The Steel Wave (29 page)

A man screamed, and Adams saw him fall forward, holding his face, others pressing closer, helping hands. The man was still screaming, a high-pitched horror, and Pullman was up close, kneeling. Adams started to move forward—who is it?—but held himself back. Stay put. It’s almost time. Nothing you can do. He wanted to shout at Pullman, Get up front! Do your job! Pullman was ripping open a med kit, bandages flying apart, the lieutenant now focused, careful. Adams could see his hands, the syrette, thought, Morphine, good. He turned away, wouldn’t watch, thought, No time for this, for treating wounded. We have to get out of here. The plane bucked again. The man’s screaming had stopped. There were more rattles against the plane, a sharp crack of broken metal, and Adams eased closer to the opening, thought, There’s no protection. We need to get the hell out of here. He looked toward Pullman again, saw the man standing, holding himself upright with his hands against the roof of the plane, backing toward the cockpit.

“Stand up! Everyone up! Hook up!” Pullman shouted.

Men obeyed, and Adams suddenly understood something he had heard long ago from Gavin. When it’s hot, put everyone on their feet. If something happens to the bird, you need to go
now.
He reached down to his side and felt for the static line—more instinct, his hand wrapping around the hook. He turned again to the doorway—nothing to see, only smoke, thick and heavy—and reached back and hooked his static line to the cable over his head, the precious lifeline that would pull open his chute. Pullman repeated the order, prodding the men, some of them frozen in place. Adams stared blindly outside, searching for glimpses of the other planes. Damn! he thought. Too much smoke, must be the engine! But the engine was fine, a scattering of sparks but no fire. The red streaks of antiaircraft fire were rising up again, partially hidden by the smoke, the plane dipping hard to one side. He looked down at faint specks of fire on the ground, a new burst, a fat sickening fireball. That’s our guys, he thought, poor bastards. Hope they got the hell out before they hit. Don’t think about that now. He glanced at the signal panel close by: Nothing yet; no, it’s too soon. We’ve only been over the coast…what, five minutes? The orders said eight. Where’s this damned smoke coming from?

He couldn’t see the ground at all—the flashes of light were muted—but the rumbles came still, sharp pops, and he stared out, searching for some sign of…anything. A plane emerged from the blackness, stripes, one wing mostly gone, the plane diving close beside them, losing altitude, rolling over as it passed below. The words burst inside of him, and he wanted to shout out, yell to the men in the stricken plane: Jump! Get the hell out of there! He closed his eyes. Good God. We’re sitting ducks. Thank God for the smoke. The thought flashed in his brain now, and he stared out into the thick blindness, looked up, no stars. You jerk. It’s not smoke. It’s fog. Clouds!

The red light was in his eyes now, surprising him, the men responding with instinct, training, pressing toward him.

Pullman shouted out, “Check your equipment!”

Adams kept his back toward the men, felt for the precious line that would open the chute. He reached up again, gave the static line a sharp tug, testing the cable. The routine came back, and he checked each of his buckles, the pockets, the reserve chute, all the gear hanging from the pistol belt. He felt hands on his back, more of the training, the next man checking all those places Adams couldn’t reach, a hard tap on his helmet:
Okay.
Adams kept his eye on the red light, wouldn’t blink, edged closer to the door. The plane banked again, a fountain of red ripping the air in front of him, another, shattering taps on the wing. The streaking fire was coming up thick again, and he felt the plane lurch, the speed increasing, the pilot gaining altitude. The engines were revving up, more airspeed, and Adams began to scream in his brain,
No!
What the hell are you doing! That’s too fast! The plane was still gaining altitude. He heard Pullman shouting something to the pilots, and Adams stared that way, yelled out, “Slow this damned thing down! We can’t jump this fast!”

The red light turned green.

One word from Pullman:
“Go!”

Adams leaped into the crushing current of air, felt himself jammed backward, twisting, then the hard jerk from above, straps digging into his groin, punching him in the belly as the parachute ripped open above him. He tried to breathe, held his arms in tight—
Too fast, you bastard, you cowboy son of a bitch.
The parachute was fully open now and he grabbed the risers, tried to steady himself, to gain more control. He stared downward, nothing, still in the clouds, and cursed again. How high were we? That stupid idiot panicked. Too fast and too high.

