Wisps of sporadic cloud zipped over the canopy. The steady whine of a turbojet, had now transformed into a sinister groan that filled the cockpit. Spears of red light refracted haphazardly as dawn gained momentum. The death agony of the F-16 Fighting Falcon was now unavoidable as smoke and fire raged from the fuselage, despite mounting air resistance.

Captain Blair Atlass instinctively pulled back his control stick. He was not panicked, but was firmly fixed on the task at hand. The head on instrument panel flickered in his visor. Attitude locked into descent. Altitude plummeting. Outside his immediate world, war raged. Anti-aircraft fire was becoming perilously close. The jet slipped below 16,000 feet, it now controlled its pilot's destiny. 14,000, 12,000. Blair was now focussed on timing, that is, the precise moment he should eject. If he was premature, he would be fried by the conflagration outside. The jet shuddered. 10,000, 9,000 feet. He fired his remaining missile, to hopefully create a cover or diversion . . . then . . . wrenched the eject lever.

The sensation of free flight, and rising adrenalin, briefly detached Blair from reality as he was catapulted up and forward, clear of his aircraft. The horizon loomed before him, ochre and blood, as if the earth's crust had opened in revolt against the carnage above. Then suspension. His seat gave way and his chute opened.

Blair regained composure, then made a brief aerial survey. Below him, lay an expansive city, a coastline, and a little further, a seaport. There was a considerable tail wind, and he was confident of making it to land. He manoeuvred his Parafoil toward the city. Anti-aircraft fire still shrieked, but was dying, as he sunk warily towards his fate. What would become of him? he thought. Death by sniper fire? Prisoner of war? He fidgeted with his harness, and felt beneath his shirt, checking that the Colt .45 automatic was securely fastened. A chill wind ran through him. Firestorms and black smoke enveloped the skyline. He circled the metropolis and nervously floated on.

Now several landmarks appeared, as a vista of bombed out office towers and deserted scarred roads lay before him, bathed by the first strains of morning light. Mangled steel and wire, massive craters, charred earth.

"I remember that . . . from the CD-ROM", mumbled Blair to himself, as he spied a twisted metal spire, standing defiantly among the ruins. Studying the streets, he noticed something hanging from his pocket. He grabbed it and ripped it off. The small United States flag sewn to his jacket was now an invitation for a sniper's bullet. He discarded it and stripped other markings from his uniform.

There was some movement below now, perhaps troops tracking his descent, perhaps civilians seeking refuge. He desperately searched for a landing site, a field, a clearing of some sort. If he became entangled in one of the many obstacles below, he would certainly be captured or shot.

He followed a rail line for a while then . . . machine gun fire rattled. Frantically he grappled for his pistol. "Uh . . . uh", he grunted, gyrating about in a helpless state of fear, waving his gun wildly. He wasn't sure if the gunfire was meant for him, but decided to land quickly.

A little further, he could see a large structure, caved in at the front, with a clear patch of green in the centre. There appeared to be some parkland nearby, however this was too open, too risky. He opted for the small green patch.

Blair hovered a couple of hundred feet from the ground, spiralling down towards his target. As he drew nearer, he realised this jumble of collapsed metal, was in fact some kind of sports stadium. He floated between the collapsed portion of the structure and dropped. There was a sizeable tract upon which to land. It was substatially overgrown and this would give him a cushioning effect. Blair looked up and saw an impressive stand, which was relatively undamaged. Finally he touched down . . . in enemy territory.

Unfastening his harness, he looked for a way out. A loud clunk sounded. Quickly he dived, crawling towards an exit. Raising his pistol in the direction of the sound, he looked up . . . just an old makeshift sign swinging in the breeze. "DANGER" it read, "due to bomb damage, this section of the Great Southern Stand is unstable. Enter at own risk".

Blair stood up. Sparrows fluttered across the ghostly stadium. He heard the sound of choppers, then disappeared through a gap in a wall.

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Copyright © 1997 Leigh McIlwain