Free His Majesty's Hope by Susan Elia MacNeal

you.”
    Maggie felt her heart starting to beat faster and faster. She forced herself to take deep breaths. “It’s time now, miss.”
    The plane circled lower and slowed. Maggie walked, with tiny steps, closer to the hole. She and the sergeant squatted down at the edge. Below, they could see a bonfire glittering orange in the darkness. “You all right, miss? Do you want to jump, or should I push you? No shame in it—done it for lots of the boys.”
    That made Maggie twist her mouth in a half smile. “No, I want to jump on my own.”
    “That’s right,” he said, clapping her on the shoulder again. Maggie was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for his touch. “Now, just remember—bend your knees. Five, four, three, two …”
    Maggie jumped, or rather stepped, into the hole and dropped straight down. It felt as if there was no air in her lungs as she fell, her body pushed almost sideways by the contrast in speed, as she plummeted through the air.
S = D/T
, Maggie thought in the logical part of her brain, even as the other parts screamed in fear and excitement, a trick she’d learned on practice jumps.
Speed=Distance divided by Time
.
    She pressed the button on her harness to release the parachute, heard it engage, then open, and felt a painful tug on her legs and rear where the straps were attached.
    Her descent into darkness began to slow and she almost, almost, had a split second to enjoy the feeling of flying before she hit the ground—sooner than she expected.
    And much harder.
    She lay on her side, in pain. Slowly the burning feeling subsided, although her knees still throbbed. From a long way off, she heard voices. “
Gute nacht, gnädiges Fräulein!
So glad you could ‘drop in,’ ” a male voice said. She saw the glare of flashlights.
    I bet he’s been working on that all day
. Maggie spat out dirt andgrass and sat up, grabbing the hand in front of her and coming up to her feet. There she swayed, unsteady, testing her limbs and joints for damage. But as she hit the disk on her belt to disengage the parachute, she smiled.
    “Thank you. Next time, I’ll remember to bend my knees,” she said in perfect German.
    One of the men detached the parachute from the crate protecting Maggie’s suitcase, then retrieved the suitcase itself from the padding. “You will be needing this, Fraulein Hoffman,” he said, handing it to her.
    “Danke schön,”
Maggie said, trying not just to speak but to
think
in German, as she extricated herself from her jumpsuit. Her ankles and knees were sore, but her left hip had taken the brunt of the impact. She brushed grass from her face and hair and continued to spit out dust and dirt. “What’s your name?”
    “Herr Karl. If you can walk now, the auto is over this way.” He picked up her valise and led the way to a waiting truck, its headlights dimmed by blackout slats.
    “In you go,” he said, opening the door for her. “I’ll put this in the back.” He also folded both parachutes and broke down the crate, pulling nails from the wood until it collapsed, then putting everything into the truck bed.
    As Maggie sat in the front seat, she realized her legs were shaking. And her hands. She was overwhelmed, but part of her was still thrilled.
I’m in Germany!
    They drove down a dark and twisting road, to a small farmhouse. There Maggie was introduced to Frau Karl, Herr Karl’s wife, and a young man, their son, called Carl.
Carl Karl
. Maggie tried not to smile.
    Herr Adelwin Karl was in his late fifties, with pale, thinning hair and a weather-burned face. His light eyes were filled with fear, and darted back and forth, as though he expected the Gestapoto break down the door at any moment. Frau Karl was small and dark, with a no-nonsense air that indicated she was the boss of the operation. Carl was young, sixteen at the most, and had an eager, round face. He was solidly built and somewhat clumsy in the way most teenagers are, with large hands and large feet, like a