Free Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Blacklist Aftermath by Peter Telep Page B

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.”
    Fisher wanted to tell Briggs how impressed he was with the man’s jump, but that could
     wait until later. They floated at a painfully slow rate now, drifting in toward the
     smoke directly ahead, and as they descended to within a thousand feet, Fisher’s chest
     tightened.
    His reservations were voiced by Briggs, who’d suddenly broken radio silence: “Dense
     canopy down there, Sam. I can’t . . . I can’t find a good opening.”
    “You’ll need to call it at the last second. We’re on our own here.”
    “Shit, the wind’s knocking me all over the place.”
    Fisher grimaced. “Just get off the channel and focus. You own this landing.”
    “Roger that.” Briggs cursed again and then, out ahead of Fisher, with the smoke about
     a quarter klick north of them, Briggs was swallowed by the canopy.
    Even as Fisher was tugging his lines, buffeted hard by the wind and fighting for a
     spot between two giant pines, a long string of curses erupted from Briggs, followed
     by a breathy groan . . . and then . . . silence.
    “Briggs, you all right?” Fisher cried, just as he came slicing between the trees,
     his seven-cell canopy missing the branches by only inches before he thumped down hard
     on some patches of snow and beds of pine needles. He ejected his parachute and pack,
     then turned back and gathered up the chute. “Briggs, you there?”
    No reply.
Shit
.
    He unbuckled his helmet and oxygen gear and buried them in a pile of snow, then did
     likewise with his chute and pack. Holstered at his right hip was his FN Five-seveN,
     which he immediately drew, and on his left hip he’d packed a secondary weapon, one
     equally impressive and having a lot of sentimental value: his SIG SAUER P226 semiautomatic
     9mm pistol, the one