jumpmaster’s signal, everyone struggled to their feet and shuffled toward the ramp like a group of old men. At the head of the queue, Shane moved to the edge and poised there, waiting for the red jump light to change to green.

“Jumper, go!”

With no hesitation, Shane launched himself out of the plane. The others followed in rapid succession, and then it was Devon’s turn. She waddled to the edge, waited for the signal and leapt stiffly into the void.

The second her boots left the ramp, Devon knew she was in trouble.

“Body position, Lowe. Body position!” The jumpmaster’s voice echoed urgently in her ear. “Your angle is wrong!”

Devon fought to adjust, but the plane’s jet stream had already grabbed her up and was tossing her around like a rag doll. With the extra weight hampering her movements, and unable to get into the correct position, she spiraled out of control.

Oh, fuck!

Images flashed through her mind—a pair of unmoving boots under an American flag. A crumpled parachute. Stunned, grieving teammates gathered around.

If she wasn’t able to fix this, that exact same tableau was about to be repeated.

Her mind clouded over with fear. She was spinning so fast that the sky, the ground, the horizon, all blurred crazily together. Unable to get her bearings, panicked, and in a last-ditch effort to save herself, Devon reached for the handle of her main chute.

“No, Devon, don’t pull your main!” Rhys shouted. “Not till you’re stable!”

Too late. The chute exploded out of its pack. It jerked Devon upright, but something was wrong. She dragged her head up to look at the canopy, her stomach dropping at the sight of it flapping above her only half-filled with air, the other side hanging limp.

She started to spin again, first like a lazy top, then faster and faster. She was going to pass out...

“Devon.” Rhys’s voice broke into her terror. “Check your altimeter, then say altitude. I need you to focus and say altitude.”

One of the basic rules of skydiving...always be altitude aware. She dragged her wrist up and struggled to read the altimeter. Thirteen thousand feet.

As she repeated the numbers to Rhys, an eerie sort of calm suddenly washed over her. There was still time to fix this.

Think, Devon. Think!

Her main chute was a lost cause, so her only hope was to get rid of it and then pull her reserve.

She keyed into the radio. “Gonna do a cutaway.” Without waiting for an answer, Devon steeled herself and pulled the cord that would cut her main chute.