Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Training overrode panic. Assess. Attempt recovery. If unrecoverable, eject. He cycled the emergency flight control override.
Nothing.
The stick was dead weight in his hand. The engine tone shifted, a high uneven whine that vibrated through the frame. The Lightning wasn’t flying anymore. It was falling.
Two thousand feet.
He calculated ten seconds until impact. The jet pitched nose down again and began a tight, sickening spin. The horizon rotated in fast, nauseating loops. Water. Sky. Water. Sky.
The canopy spidered faint cracks across the inside layer from pressure stress.
One thousand five hundred feet.
His hand went to the ejection handle between his knees. He’d trained this movement until it lived in muscle memory. He pulled.
The cockpit detonated.
Explosive bolts blew the canopy clear in a thunderclap of force. The ejection charge fired, slamming him upward with bone-crushing acceleration. His spine compressed violently against the seat as rockets propelled him clear of the failing aircraft.
For a split second, the world went silent.
Then the wind tried to kill him. It roared past his helmet at brutal speed. The Lightning spun away beneath him, trailing smoke in a tight spiral.
He had just enough time to see it hit. The nose struck first. The impact sent up a column of water and flame that vanished almost immediately beneath the surface.
Then his parachute deployed.
The opening shock jerked his shoulders back so hard his teeth snapped together. He swung under the canopy, suspended in open air, his heart pummeling his ribs. He thought of his childhood and of Hank taking him in. His brothers always there, solid as the mountains that helped shape them.
The ocean waited below.
No ships. No visible rescue. Just wind carving hard lines across the water. Cold anticipation blasted up his spine. He checked the chute. Stable. Good canopy. No line twist. He angled his body, trying to steer toward calmer water, but the wind had authority now.
The surface rushed up faster than he wanted. He braced. Impact was worse than he remembered. The water hit him with the force of concrete and swallowed him whole. The cold was a shock that punched through his suit and seized every muscle at once. His chest convulsed on instinct, trying to inhale.
He locked his jaw shut. The parachute collapsed over him and dragged sideways, lines wrapping around his arm and shoulder as the canopy filled with water. The depths were trying to pull him down.
He reached for the quick release. His fingers felt clumsy already. He fumbled once, forced focus, and found the buckle.
Release.
The harness detached and he kicked hard, breaking toward the surface. His lungs burned before he even needed air. The cold was stealing his coordination fast. He burst through the surface and dragged in a breath that tore at his throat.
Wind slapped water across his face, and the waves rose higher than they had looked from above. His flight suit felt twice its weight now. He rolled onto his back to conserve energy and forced his breathing steady.
Beacon active. Vest inflated. Assess. His hands were already going numb. He flexed them and tried to survive this mess. Yeah, he could see Tracker dying this way. Ace should’ve been there. Somehow. They’d trained together from day one. Losing him had been like losing a brother.
Maybe Ace would join him. His body was failing him. The cold worked methodically, climbing into his arms and legs, tightening muscles, draining strength. His jaw trembled despite his effort to hold it still.
He scanned the horizon between swells and saw nothing but more sea. Another wave crashed over him and forced water into his mouth. He coughed, choked and rolled again to keep his face clear.
No. He wouldn’t join Tracker yet. He wanted to go home to Alaska. To his family.
His thighs began to cramp. The shaking in his torso intensified, then gradually softened, which was worse. A strange warmth crept inward to his center, dulling the bite of the sea. His thoughts slowed at the edges. No.
He tried to lift his arm to trigger the secondary flare. It barely rose above the surface before dropping again. Another wave caught him wrong and rolled him under. Salt flooded his sinuses and burned down his throat. He fought back to the surface with his lungs seizing and his vision tunneling.
The sky blurred.
Ace jerked upright in May’s room, breath ripping into his lungs, the sheets twisted tight around his fists. Sweat slicked his arms. He didn’t make a sound. That stupid dream. He’d felt the same way in the jail cell yesterday as he had in the water.
How the hell was he ever going to fly a plane again?
He shoved back the covers and stood, drawing in several slow breaths until his pulse steadied. The hardwood floor felt cool and solid beneath his feet, and he let himself focus on that. Not the ocean. Not the spinning horizon. Just wood. Just a house. He rolled his neck once and pushed a hand through his hair.