Sam Fisher- Wingsuit and Parachute

  Fisher stood near the door, double-checking Briggs’s gear while Briggs did likewise for Fisher. The loadout was always the same, each item meticulously chosen and inspected by Fisher before it was ever stowed on board the plane. They each wore an HGU-55/P ballistic helmet, tactical goggles, an MBU-12/P oxygen mask, Airox VIII O2 regulator, Twin 53 bailout bottle assemblies, tac-suits, gloves, and high-altitude altimeters.

  The final piece of gear was, of course, the topic of conversation:

  “How do you like that squirrel suit?” Fisher asked Briggs over the radio.
...

  The loadmaster was there to shut the door behind him. He gave the young airman first class a curt nod, which she returned, then he threw himself out of the aircraft.

  The wind struck a massive blow to his body, wrenching him far and fast. The disorientation was normal and no reason to panic. Reflexes and training took over, muscle memory causing him to extend his arms and legs so the wingsuit would catch air. The roar of the wind deepened as he straightened his spine and pushed his shoulders forward. Since his entire body was now acting as an airfoil, he need only adjust his arms, legs, and head to maneuver deftly through the air.

  Briggs was down below, appearing as a black hourglass against a mottled backdrop of snowcapped mountains and an almost imperceptible thin line of smoke. He, too, knew they needed to cover a great distance, so like Fisher, he was now lowering his chin against his neck, rolling his shoulders even farther forward, and pushing the wingsuit into a head-low position downwind while narrowing his arms. Decreasing the amount of drag always increased velocity, and you always sacrificed altitude in order to gain speed. Indeed, HALO jumps were dangerous enough, but a wingsuit insertion from nearly thirty thousand feet opened a whole new world of hazards, including unrecoverable spins that led to blackouts and unhappy endings. Moreover, they hadn’t had much time to pre-breathe 100 percent oxygen beforehand, so the possibility of getting the sort of “bends” that sometimes accompanied scuba diving was still there.

  Briggs banked to the left, aiming for the smoke and mountains, and Fisher began twisting his arms and legs in small but appreciable movements to drop in behind the man. The key was to make gradual changes, no sharp or chaotic moves that could result in a loss of control. As a former SEAL, Fisher likened the maneuvering to swimming underwater and shifting one’s body to change direction. Flight was simply the relationship of four opposing for
ces: weight, lift, thrust, and drag, and as expected, Grim adroitly reminded him of those facts:

  “Sixteen thousand feet and falling. Airspeed 191. Your glide ratio looks excellent. On target.”

  They might be on course, but that airspeed was too slow for Fisher. “Tighten it up, Briggs. Let’s get in there a little faster.”

  “Roger that.”

  Briggs narrowed his position even further and dropped like a missile, picking up so much speed that Fisher found it difficult to follow his lead.

  “Airspeed 210,” reported Grim. “Take it easy, Briggs.”

  “I’m good. I’m good.”

  “Sam, you’re up to 215. Slow down! You can’t afford to get sick.”

  Fisher rolled his wrist slightly inward to check his altimeter and airspeed, verifying it against Grim’s report. He shifted his arms a little wider. No, he wasn’t going to break any records today. They’d never get reported anyway. And who knew if that speed record still held? He’d read that report a few months prior. Better to just take a deep breath and enjoy the ride.

  He soared in behind Briggs, and they swooped down like a pair of vultures, tiny against the mountains, impossible to see by most distant aircraft whose radar systems would filter out slower moving blips like themselves, mistaking them for birds.

  His breathing grew even as they approached the mountainside and the long rings of talus and scree scattered like broken necklaces across the valley. The peaks thrust up in crystalline white arches that made him feel insignificant. These were the Caucasus Mountains, a broad range considered the dividing line between Asia and Europe, with the northern section in Europe and the southern in Asia. The region was split between Russia, Turkey, Iran, Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan, and it was bounded on the west by the Black Sea and on the east by the Caspian Sea. This was a land of rugged people and even more rugged terrain.

  Briggs turned again, coming in for their final approach, but the wind was suddenly gusting. He adjusted quickly, once more pulling away from Fisher. It seemed the younger man was schooling Fisher in wingsuit drops, and it took everything Fisher had to stay with the man.

  “Ten seconds, Briggs,” Grim reported.

  “Just say the word,” he answered.

  The treetops were visible now, blurring by in a dozen shades of green.

  “Five.”

  Fisher ticked off the seconds and watched as Briggs released his drogue then main chute and suddenly shot upward. Good opening.

  “Ten seconds, Sam,” came Grim’s warning.

  He didn’t know exactly why it was, and he’d discussed the issue with other paratroopers, but during free fall there was always a tingling sensation at the back of his neck that urged him to tempt fate and delay his chute opening. The adrenaline pumped harder, and the thrill magnified as he whispered in death’s ear: “No, not today. You can’t have me.”

  Even so, if for some reason Fisher became incapacitated or listened too intently to the siren’s call, the CYPRES would kick in and save his life. An acronym for Cybernetic Parachute Release System, the CYPRES was an automatic activation device, or AAD, that could open the chute at a preset altitude if the rate of descent was over a certain threshold.

  “And three, two, one!” cried Grim.

  Bracing himself, Fisher reached back, deployed the drogue chute, then, three, two, one, boom! The main chute deployed, ripping him upward and swinging him sideways for a few seconds until he took control of the toggles and began to steer himself down, once more falling into Briggs’s path.

  Relief warmed his gut like a good scotch, although at the moment, he’d rather have the scotch. During his SEAL days he used to joke that his uncle was the navy’s greatest parachute packer: no operator ever came back to complain that the chute didn’t open.

  “Nice work, gentlemen. Continue on track,” Grim reported. “Radio blackout now.”

- Blacklist Aftermath, Chapter 6