Straps caught at crotch and waist and armpits, then cradled him in their padding. Above him the night was full of thunder, as hundreds of the huge transports spilled their cargos of troops and equipment into the thin air; south and east still more formations bulked black against the stars: transports and glider-tugs. Chutes blossomed, sorted themselves into formations, turned to their destinations… A paratrooper lost velocity fast; the transports drew ahead and above quite quickly.
Above a flight of Falcon III fighters banked, their line stretching into an arc, moonlight glinting on the bubble canopies. Sharks of the sky.
This is the best time
, Eric thought, as the flight of transports vanished, climbing and turning for height and home, southward to their bases. Silence, except for the fading machines and the hiss of the wind through the silk. Silence over a great scattered cloudscape, castles and billows of silver under a huge cool moon; air like crisp white wine in the lungs, aloneness. A feeling beyond the
self;
peace, joy, freedom—in a life bound on the iron cross of duty, in the service of repression and death. There had been a few other times like this; making love with Tyansha, or single-handing a ketch through monsoon storms. But always here, alone in the sky.
His hands were working on the lines, turning and banking; these new sail-chutes
flew
; like gliders. None of the old business of dropping all over the farmyard, where the wind and fate pleased. You could jump high and sail to your drop zone quietly, with no thunder of engines to announce you. And you could land soft; that was important. Paratroopers had to carry most of their equipment—as much again as their own body weight. With a load like that you could break your back just stepping into a ditch, if you weren't careful.
The rest of the Century were forming up behind, wheeling like a flight of birds of prey; he saw with relief that the gliders, with their cargo of heavy weapons and specialists, were following. The Legion was dropping on the whole pass that took the Ossetian Military Highway through the mountains from north to south, but the bulk of it was landing at the southern end. The 2nd Cohort was the northernmost unit, and Century A was the point formation of 2nd Cohort. They would take the shock of whatever reaction force the Fritz could muster to relieve their cut-off comrades south of the mountains. Two hundred of them, to blunt the enemy spearheads; they were going to
need
that special equipment, and the thirty-odd specialists in the
tetrarchy
of combat engineers. Very badly.
Now… The cloud cover was patchy, light and shadow.
Southward, the main peaks of the Caucasus shone snow white.
Below was a black-purple immensity of scree, talus-slope, dark forests of beech and holm oak, sloping down to a valley and a thread of road winding up into the mountains. On a map it was nothing, a narrow sliver of highland between the Black and Caspian Seas…
Over it all loomed the great mass of Mount Elbruz; beyond it was the south slope, ex-Soviet Georgia; beyond that the Draka armored legions massing in the valleys of Armenia. The symbolism of it struck him—all Europe was in shadow, in a sense. From the Elbe to the Urals, there was a killing underway great enough to leave even the cold hearts at Castle Tarleton shaken… Eric had been a student of history, among other things; his mouth quirked at the supreme irony that the Draka should come as deliverers.
Still, true enough
, he thought, as his body automatically leaned and twisted to turn the parasail. The rule of the Domination was cruel and arbitrary, merciless in breaking resistance. But his people made war for land and booty, killed to enforce submission. What the Intelligence reports said was happening below was madness come to earth: slaughter for its own sake, an end rather than a means.
The Fritz must be convinced they've won it all
, he thought, as his eyes automatically scanned for the landing zone.
There
…
He stooped, a giddy exhilarating slide across the sky, a breathless joy. For a moment he was a bird, a hunting bird, an eagle. Stooping on the world, feeling the air rushing past his wings…
Be practical, Eric
, he reminded himself severely. Once they grounded they would have only their feet, and the south slope of the mountains was German-held.
But lightly, by the spearhead divisions of General Von Paulus'
Sixth Army, itself the vanguard of Army Group South. They had fought their way across the Ukraine, through the great encirclement battles at Kiev and Kharkov, even with most of their armor up north for the attack on Moscow. The frantic Russian counterattacks had failed; the Panzers came south, ground down by a thousand miles of route-march over frozen wasteland and the costly destruction of Zhukov's Siberians. The offensive continued, on through the winter and the mud of spring; east to the Volga at Stalingrad, wheeling south and east to Astrakhan, south into the Kalmyk steppe, taking Maikop and Krasnodar, on to the Kuban.
