Emmett stared out the narrow window of the C-47, the blurred silhouette of a P-51 escort glinting faintly against the pale spill of moonlight. They'd been airborne nearly nine hours now, punching through the cold, black sky from Naples. He knew the math, knew the route. Any moment now, the escorts would peel off as they crossed over into Czech airspace, leaving them at the mercy of Russian anti-air. The Soviets knew they were coming, sure... but Emmett had learned long ago that just because someone knew didn't mean they wouldn't pull the trigger.

  The engines droned on in a dull, endless hum, vibrating through the metal skin of the plane and seeping into his bones. Emmett sat hunched against the cold fuselage, his head tipped back, the dim red cabin light casting jagged shadows across the tense, silent faces of the other nine men. Layered flight gear, heavy jackets, flotation vests, helmets, gloves. All packed in tight, against the supplies as part of the Lend Lease cover.

  He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember briefly illuminating the jagged scars tracing down his face. To his left, Corporal Malcolm Wynn cursed softly under his breath, fumbling with his lighter, the tiny metal scraping loud against his thumb in the confined space. Emmett sighed, reached over, and tapped the man on the shoulder. Without a word, he offered the lit cigarette.

  Wynn accepted, drawing a quick inhale and muttering, "Thanks, sir," around the smoke, his breath tight, shoulders drawn.

  Emmett gave a faint nod, taking the cigarette back and resting it between his own fingers. His good eye drifted shut. Not to sleep, but to shut out the weight of the room for just a moment. Around him, men shifted quietly, adjusting straps, mumbling quiet prayers, or simply staring into the distance.

  After a long moment, Emmett glanced back out the window, his eye catching the faint glint of the P-51’s wings as it dipped ever so slightly in the moonlight. His gut tightened. He knew what came next.

  The P-51 dipped, then banked, and peeled away. Emmett checked his watch. 0135 hours. His math had been pretty damn close.

  Emmett sat forward slightly. Across the cabin, one of the others noticed looking out the opposite window, elbowed the man next to him. The word began to pass down the line. A tap on the arm, a pointed glance. Yelling over the din of the engines.

  Emmett was about to lean over to Wynn when the C-47 shuddered sharply, jolting under them. A few scattered complaints rose, sharp voices muffled by the engine drone. He shook his head and leaned closer. "Lost escorts," he called over the noise.

  Wynn gave a grim nod, passing the word down the line.

  Another shudder ran through the fuselage, rattling loose straps and knocking one of the crates against the metal floor with a solid thunk. The crew chief squeezed through the narrow aisle past the supplies. Muttering as he crouched to lift it back, lashing it down tight with line.

  Emmett’s hand found the edge of his seat, gripping it instinctively. His fingers tapped against the cold metal. Around the cabin, men adjusted their kit, checked weapons, rechecked harnesses. Quiet movements, routine habits.

  He exhaled, a thin stream of smoke curling up into the dim light. Flicking the ash down, he watched it vanish against the dark grooves of the floor.

  "Soon," Wynn said, voice lost in the thrum of the engines.

  Emmett didn’t bother to look. He simply closed his eye again, murmuring under his breath, "Goddamn crazy," and took another slow drag.

  The plane rattled again, almost like it agreed.

  The flight across Czechoslovakia lasted just under 2 hours. The C-47 had arrived into Poland, and was drawing closer to its destination. The Crew Chief squeezed through the crates again to pass the word to the ones sitting closest to the front. When the update reached Emmett he nodded. Letting out a sigh as he readied himself.

  He grimaced, shaking his head as he pushed himself up from the cold metal seat, one gloved hand gripping the static line above. He didn’t hook in yet. Not yet. He was the Jumpmaster. Last one on, last one out.

  “Check your gear!” Emmett barked, his voice cutting through the droning hum of the engines.

  Around him, the men stirred, faces tightening with focus. Hands checked harnesses, tightened straps, patted down kits. Weapons were double-checked. Boots scraped faintly against the floor as they shifted into position, their breath misting in the cold air.

  The plane suddenly hit a jagged burst of turbulence, the fuselage jolting hard enough that Emmett felt his boots leave the deck. His body lurched sideways, barely staying upright thanks to his grip on the static line.

  “Goddamn it!” he cursed under his breath, planting his feet wide to steady himself as the C-47 bucked again like a stubborn mule.

  He checked his watch again, a nervous flicker of his eye.

  And then it happened.

  A blinding burst of light split the night sky outside, followed by the gut-wrenching BRRRRT of cannon fire.

  The plane shook violently as tracers ripped through the fuselage, glowing spears punching through the thin metal skin. Sparks flew as rounds sliced through crates, ruptured the walls, and bit into the hold. The screech of tearing metal filled the air, drowning out the startled shouts.

