Forced to Kill

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The loadmaster issued a nod.

USMC Staff Sergeant Erick Ramsland leapt into a moonless night.

Subzero air instantly whipped his jumpsuit. A slow tumble offered him a final look at the C-130J’s black form. Higher than Mount Everest, he stabilized into belly flight as he reached terminal velocity-nearly a football field per second.

He glanced at the backlit GPS device strapped to his wrist, but it didn’t register coordinates. His forward speed hadn’t bled off yet. Ten thousand feet lower, massive cumulus towers awaited his arrival. He’d be penetrating their ghostly forms within the next thirty seconds. They weren’t fully developed, but they’d still pack plenty of punch.

He took another look at the GPS. Good, coordinates were displayed. Using the compass on the opposite wrist, he made a slight course correction to the east, then a finer adjustment due south. On the western horizon, the faint glow from Porlamar foreshadowed the vast city of Caracas beyond.

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