Adams was in control now, kept his gaze down, his knees together, legs slightly bent, thought, It’s blind all the way down. Get ready! But the fog was suddenly gone, and he saw specks of light, fire, could hear the steady chatter of machine guns. The ground was rising up quickly, blessedly flat, and he braced himself for the roll, another second….

He impacted into water, a hard splash, made a muffled shout, was under the surface. He clamped his eyes shut, put out his arms, flailed madly, tried to hold his breath, water in his throat. His feet touched something thick, soft, and he fought not to choke, bent his knees, launched himself upward. His face was in the air, and he gasped, choking, kicked hard, kicked again, his arms driving downward, loud splashes, trying to keep himself on the surface. He coughed hard, filled his lungs with air, was underwater again, his brain racing.
Dammit, I’m not going to die in a lake!
The water seemed to suck him down, the straps from the chute strangling him, and he kicked to the surface again, his chest heaving, took one long breath, coughed again, tried to clear his lungs, screaming in his head,
Get out of the water! The knife!
His arms were wrapped in grass, his legs kicking through a thick tangle, and he held his face out of the water, precious seconds, took a long breath, released it, took another—okay, ready—
Do this, do it fast!
He dropped down, kept his eyes closed, reached down to his leg, found the knife—quick motion—sliced the straps around his arms and chest. He launched himself up with a hard kick, his face in the air again, another breath, dropped down, and cut the last strap, the knife slipping out of his hand, gone, lead in his legs, his energy draining fast. But the parachute had released him and he could keep himself upright more easily, his head above water. He searched frantically, specks of light, a thick mass to one side, a tree line.
All right, swim!

He pushed his arms out heavily, dropped down again, probed the bottom with his feet, pulled away from the thick grass, came up, thought, Don’t get tangled up, for God’s sake. He kept his eyes on the tree line, painful progress, breathing in short hard gasps, a burning in his lungs. He could feel grass with his hands, pulled himself along, probed downward, the bottom coming up, shallower. He tested, the water was shoulder-deep, and he stopped, took painful breaths; You didn’t drown, lucky bastard! He heard a new sound, hard splashes, shouting, more men landing in the water, and he turned. Dammit, at least I cut free. How many can’t? I have to help—

Machine-gun fire sprayed past him, streaks of light, parachutes above him, more splashing. One man came down a few yards away, raucous splashing, a hard cry. Adams pushed downward with his boots, fought with his legs, moved toward the man, saw him, moving away, the water more shallow. Adams followed the man—wanted to shout,
Go to the trees!
—but the splashing was noise enough. The machine-gun fire swept across again, higher, the gunners seeking targets still in the air, and Adams pushed himself in steady rhythm, the bottom coming up, knee-deep. The man in front of him was clear of the water, stayed low, and Adams followed, the man disappearing into the brush. Adams moved quickly, thick mud pulling at his boots, crawling, a row of small trees. He tried to see where the man had gone, but the machine guns came again, streaking fire. More shouting from behind him, and he turned, tried to see, glimpses of movement, churning water. To one side, another man emerged splashing, waist-deep, then out, scampering into the brush.

Adams waited, saw more chutes far to the side, soft reflections, lit by streaks of fire, the dull glare of flack blasts in the clouds above. More men were landing in the water, others up in the brush beyond, some voices, wounded and terrified men, some silenced quickly, dragged down by the weight of their gear. He was breathing heavily, coughed again, pressed his hand hard over his mouth, spread out flat on the muddy ground.
Get to the brush. Now!
He peered up, clumps of grass in the mud, the machine-gun fire silenced, no targets in the air. There were planes still above him, more of the vast armada rolling past, and he thought, No, God, somebody has to tell them. Don’t jump here, not over water. He tried to find the chutes, nothing, black blindness. There was mud in his eyes, and he wiped frantically with his sleeve but still saw no chutes. Maybe they’re empty already, jumped somewhere else. Thank God. How the hell did we jump over water? Far in the distance, firing began again, more machine guns, pops of rifle fire, every direction.

