David Golemon - Legend

Ryan went over to the twenty field techs from Northrop-Grumman.

"Listen, they were men, but they were also bad guys and they were on their way to kill some friends of mine, and possibly a bunch of students. So take that with you when you go home. You did real good," he said and walked away.

The loudspeaker over their heads crackled. It was the commander in targeting speaking: "Okay, we had a malfunction in the fire sequence and half of the assault element was missed. They are currently grounding their craft on the far bank of the lagoon. Satellite imagery indicates they are regrouping. All our systems are down and—"

The explosion erupted out of the thickly protected generator systems room. A fireball outgassed through the thin aluminum of the 747 in a horrendous fireball. The giant aircraft was rocked as it first slammed the crew to the floor and then those that weren't strapped in into the air, as the Boeing jet lost and then gained altitude. Roaring wind swept through the interior of the aircraft as its integrity failed at almost twenty-five thousand feet, the sudden depressurization pulling fifteen of the unsecured technicians to their death through the ten-foot diameter hole.

Ryan was stunned and was close to passing out, first from hitting the floor and then from his flight to the roof of the 747 as the impact knocked the remaining oxygen from his lungs. As his eyes fluttered he could hear men shouting as they fought to control the dying aircraft and others as they reached for men sliding away toward the massive tear. Ryan's slide toward the breach was halted by a strong arm.

Suddenly he felt an oxygen mask slip over his bleeding head, and the first trickle of air as it coursed down into his windpipe while the arms were securing him to the matted flooring. He shook his head and tried to focus his eyes. The Delta sergeant was there, shaking him and trying to make the navy man stand up.

The 747 was going down. Ryan felt the nose of the great plane was at an angle that didn't lie. He saw at least two more technicians sucked out of the damaged generator section, along with papers and equipment, as the tremendous pressure bled the air out of the fuselage.

"All personnel, stand by to eject. We have a total vital systems failure of the aircraft. Delta element, when we call, 'eject, eject, eject,' blow the cargo hatch!"

"Oh, shit!" the sergeant holding up Ryan said into his oxygen mask. "Delta equipment up, prepare for HALO!"

"Oh, no," Ryan said as he staggered to his feet.

As the plane passed below 18,000 feet and the interior of the 747 stabilized somewhat, the sergeant yelled at him, "What the hell, you wanted our element on the ground anyway. Did you plan on living forever?"

Ryan started to struggle into his chute. "Well, maybe living just another year would have been nice."

Mendenhall was just starting to make his way down the steep incline when he saw the flash in the night sky above him. His jaw dropped when he saw an expanse of flame streak outward from an unseen object as it started falling from high altitude. He closed his eyes and prayed it wasn't Lieutenant Ryan and the rest of Proteus.

As the remaining crew ejection seats exploded out of the doomed 747 one and two at a time, the Delta team, with Ryan in tow, pushed the panic button of the large cargo door on the right side of the aircraft. After the brief explosion of the door, they strained and braced themselves against the blast of passing air and lined up by twos for HALO — high-altitude low-open — parachute egress. The only problem was they were becoming a low-altitude jump very fast, as the steep dive of the giant 747 became even steeper.

"Jesus Christ, what about the tail?"

"Oh, yeah, Mr. Ryan, don't hit the tail," the sergeant said loudly behind his mask. He pulled the lieutenant out of the door and into the painful slipstream.

They flew out and down like discarded paper from a fast-moving automobile. The first two-man team out of the cargo hatch flew up and over the swept-back rear stabilizer. The rest went below, luckily missing the fast-moving tonnage of aluminum. The crew, jumping with their ejection seats attached, had a much smoother exit from the plane. The Delta element would watch below and try their best to follow the 747's air force crew and remaining civilian technicians to the ground.

As they fell toward the black jungle below, they knew to a man they would land at least a half mile from the lagoon. The now fully engulfed 747, flames licking its frame like a falling meteor, slammed into the jungle three miles away, ripping a gash in the dark countryside.

Ryan watched as the top canopies of the trees rushed at him. The sergeant had explained at what altitude they would pop their chutes, but he had lost his wrist altimeter sometime during the commotion of getting the hell out of the burning plane. His gloves had been ripped from his hands in the slipstream and his fingers were frozen Popsicles. As he reached for his ripcord he knew he wasn't going to be able to pull it in time, as the ground was coming at him like an oncoming freight train and his fingers just couldn't feel the damned thing.

He closed his eyes as he waited for the bone-crushing impact that was only moments away, when he felt someone slamming a fist into his black jumpsuit. Then he heard his parachute pop, and he suddenly slowed as the black silk caught the dense air. He struggled to look above him, knowing that it had been the sergeant who had reached out and saved his life.

Ryan opened his eyes and tried desperately to get the headgear and mask off his face. The world had become a foggy, strange place from his new vantage point. He knew he was upside down because the flow of blood in his ears was pounding away as if his heart were in overdrive. The cold oxygen flowing into his mask was enough to fog the glass of his mask, and that terrified him more than anything: not being able to see just what kind of danger he was truly in.

He struggled and felt something give way above his feet where they were tangled in the black chute. He didn't want to chance using the radio that was still attached to his mask, for fear he may not be in friendly territory, which he wholeheartedly doubted he was. He heard a sharp tear in the fabric of the chute. He felt his stomach lurch as he dropped two feet farther toward the ground. He finally freed his right hand and arm, and tore the oxygen mask from his face.

Ryan breathed in the hot and humid air of the small valley. He turned his head as somewhere off in the distance he heard the call of birds and the sound of a waterfall. Then he ventured a look down and closed his eyes. He was no more than three feet off the forest floor. It was a miracle — he had hit one of the few open spots within a quarter mile of the lagoon. He quickly fought out of his harness and released himself from his upside-down personal hell. He hit ground on his shoulders as his feet tangled in the harness at the last moment, and he managed to knock the wind from his lungs.

"Nice one, Mr. Ryan." The whispered voice came out of the darkness somewhere to his front.

Ryan eased his hand to his holstered nine-millimeter Berretta.

"Easy, Lieutenant, easy, I'm a good guy. But be careful, there are some of the other fellas around here; I saw them as we came in. Now come on, we got some friends we have to get out of some trees."

Ryan watched as Sergeant Jim Flannery slowly came out of the bush, rubbing greasepaint on his exposed features. He finished and tossed the tube to Ryan.

"Black up, Lieutenant."

"Have you seen anyone else?" Ryan asked as he painted his face.

"Not yet, but when we do I sure as hell hope they came down with more equipment than I did. I lost everything except my peashooter."