Chapter 885
A sharp, sickening snap, like a dry branch breaking. It was followed by two more in rapid succession.
The pulling sensation on her harness vanished. The entire parachute pack was ripped from her back by the wind, a useless bundle of green fabric tumbling away into the darkness.
Her body, free of the drag, instantly accelerated back to terminal velocity.
The main chute had failed.
Down on the ground, in the sterile, quiet command center, Jarrod’s eyes were glued to the main tactical display. A series of green dots, each representing a jumper, moved across the screen.
He watched the dot labeled THOMPSON, C.
He saw her altitude data begin to plummet at an impossible rate. The icon indicating a successful canopy deployment never lit up. It remained a stark, terrifying red.
His heart stopped beating.
The command center was tomb-silent. The half-dozen technicians and controllers stared at the screen, their faces frozen in disbelief and horror. The red dot, an omen of death, was moving too fast down the elevation grid.
It was not falling from the sky. It was dropping through the vertical profile of the Night Terrain Confidence Course, past the marked height of the elevated rope traverse and into the black ravine beneath it.
The blood drained from Jarrod’s face, leaving it a waxy, bloodless mask. The initial shock was instantly consumed by a cold, silent, all-consuming rage that was terrifying in its stillness.
“Status report,” he said into the open command channel, his voice a raw, broken thing held together by iron discipline.
K.C. Bell was at his side, his own face ashen. “Her personal kit was clean. I checked it myself. Three times. Harness, clips, lanyards, lamp, hood, all clean.”
Jarrod understood immediately. This wasn’t personal equipment failure. This was something else. Something external. Something he had failed to anticipate.
There was no time for investigation. He glanced at the elevation reading next to her icon. She had dropped below the traverse platform. Thirty feet. Forty. The ravine floor beneath that section was broken rock and winter runoff.
In that instant, he made a decision that defied the clean separation between training command and live rescue.
He turned his head toward K.C., his eyes blazing with a terrifying, absolute authority. “You have the conn. Initiate Nightingale Protocol.”
He offered no other explanation. He did not spin on his heel and sprint out of the command center. He could not. His right arm was still locked across his torso inside the heavy medical brace, and his splinted left hand hung useless at his side. Instead, he remained where he was, rigid as a weapon in its rack, and forced the rescue through command.
K.C. and the others moved at once. Nightingale Protocol was the ultimate emergency measure for a catastrophic training-course compromise: freeze the evolution, illuminate the entire course, launch medical extraction, and place every instructor and safety officer under recorded command authority.