Now… now they were a
very
long way from home—thousands of miles of mud trail, torn-up railway, scorched earth. Good troops, but exhausted, fought out, short of supplies. If the paradrop could hold the passes behind them, they could be crushed out of existence by waves of Janissary infantry; then the Draka armor would pour into the Russian plains, close to their bases, fresh, with superior weapons and limitless supplies, against enemies who had battered each other into broken-backed impotence.
The ground was coming up fast; he could smell it, a wet green scent of trees and spring meadow-grass and rock. This area had been swarming with Draka reconnaissance planes for months; the contours were springing out at him, familiar from hundreds of hours poring over photomaps. He banked to get a straight run at the oblong meadow.
Carefully now, don't get caught in that
fucking treeline
… Branches went by three meters below. He hauled back on the lines, turning up the forward edge of the parasail; it climbed, spilled air, slowed. With the loss of momentum it turned from a wing to a simple parachute once more, and good timing landed him softly on his feet, boots vanishing in knee-high grass starred with white flowers.
Landing was a plunge from morning into darkness and shadow, as the sun dropped below the mountains to the southeast. And always, there was a sense of sadness, of loss; lightness turning to earthbound reality.
Not an eagle any more
, went through him.
More like a hyena
, a mordant part of his mind prompted.
Come to squabble over the carcass of Russia
with the rival pack
.
Swiftly, he hit the quick-release catches and the synthsilk billowed out, white against the dark grass. He turned, clicking on the shielded red flashlight, waving it in slow arcs above his head.
The first troopers of his Century were only seconds behind him, grey rectangles against the stars. They landed past him, a chorus of soft grunts and thuds, a curse and a clatter as somebody rolled. A quick check: mapcase, handradio, binoculars, Holbars T-6 assault rifle, three 75-round drums of 5mm for it, medikit, iron rations, fighting dagger in his boot, bush knife across his back… That was an affectation—the machete-sword was more a tradition than anything else—but…
Dropping their chutes and jogging back by stick and section, rallying to the shouts of their decurions and tetrarchs, platoon-commanders, the troopers hurried to form in the shadows of the trees. The mottled grey of their uniforms was nearly invisible in the dim light, and their faces were white ovals beneath the rims of their wide-flared steel helmets. Sofie jogged over to her position with the headquarters communication
lochos
, the antennae waving over her shoulder; she had the headset on already, tufts of bright tow hair ruffling out between the straps. As usual, she had clipped her helmet to her harness on touchdown; also as usual, she had just lit a cigarette. The match went
scrit
against the magazine well of her machinepistol; she flicked it away and held out the handset.
For Dreiser, leaving the airplane had been a whirling, chaotic rush. For a moment he tumbled, then remembered instructions.
Arms and legs straight
. That brought the sickening spiral to a stop; he was flying forward, down toward silver clouds and the dark holes between them.
"Flying, hell,
I'm falling
," he said into the rush of cold wind.
His teeth chattered as he gripped the release toggle and gave the single firm jerk the Draka instructors had taught. For a heart-stopping moment there was nothing, and then the pilot chute unfolded, dragging out the main sail. It bloomed above him, the reduction in speed seeming to drag him backward out of his fall. Air gusted past him, more slowly now that the parachute was holding. He glanced up to the rectangle above him, a box of dozens of long cloth tubes fastened together side by side, held taut by the rush of air.
"The parasail functions as both a parachute and a wing,' " he quoted to himself. " To acquire forward speed, lean forward.
Steer by hauling on left or right cords, or by shifting the center of gravity…"
God, it's working
. Blinking his eyes behind the goggles that held his glasses to his face, he peered about for the recognition-light. The aircraft had vanished, nothing more than a thrumm of engine noise somewhere in the distance. There it was, a weak red blinking: he shifted his weight forward, increasing the angle of glide. Cautiously; you could nose down in these things, and he doubted he could right it again before he hit.
