Section 8 by Robert Doherty Read Free Book Online Page B

beneath the aircraft, the coast of Okinawa that Marines had stormed so many years ago.

The strangeness of the situation was not lost on him. Why someone wanted him to jump and the airplane not to land, he had no clue, other than it seemed a secure way of getting him onto the island without anyone being aware—other than whoever was waiting on the drop zone.

It had crossed his mind that the parachute was rigged to malfunction. He'd checked it as best he could, along with the reserve. He figured if someone wanted him dead, this was a rather elaborate way to go about it. And it wasn't as if he had any other choice. Staying on the plane and not jumping would only delay whatever was awaiting him. He preferred to face it head on.

The green light went on and the loadmaster let go of the bundle. It slid off the ramp, the static line for its parachute playing out. Vaughn followed right after it, as he'd been trained. Stepping off the ramp, he free-fell for three seconds as his static line played out, pulling the deployment bag out and off the parachute, which opened with a snap. Vaughn had assumed a tight body position upon exiting the aircraft, hands wrapped around the edges of the reserve, chin tucked down to his chest, legs tightly together. The opening shock vibrated through the harness and his body.

He had done the routine so many times, he wasn't even aware as he looked up, checked to make sure his canopy was fully deployed and functioning, then reached up and took the toggle on each riser in each hand, gaining control of the chute. He'd stopped counting his jumps once he reached three figures and earned his master parachutist wings. He'd never understood civilians who jumped for fun. To him it was always a part of his job. He jumped for mission or pay. It was too dangerous a thing to do for fun.

He looked down, spotted the bundle floating toward the ground, and turned the chute so he was chasing it. This was what the Airborne called a Hollywood jump—no rucksack, no weapon. The easiest kind to do.

He looked past the bundle to see if he could spot anyone on the drop zone. There was a black Land Rover moving across the open field; like him, chasing the bundle. He turned his attention back to what he was doing—even if it was a Hollywood jump, he was still going to make contact with the ground hard. Military parachutes were not designed for soft landings. One did not want to float slowly to the ground when there was a chance of getting shot at.

Feet and knees together, toes pointed down, Vaughn stared straight ahead at the horizon. The voices of the "Black Hat" instructors bellowing that command through bullhorns as he did his first jumps at Fort Benning many years ago echoed in his head. Like most Army training, airborne school had been designed to build instincts, not develop deep intellectual discussion about the training. His toes hit, and in quick succession his calves, thighs, hips, and side, and he slammed into the ground.

He lay still for about two seconds, as he always did after a jump, savoring life. He could smell the tall grass he lay in, and layered on top of that, the nearby ocean. Adrenaline made all the senses more acute. Then he was up, unbuckling his harness before gathering in his parachute. He grabbed the opening loop in the top center and pulled it out to extend it fully, then began figure-eighting the material, looping it around both arms extended out to the sides. As he did so he noted that the Land Rover with tinted windows was already at the bundle. Whoever it was moved fast, because by the time he had the parachute stuffed in the kit bag, the Rover was coming toward him. It skidded to a halt and the driver's door opened.

Vaughn recognized the man who stepped out. "Mr. Royce."

"Just Royce will do." He jerked a thumb toward the rear of the Rover. "Throw the chute in. I got the bundle."

Vaughn did as instructed, then got in the passenger side. Royce threw the truck into gear and took off.

"Why