  “Jesus fuck!” Emmett yelped, the cigarette flying from his mouth as he instinctively flattened against the floor. His heart slammed against his ribs.

  His eye shot to the window, just in time to catch the sleek shadow slashing past, its silhouette unmistakable in the moonlight.

  “ME-262! Jet! Fucking jet!” Emmett roared, his voice hoarse over the screaming engines and panicked yells.

  Another burst of cannon fire raked the aircraft. Men cried out. Some screams of pain, some pure shock as the rounds ripped through bodies like paper, blood splattering the walls in wet arcs.

  Emmett’s mind snapped into overdrive, adrenaline flooding every muscle.

  Suddenly, the emergency light over the door flickered on, casting the cabin in a garish red glow. The signal. Time to jump.

  “GO! MOVE! GO!” someone bellowed, though the words barely carried in the chaos.

  Emmett hauled himself upright, snapping into motion despite the tilt of the shuddering plane. His fingers flew across his harness, checking his straps once more. His boots pounded across the deck as he reached the door, bracing himself against the cold blast of air that punched through the holes in the fuselage.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  He threw the door wide, squinting as the icy wind howled against his face. Outside, the night was chaos. One of the engines already burning, a trail of fire licking down the wing, smoke billowing thick into the black sky.

  Another burst hit.

  The world erupted.

  The cabin shuddered violently, a brutal heave that sent Emmett hurtling backward. He slammed into the far wall, pain lancing through his shoulder and back. His vision blurred, stars bursting behind his eyelid. His ears rang, the world reduced to a high-pitched whine.

  When his vision cleared, everything was upside down.

  Wind tore at him. Not inside the plane.

  He was falling.

  Cold air slammed against his face as the world spun wildly around him, the ground a distant smear of black beneath the fractured sky. He flailed, his hands clawing at the harness, desperately searching - ripcord, ripcord - fingers fumbling, heart hammering like a drum.

  He yanked.

  Nothing.

  “SHIT!” he hissed, his voice strangled by the rush of air. His hands scrambled for the reserve, pulling hard.

  With a violent snap, the chute deployed.

  The sudden jolt nearly snapped him in two, his body whiplashing painfully as the harness bit deep into his shoulders and thighs. His helmet was yanked clean off, vanishing into the night. He gasped, sucking in lungfuls of cold, biting air as his descent slowed.

  But the relief was short-lived.

  The canopy flapped irregularly, the lines creaking in protest. He craned his neck to see the shredded fabric, torn by shrapnel, gaping like a ragged wound.

  “Fuck!” Emmett growled, his teeth gritted as he glanced down.

  Below, the treetops rushed toward him, a jagged wall of dark, skeletal branches.

  He braced.

  The impact came hard.

  Branches whipped against him, smashing into his limbs and tearing at his uniform as he plunged through the canopy. The harness yanked hard, halting his fall abruptly, leaving him dangling like a ragged marionette fifteen feet above the snowy ground.

  For a long moment, he hung there, chest heaving, breath fogging in the freezing air. His heart slammed in his chest, every beat loud in his ears.

  He cursed under his breath, eye scanning upward to the twisted mess of lines and fabric caught in the branches.

  With a slow, measured breath, he reached for the harness release.

  Click.

  The straps gave way.

  He dropped like a stone, twisting as best he could to avoid landing flat. But the frozen earth still slammed into his back with brutal force, knocking the air clean from his lungs.

  For several agonizing seconds, he lay there, mouth open in a silent gasp, body wracked with the sheer effort of pulling in air.

  Finally, a wheezing breath clawed its way back into his chest. He rolled onto his side with a rough grunt and a cough, dirt and pine needles clinging to his suit.

  His fingers flexed against the cold ground as he forced himself upright, legs shaking slightly as they took his weight. His whole body throbbed, every joint aching, but he was on his feet.

  The forest around him was silent. No shouting, no gunfire, no engines. Just the distant wind stirring through the black trees.

  He reached instinctively for his gear, and froze.

  The strap across his chest was split clean through, dangling loose.

  His jaw tightened as he yanked off what was left of the harness, tossing it aside like it had betrayed him. His breath came in shallow, quick pulls, his eye darting around the darkened woods.

  Alone.

  No clue where the hell he was.

  He exhaled slowly, rolling the tension from his shoulders.

  “Well, Granger,” he muttered to himself, brushing dirt from his gloves. “You’re in it now.”

  With a grunt, Emmett dragged himself upright, his body stiff and aching from the fall. His breath puffed out in harsh clouds, and he clenched his gloved hands a few times, forcing the circulation back into his fingers. His side ached. Probably bruised to hell from the landing, but nothing felt broken. That was something, at least.