The meadow rose up to strike; he flung himself back, too soon, lost directional control, and barely avoided landing boot-first in another chute at a hundred feet up. Ground slammed into his soles and he collapsed, dragging.
"
Watch where yo' puttin' y'feet. Yankee pigfuckah
," an incongruously young and feminine voice snarled as he skidded through tall grass and sharp-edged gravel on his behind, scrabbling at the release straps until the billowing mass of fabric peeled away to join the others flapping on the ground. He stood, turned, flung himself down again as the dark bulk of a glider went by a foot above his head, followed by a second.
"Jesus!" he swore, as they landed behind him and collided with a brief
crunch
of splintering plywood and balsa. Boots hurdled him, voices called in throttled shouts.
As he came to his feet, the meadow seemed to be in utter chaos, groups of Draka paratroopers dashing about, parasails still banking in, color-coded lights flashing. But visibly, the mass of men, women, and machinery was sorting itself into units, moving according to prearranged plans. Behind him the detachable nose of a glider broke free under enthusiastic hands and the ramp to the cargo-hold dropped; a pilot staggered down to sit cradling his head in his hands, while a file of troopers ran up to begin unloading crates. Dreiser walked toward the spot where the Draka commanders would be gathering, feeling strength return to his rubbery legs and a strange exhilaration building.
Did it, by God
! he thought. So much for being an old man at thirty-eight… Now, about the article, let's see:
The landing
showed once again the value of careful preparation and
training. Modern warfare, with its complex coordination of
different arms, is something new on this earth. Our devotion to
the "minuteman" tradition of the amateur citizen-soldier is a
critical handicap
…
Eric took the handset, silent for a moment as the gliders came in with a
shush
of parted air, guiding themselves down into the field marked with discarded parasails. Moonlight and predawn glow cast their wings in patterns of shade and light as flaps and slots opened to shed lift. Around him there was a holding of breath as the landing skids cut turf with a screeching of steel on gravel. The sailplanes slewed to a halt, the wing of one catching the other's tail with a crunch of plywood. A sigh gusted up as the detachable nose-sections fell away and figures began unloading.
Sofie gently tapped his hand. "Set's workin' fine, Centurion,"
she said. "Got the Cohort Sparks already, green-beepers from all the handradios in the Century… want a smoke?"
"Trying to give it up," he grunted, lifting the phone to his ear and clicking the pressure-button in his call sign. "You should too." He glanced at his watch: 0420 almost exactly. Forty-five minutes to dawn.
"Hey, Centurion, do I complain about your baby girls?" she replied, grinning. The rest of the head-quarters tetrarchy were falling in around him: Senior Decurion McWhirter, two five-trooper rifle "sticks" who would double as runners, two rocket-gun teams and a heavy machine gun.
They both fell silent as the hissing of static gave way to voices; coded sequences and barked instructions. Unconsciously, Eric nodded several times before speaking.
"Yes? Yes, sir. No sir; just coming in, but it looks good."
Reception was excellent; he could hear a blast of small-arms fire in the background, the rapid snarl of Draka assault-rifles, the slower thump and chatter of German carbines and MG 34's.
"Ah, good." Then he and the comtech winced in unison. "The armor landed
where
? Sorry, sir, I know you didn't design this terrain… Right, proceed according to plan, hold them hard as long as I can. Any chance of extra antitank… yes, Conortarch, I appreciate everybody wants more firepower, but we
are
the farthest north… Yes, sir, we can do it. Over and out, status report when Phase A is complete. Thank you, sir, and good luck to you, too."
"Because we're both going to need it," he added under his breath as he released the send button. The Legion had had a Cohort of light tanks, Cheetahs with 75mm guns in oscillating turrets. Those had apparently come down neatly in a gully…
The gliders were emptying, stacks of crates and heavy weapons being lifted onto their wheeled carts. Paratroopers jumped with light weapons—their Holbars assault rifles, machine guns, machinepistols for techs and weapons teams, the 85mm recoilless-rocket guns that served as tetrarchy antitank.