Sam Fisher- Plane Crash

  There was no time to get the dead man out of his seat. Fisher hunched forward and pulled on the pilot’s yoke with all the strength he could muster. The tops of trees were reaching for them, up from a green blanket gathering to swallow the aircraft and crush it.

  Fisher yelled with the force of his effort, hauling back, desperately fighting to bring the Be-12’s nose above the line of the horizon, but it was like trying to move a mountain. Thin branches cracked against the gull wings and the seaplane’s pontoons as they skimmed the highest of the trees. Then in the next second, a spindly trunk hammered into the starboard-side prop and tore it away, black-orange fire vomiting from the engine nacelle.

  The aircraft pitched forward and ploughed into the hillside, the nose and the canopy crumpling like an empty beer can.
...

  This hurts too much to be dying, Fisher told himself.

  For a moment he lay on his back in the ruin of the seaplane’s fuselage, cursing and praising his luck in equal measure. He’d blacked out as the aircraft had collided with the trees, his last recollection a giddy moment as the cramped cockpit compacted around him. Spat out of the forward compartment, Fisher came to in the crushed mess of the cargo bay. The wings and the whole rear quarter of the aircraft were gone, torn off and shredded by the forest. He smelled aviation fuel and smoke, heard the sizzle of the rain on hot metal. Something was burning.

  He rolled over, a cold gust of damp air caressing his face, and jagged knives of pain stabbed him up and down the length of his body. But the worst of it was a knot of flame-bright agony concentrated in his right shoulder. The joint had been dislocated in the chaos of the crash and now it ground, bone on bone, with every move he made.

  Fisher hauled himself back to his feet and found a metal support to rest his aching shoulder on. And then, with a stifled grunt of pain, he slammed himself into it, snapping the joint straight again. For one excruciating second it was like being drenched in acid, the agony shocking through him. Then it ebbed away and he panted, normalizing his breathing.

  First order of business is survival, he told himself, thinking of the numbing cold in his feet.

- Dragonfire, Chapter 14, 15