  He took a slow, shaky breath, forcing his brain to clear through the static of adrenaline. Time to take stock.

  Handgun? Still holstered at his hip.

  Two spare mags on his belt.

  Knife, still sheathed.

  Map and compass, miraculously still tucked inside his jacket, along with a few odd and ends.

  But everything else. The critical supplies, his M1 Carbine, grenades, spare gear. Gone, torn away somewhere between the plane’s shattering and his ragged fall through the trees.

  “Perfect,” he muttered grimly, his voice barely more than a rough rasp in the cold air. He gave himself a shake, rolling his shoulders, trying to ignore the way the bruises throbbed. Nothing to be done about it now.

  He walked for a few hours to get a bearing of his location, heading in the direction the plane was flying. Eventually he crouched low beside the gnarled roots of a thick tree, pulling his coat tighter as he fished out his map and compass. He flicked his lighter open with a practiced hand, carefully shielding the small flame under his coat to hide the glow. The tiny circle of light illuminated the map just enough to work.

  He squinted, orienting himself carefully. Earlier, as he moved, he’d noted a bend in a frozen creek and the jagged outline of a distant mountain range. Between those features and his compass bearing, he was able to triangulate his rough position. Small blessing, he wasn’t hopelessly lost.

  Still kneeling, he let out a breath and folded the map again, tucking it back into his coat. He closed the lighter, plunging himself back into cold darkness, and straightened slowly, adjusting his grip on the pistol. His lone green eye flicked around the blackened forest, ears straining for the slightest noise. Nothing but the whisper of wind in the branches.

  Step by step, he began moving toward the rendezvous point. His boots crunched softly through the snow, every footfall measured, careful. His eye swept the trees, nerves prickling with every shadow and sway of a distant branch.

  Then - something ahead.

  A faint shape, swaying.

  He froze. His breath caught in his throat as his fingers tightened instinctively on the pistol grip. He crouched, squinting, trying to make out the details. Slowly, cautiously, he crept closer.

  The faint shape resolved into a grim, unmistakable silhouette. A man, suspended in the trees by tangled parachute lines, limp as a ragdoll.

  Emmett’s gut twisted as he approached. He could see the slack face now, pale in the faint moonlight, the eyes mercifully closed. Blood had dried along the edge of the man’s mouth, and his body hung at an unnatural angle.

  “Wexler…” Emmett murmured under his breath, recognizing the OSS Sergeant who’d sat across from him on the plane. His chest tightened.

  With a quiet sigh, Emmett rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw, shaking his head. Judging by the position, Wexler had likely hit the tree hard, probably snapping his neck on impact. A fast death, if there was such a thing.

  He glanced around again, scanning the silent woods, checking his surroundings. Nothing moved. Satisfied for the moment, he stepped forward and drew his knife, voice low.

  “Sorry, friend.”

  He worked quickly, cutting through the parachute straps, careful not to jostle the body too much or make excess noise. With a soft thud, Wexler’s body dropped to the snowy earth, limbs folding awkwardly.

  Emmett crouched beside him, grimacing as he stripped away the dead man’s gear. He worked efficiently, checking pouches, peeling away harnesses. No time to linger, no time to think too hard. Just work.

  He found the best prize last. A suppressed M3 Grease Gun, its weight cold and familiar in his hands. Emmett slung it over his shoulder, giving the weapon a short, appreciative pat.

  “Thanks, Sarge.”

  He found extra mags in a pouch, a spare knife, and critically. The tranquilizer gun they’d all been issued, along with its pouch of twelve darts. Emmett paused, staring down at the darts for a long moment, his jaw tight. This mission had been madness from the start… and it was somehow even worse now.

  He blew out a slow breath, rising to his feet. He wasn’t done.

  Glancing back down at Wexler’s still form, Emmett set his jaw. He didn’t have the time or means to dig a proper grave, but he couldn’t just leave the man exposed. He pulled his entrenching tool from his belt and shoveled snow over the body, working until the sergeant’s form was completely covered. When that was done, Emmett reached to the mans collar, slipping free the dog tags and tucking them carefully into his pocket. Then covered the mans face in snow.

  “Rest easy, Wexler,” he muttered softly.

  With the forest still and watchful around him, Emmett checked his gear one last time, adjusting straps and shifting weight. He felt the bruises throb again, his ribs aching with every breath, but he forced himself upright.

  He cast a last glance around, noting the faint treeline ahead and the far ridge that marked his next path.

  Still a long way to the rendezvous, still no idea who, if anyone was out there waiting.

  But there was no turning back now.

  Emmett took his first slow step forward, crunching through the snow, his breath fogging in the icy air. He muttered under his breath, half to himself, half to the dark:

  “One step at a time, Granger… one miserable goddamn step at a time.”