“What for? If we don’t do this tonight, and that bad weather moves in, we might have to sit on our asses in Finland for days. By then, we might need snowshoes to get back out. To hell with that. I say we just keep flying.”

“Man’s got a point,” the pilot said. “There’s no telling how long we’d be grounded. We’ll be fine as long as the engine doesn’t overheat. We’re close. Might as well go for it.”

“And if the engine overheats?” Honaker asked.

“Then you’re going to have some company jumping out of this crate.”

Honaker and Cole cleared out of the cockpit. Honaker did not look pleased. “Goddamnit, Cole. I thought you and me had an agreement that I was in charge on this mission.”

“In case you ain’t noticed, Honaker, there ain’t no mission to be in charge of yet. Once we get on the ground, you can be the goddamn leader if that’s what makes you happy.”

They were both shouting to be heard over the engine noise, but that was just an excuse. They would have been shouting at each other in a library, too.

The loud exchange left Cole’s throat feeling raw. Cole made it back to his jump seat, although the bumpy air made the walk a little challenging. It was even noisier back here, which was just fine with him—it meant Honaker would have to shut the hell up. He buckled himself in again and waited. The plane lurched and shook, but then corrected itself. The pilot had seemed confident enough that he could get them to the drop zone. Don’t worry yourself into a corner, his pa used to say. Better to leave the door open for good luck to walk through. The man used to talk sense when he wasn’t guzzling his own ’shine.

Cole settled down to wait.

Next stop, Russia.

CHAPTER 16

Honaker signaled the team that they were approaching the drop zone. They got into line near the door and Honaker snapped them onto the static line. He didn’t seem anxious in any way and acted as if he had done this a hundred times. Maybe he had. He gave them a thumbs up. Then he slid open the jump door. The wind shrieked like a banshee.

“You got to be kidding me!” Vaccaro shouted.

If anyone heard him, they ignored him.

When the green jump light came on, Cole felt his insides liquify. Cole was not easily rattled, but looking out an open hatch at the darkness beyond would give anyone pause. He had reached a point where it was too late to second guess what he was about to do. It was time to go—now or never. He’d be damned if he let Honaker see him look too scared to jump.

It was somewhat reassuring that they were jumping with a static line using a T-5 parachute. In their brief training, he had been reassured that all he had to do was get out the door—the parachute would do the rest.

Samson went first. His shoulders were so big that he had to pivot sideways to get through the hatch. He tumbled out and dropped like a boulder.

Vaccaro was next. He reached the door easily enough, but then froze with arms on either side of the opening. He even took a step back.

Cole gave him a mighty shove and Vaccaro was gone. The wind barely drowned out his scream of pure terror.

Cole knew just how he felt, but he wasn’t about to give that son of a bitch Honaker an excuse to give him a shove out the door. They had been told to jump within a second of the man in front. The idea was to land close to one another, and with the C-47 still moving at around ninety miles per hour, any delay meant the jumpers would be spread out over hundreds of yards on the ground below.

Cole closed his eyes and leaped.

He went out the door all wrong, the weight of his pack throwing him off balance. When he looked down at his feet, expecting to see the ground below, he saw the plane beneath his boots instead—which meant he was upside down. Honaker still hadn’t jumped.

The static line pulled his parachute, and snapped Cole upright with a jerk better suited to a hangman’s rope. It was not a pleasant experience, but he felt a sense of relief as the parachute deployed. Now all he had to do was ride it down.

The darkness was disorienting. Rushing air took Cole’s breath away. The cold felt brittle and sharp as an old stone arrowhead. Beneath the circular parachute, he found himself swinging in circles, which did not do much to improve his mood.

It was hard to see the ground, but he knew it was down there, waiting. The question was, how hard was he going to hit? He felt like an egg headed for the hard bottom of a cast iron skillet. Was he going to end up sunny side up—or scrambled?

Then all at once he saw the ground. Images took shape—lighter patches that might be dried grass or brush. The thought that he might be headed toward the trees was more worrisome. The last thing he wanted to do was get hung up like a treed coon. It was all coming toward him way too fast and he braced himself for the impact.