Cheryl Wyatt - A Soldier's Family

Published by Steeple Hill Books ™

To Jesus: Thank You for the gift and the gumption to

write. May every word pour over You as worship.

To Papaw’s Patio Plotstormers who can leap over

tall plot holes with a single clause.

To my grandmothers for sharing a part of each of

yourselves with me. You are great and honorable

women whom I admire greatly, and who have

shaped my life in unspeakably wondrous ways.

Grandma Veda: for your sense of humor and a

giving and selfless spirit.

Grandma Mary: for an unquenchable love for books

and reading.

Grandma Alma: for modeling prayer and a life that

honors God.

Grandma Nellie: for instilling in me love for family

and faith in God’s hand on our lives.

If I could thank every person who helped and

encouraged me on this journey, the word count of

this book would have doubled.

Special thanks to Pam and Bill for your advice, encouragement and support.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Epilogue

This was not the smartest way to die.

U.S.A.F. Pararescue Jumper Manny Péna grunted, tensed his muscles and tried again to flare the canopy on his parachute.

No go.

Panic blew through him like the gust of crisp October wind that had whipped him laterally through Refuge’s early morning sky moments ago, causing part of his chute to collapse.

Manny swallowed. Must keep his head or this could end badly. He glanced at the ground.

Still slamming up to meet him. Fast. Way too fast.

It could end badly anyway.

He pulled one steer cord, then the other. Ropes dug into his gloved hands, burning his palms. Something definitely didn’t feel right. Manny tilted his head to peer at the underside of his canopy. Still one-third collapsed.

Not. Good.

Two lines had twisted near the top and he’d made the cardinal mistake of giving his knife to one of the students. Jumping without it was something he’d never done.

Except today.

The one jump he deviated from procedure, and now there was no way to cut away his main chute. Manny pulled the rip cord on the emergency reserve parachute. It bubbled open, but caught on his main chute, the worst possible scenario.

No ifs, ands or buts about it.

He was crashing.

A thousand yards from earth, wicked wind had blown him one way and his chute the other, winding them like a kid on a swing.

Manny brought his legs up. The upward thrust of air flapped loose material on his camo-clad arms and legs in rapid, violent clips. Manny kicked off the heavy field kit strapped to his thighs. It tumbled into the roaring Southern Illinois sky.

The position change and lightened load didn’t straighten out his malfunctioning chute. Manny continued to fall through howling air at a dangerous pace. He flicked another glance to the ominous earth. His pulse spiked.

Treetops were about five hundred yards down. If he could veer sideways away from them, he may have a better chance. He steered left. His team had to be wigging out. By now they’d know as well as he did it was too late to right himself enough to slow down for a safe landing. He fought hard to steer the wayward chute.

Three hundred yards. He tuned out fear-filled screams from skydiving patrons and directive shouts from his team that originated from both ground and air.

One hundred yards. He wished they didn’t have to see this, hoped they’d close their eyes before he impacted.

Fifty yards.

Twenty. Manny clenched his eyes as the drop zone screamed up. Maybe he’d clear the trees after all.

A violent jerk informed him otherwise. He arced downward toward a tall spruce. Gravity thrust him forward, head down. Fear gnawed him like the wood, splintering his calm. He sprang both arms up to protect his head.

Lot of good that would do if he broke his neck.

He blurred through a downward vortex of browns and greens. Cracking and popping sounds ricocheted around him. Frenzied shrieks came from everywhere. Pinecones pounded. Leaves slapped. Fresh sap and pine smells hit him with nausea the same time a metallic taste entered his mouth.

If he was about to die, he hoped he’d go quick, ’cause it sure wasn’t painless.

A deafening thud and white-hot pain snatched his hearing and vision.

Darkness cloaked Manny. His mind fumbled with rational thought. Peace enclosed him and whispered through this chaos that at least he was no longer on the outs with God.

And I didn’t even tell them. Sorry. Give me ’nother chance.

“BP, ninety over fifty, and he’s responsive to pain.”

Nope. Not dead. Dead people didn’t hurt like this. Manny groaned. More pain. A poke like a mad hornet sting, then burning in his forearm. He tried to pull his arm free. Hands tightened around his wrist.

“Manny, don’t move,” came from a soothing yet concerned voice. Team leader, Joel Montgomery. Manny then realized the pinprick had been Joel starting an intravenous infusion. A stream of deep cold traveled up his arm.

As more sensations returned, he realized the hard, frigid earth lay beneath him.

Manny forced open his eyes. His gaze trailed clear tubing up to bags of fluid that someone blurry suspended above him. Three bags became two, then one fuzzy bag. His eyes struggled for focus. He squinted to read letters on the transparent plastic.

Okay. Okay. Hydrating fluids. Not CPR fluids. So he might not be imminently dying.

“I crashed.” Blinding pain hit Manny’s eyes from a penlight aimed at his pupils. He clenched his eyes shut.

“We noticed,” another voice spoke with grim inflection. Vince? A distant chorus of murmurs flowed in hushed tones around him. The hum of conjoined voices reminded him of a bee swarm, bringing with it a verbal collective buzzing.

A gloved finger that smelled of sterile latex and powder opened his eyelid. Nolan Briggs, wielding that wicked penlight. Manny grinded his teeth against mind-numbing discomfort in his head and on his backside.

“Equal and reactive to light,” Nolan mumbled in Joel’s direction. Manny’d never heard Nolan’s voice that tight before. He sought out Nolan’s face.

No way!

Was the dude about to cry? Nolan the softie. If Manny didn’t feel like a grenade had just blown up in his back pocket, he’d put forth the effort to tease Nolan. Shards of jolting pain shot through every part of him.

“Aaah. Hurts.” Maybe death would offer reprieve.

Joel moved into Manny’s line of sight. “Where?”

“Where not?” Manny pushed the words through gritted teeth and blinked his eyes open as much as he could stand.

A circle of horrified faces stared down at him. Some he recognized, some not. His heart tumbled against his ribs at the grave concern on each. Darkness threatened to drag him back under. He fought for lucidity. If he closed his eyes he might never wake up.

“Tha-was close.” He forced his eyes to stay open despite throbbing pain in his head.

Joel nodded, his face stern with a sort of tense concentration Manny had only seen him exhibit in life-or-death situations.

In the distance, coming closer, the rhythmic chopping of a helicopter echoed. No doubt to evacuate him.