Page 42 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
But because the free-floating pallet wasn’t fixed to the ground, it gave way under Juan’s impact, lessening the blow. He snagged the cargo support straps with his nearly frozen fingers, halting a bounce from the pallet that would have sent him plummeting to his death.
Juan’s weight and impact swayed the load back and forth, but thegiant parachute held its shape. Cabrillo climbed hand over hand up the cargo straps until he reached the top of the pallet. He used the suspension lines to pull himself up and then to steady his stance as he stood on top of the stack.
The dark blue waters of the Gulf of Oman were rushing up fast. Standing on top of the speeding pallet that was still dropping at fifteen feet per second felt like riding a free-falling elevator to the bottom of the shaft.
Cabrillo’s only hope of survival was to crawl up into the chute rigging as high as he could without collapsing the canopy. He inched his way up, careful to distribute his weight as evenly as possible in the lines. With any luck, the pallet would crash into the sea and temporarily relieve the downward pressure on the parachute, while he remained in the rigging safely above the crash, and just long enough to leap beyond the pallet below.
But, of course, Cabrillo didn’t believe in luck.
The two-ton pallet hit the water with a thundering splash like a World War II depth charge, blasting a geyser of water high into the sky—and straight into the parachute canopy above.
But the blast of water was a boon. It blew Cabrillo out of the rigging into a high, cartwheeling arc that dropped him twenty feet away in a splashing, high diver’s belly flop. The crash landing hurt like the dickens and drove him under the surface. He crawled his way back up, coughing up seawater that burned his sinuses like a soldering iron—a painful proof of life.
All things being equal, it was better than being dead.
A sudden jerk yanked him backward, hard. Survival instincts kicked in. Cabrillo gulped down a mouthful of air just as he was dragged beneath the surface. His shocked brain instantly understood that the fifty-foot-long lines of his own failed chute must have become entangled with the pallet chute lines. The two-ton pallet was dragging him down headfirst to the seabed thousands of feet below.
Cabrillo’s fingers clawed at the buckles securing his improvised parachute harness. Every passing second dragged him deeper into the abyss, the rising pain stabbing in his ears like knitting needles.
Panic’s icy fingers began gripping Cabrillo’s heart, but he soldiered on, loosening the last buckles and stripping away the harness as fast as he could. All of that exertion burned out the last of the oxygen in his lungs.
All Cabrillo could do was exhale away the noxious fumes in a stream of trailing bubbles as he clawed his way back up until he finally broke the surface, gulping in air as fast as his bellowing lungs would allow.
Another geysering splash thundered just a few yards away from him. He was still in harm’s way. He glanced up and saw the sky filled with parachuting pallets. Some were falling away from him in scattered ranks into the sea, but surface winds were swinging some of them back around.
Mustering the last of his energy reserves, he leaned into the water and swam away, his long, smooth strokes conditioned by the hundreds of miles he’d put in over the years in theOregon’s swimming pool. He didn’t stop until he felt clear of the probable landing zone some hundred yards from where he began. Once stopped, he caught his breath again and then stripped off his boots, utterly exhausted.
Juan lay on his back to gather more energy. Water erupted in distant thundering splashes in his peripheral vision as pallets hit the water. But his eyes were focused on the trailing cloud of black smoke pointing a crooked finger to where the airplane had exploded.
Cabrillo was certain theOregonwouldn’t have shot it down without his express orders.So who did?
He knew he’d have at least thirty minutes to think about it as he waited for his ship to arrive.
Juan’s practiced fingers found the compartment in his combat leg and he reached for his smartphone to contact theOregon, but the phone wasn’t there. Then he remembered he’d pocketed it and he pulled it out. Not surprisingly, the fall from the sky or the seawater—or both—had killed it.
Cabrillo treaded water. No telling if his bleeding had stopped or if it was sending out a “Hot Donuts Now!” signal to every patrolling shark in the region. He was too tired to care.
After surviving the elevator ride from hell he decided he’d had enough aerobic conditioning for one day.
He stretched out his aching limbs, floated on his back, and fixed his eyes on the sky. His heart rate slowed with the sound of his own labored breathing ringing in his ears as his mind embraced the terrifying reality of the last few minutes.
What would he tell his crew? Would they even believe it?
Did he?
Cabrillo roared with laughter.
He closed his eyes and felt the heat of the sun on his face and the warm embrace of the sea. The caressing waves upheld him as if God himself bore him in the palm of his hand, a gesture of grace against the terrors he had just suffered.
Cabrillo was grateful for the respite, however long it might last.
23
Juan’s eyes had been tracking the horizon when he finally caught sight of a speck in the shimmering distance. In what seemed like mere moments the speck became a white shape, and the shape became a ship, and in short order theOregon’s familiar hull and cargo cranes roared into view, skimming along the surface like a speedboat.
There were few pleasures in life as satisfying as standing on the upper bridge of theOregonrunning at flank speed. But now, with a duck’s-eye view from the surface, he gained a whole new appreciation for the physics-defying spectacle of nearly six hundred feet of steel racing along at over sixty knots throwing a surging wake behind it big enough for Laird Hamilton to surf.
Eric Stone’s skill at the helm came into full display. TheOregon’s engines slowed as the ship made an effortless ninety-degree turn and came to a stop a mere hundred yards from Juan’s position. The resulting waves bobbed Juan up and down a dozen feet at a time, but he was no worse for the experience. Juan knew that Eric probably could have parked the boat six feet away if he had chosen to, but safety protocols forbade it.
