Sam Fisher- Parafoil Escape

  Fisher drew the pistol again and started firing, hoping to keep the gunmen's heads down. He reached back, turned the doorknob, opened the door. He dropped Greenhorn's body, turned, sprinted across the balcony, and dove over the railing.

  HIS decision against penetrating the hotel via parachute was proven right the instant he cleared the rail. He was grabbed by the cyclonic winds whipping around the building and sent tumbling. A thousand feet tall and sitting offshore, the hotel faced both inland and seaward weather systems, which included wind shears that would terrify any pilot, let alone a lone man with a parafoil strapped to his back.

  He'd added the compact parafoil to his pack at the last minute in response to that little voice in the back of his head. Getting into the hotel would be a challenge; getting out could be an even bigger one. Better to have a backup and not need it rather than vice versa.

  Whether the Al-Mughaaweer were firing on him from the balcony worried Fisher not at all. Though only seconds had passed since his leap, he was by now lost in the darkness, hurtling away from the hotel and toward the ocean's surface at sixty miles per hour He had thirty seconds, no more.

  He arched his body, arms and legs spread wide to catch as much air as possible. He felt himself lift ever so slightly. He glanced to his right and saw the lights of the seafront shops and restaurants. He twisted that way.

  He lifted the OPSAT to his face and punched a button, bringing up his altimeter: 710 FEET. He'd lost a third of the hotel's height in roughly ten seconds. Given the volatility of the winds, he needed to wait until the last possible moment to open his chute.

  He checked his OPSAT: 490 FEET/90 MPH.

  A few more seconds . . .

  He reached across his chest and ripped free a Velcro patch, revealing the chute's D-ring release.

  390 FEET.

  Wait. . . .

  340 FEET.

  He jerked the toggle, heard the swoosh and flutter of the parafoil deploying. He was jerked upward, felt his stomach rising into his throat, shoulders wrenched backward. He reached up, found the riser toggles, and gently pulled to counter the parafoil's initial lift. At this height, in the crosscurrent winds, the parafoil would naturally nose up, trading airspeed for lift, a combination sure to create a stall.

  He checked the OPSAT: 255 FEET/40MPH. He switched views to radar mode. To his left up the coast, a red triangle blinked. This too had been the result of Fisher's last-minute equipment change. Earlier, as he waited for nightfall, he'd meandered up the coast a few miles and secreted a pathfinder transponder on a rock outcropping.

- Checkmate, Chapter 22