He pulled himself to his knees, slow and silent, searched the blackness, caught a glimpse of parachutes farther away, now one plane right above him, black shapes, chutes coming out of the clouds, and he wanted to scream, No! But there were no words, no warning. The men came down far out onto what seemed to be a wide grassy plain, preparing themselves to roll on flat ground that was not ground at all. They were too far away for him to reach, and his brain pulled him back, You’ll drown. Or maybe it’s shallow out that far, maybe they’ll reach…what? The other side? What the hell is this place? It’s not a river. If this is the Merderet River, it’s supposed to be fifty feet across. Some mapmaking genius, killing our people with his stupidity.

Adams crawled slowly up a gentle rise, the mud giving way to dry land, into a thick row of brush. He rolled over on his back, listened to soft sounds farther along the brush, thought, Our guys. Have to be. Maybe not. He reached back behind him, the submachine gun still strapped to his back, and thought of the knife, the precious blade that had saved him in the water. Well, you’re alive for now, but be damned grateful you didn’t cut away the Thompson. He put his hand on his waist, felt for the pistol, but the belt was stripped bare. He felt a jolt of panic, realized the canteen and shovel were gone, the cloth bag, the grenades. He reached lower. One pants leg was ripped, no pockets at all, but the other was intact, a heavy bulge, precious ammunition. His mind was racing, and he glanced toward the black water, thought, I lost it out there?

He thought of the jump now: Damn! Son of a bitch! That Texas moron! He tossed us out too damned fast. What? A hundred fifty? My gear is scattered all over France. Everybody in the stick is probably in the same boat. We’re lucky we didn’t smack into the tail. Or, hell, maybe somebody did. He held tightly to the face of the Texan, the pilot who had succumbed to panic, who had dropped his men over water, who had put them out at far too much speed. I hope you made it home, pal. Because one of these days I will find you.

The gunfire was scattered, distant, then suddenly, one spray of fire, men calling out: German words. Adams stayed flat in the brush, furiously helpless, and readied the Thompson, preparing to wage his own war. They’re moving up, he thought, trying to find us. He heard a truck, more sounds, knew that more were gathering, more guns. Streaks of tracer fire were coming from the far side of the water as well, and he tried to gauge the distance. The town, Sainte-Mère-Église—that’s where we’re supposed to end up. But where the hell am I? If this is the Merderet, it’s a hell of a lot more than some narrow river. He searched his pockets for the compass, the small disk, but it was a useless exercise. Nothing to see until dawn anyway. No matches; they were in the damned bag.

The machine guns seemed to quiet, fewer bursts, and he thought, Yep, I know what you’re doing. Any idiot can shoot up the night. You’re going to start looking for us, and maybe just wait until daylight anyway. Time for me to find somebody. Gather up. He sat upright, listening for other sounds, felt the chill from the water soaking his jumpsuit, his socks, flexed his wet toes, thought, Wonderful. Don’t need blisters too. As the gunfire grew more scattered, he began to hear movement around him, small cracks in the brush, footsteps and, now, breathing. He eased the muzzle of the Thompson that way, tried to keep silent, his own breaths betraying him, the annoying shiver, his mind racing.
The call signs
…lightning and thunder? No, dammit! That’s not right! What is it? Lightning…something. He heard the whisper now, a low croak.

“Flash!”

One word flooded his brain, the perfect logical response: Gordon. He cursed himself. No, that’s not right! The low croak came again. “Flash, damn you!”

“Thunder!”

The reply came from one side of him, movement in the brush, and now Adams felt his mind opening up, breathless relief. He said it as well. “Thunder.”

The men moved in closer. Adams rose to his knees, saw four men, said, “Sergeant Adams. Who are you?”

“Sarge! Thank God! It’s Nusbaum!”

There were more men moving through the brush now, a hard whisper. “Quiet! Celebrate later!”

Even in a whisper, Adams knew the voice. “Lieutenant. Glad you made it.”

“I’m glad too. How many do we have here?”

Adams made a quick count. “Ten, looks like. We can gather up more, we just have to make ourselves easy to find. This is a good place.”

“I’m not going to sit in one spot, Sergeant. We were supposed to come down between the river and Sainte-Mère-Église. I have to assume that’s where we are. We need to find that town.”

Adams said nothing. And where would that be? he thought.

Beside him, one man moved closer, a harsh whisper. “I don’t have a rifle, sir. Lost it.”