The Descent

One arm  would  not  work.  It  dangled  before  him.  With  his  good  hand  he  fumbled  to find the mask again. He emptied the mess, pressed  the rubber  to his face.

The  oxygen  burned cold across the nitrogen wounds in his throat.

'Ram?' he croaked. No answer.

'Ram?'

He could feel the emptiness behind him.

Strapped facedown, bones broken, wings clipped, Branch did the  only  other  thing  he was  able  to  do,  the  one  thing  he  had  come  to  do.  He  had  entered  this  dark  forest  to witness  great  evil.  And  so  he  made  himself  see.  He  refused  delirium.  He  looked.  He watched. He waited.

The  darkness  eased.

It  was  not  dawn  arriving.  Rather,  it  was  his  own  vision  binding  with  the  blackness. Shapes surfaced. A horizon of gray  tones.

He noticed now a strange, taut  lightning flickering  on  the  far  side  of  his  Plexiglas.  At first he thought it was the storm igniting  thin  strands  of  gas.  The  hits  of  light  penciled in various  objects  on  the  forest  floor,  less  with  actual  illumination  than  through  brief flashes of silhouette.

Branch   struggled   to   make   sense   of   the   clues   spread   all   around   him,   but apprehended only that he had fallen from the sky.

'Mac,' he called on his radio. He traced  the communications cord to his helmet,  and  it was severed.  He was alone.

His  instrument  panel  still  showed  aspects  of  vitality.  Various  green  and  red  lights twinkled,  fed  by  batteries  here  and  there.  They  signified  only  that  the  ship  was  still dying.

He saw that the crash had cast him among a tangle of fallen trees  close  to  Zulu  Four. He peered  through  Plexiglas  sprayed  with  a  fine  spiderweb.  A  gracile  crucifix  loomed in the near distance. It  was a vast,  fragile icon, and  he  wondered  –  hoped  –  that  some Serb  warrior  might  have  erected  it  as  penance  for  this  mass  grave.  But  then  Branch saw that it was one of his broken rotor blades caught at a right angle in a tree.

Bits  of  wreckage  smoldered  on  the  floor  of  soaked  needles  and  leaves.  The  soak could  be  rain.  Rather  late,  it  came  to  him  that  the  soak  could  also  be  his  own  spilled fuel.

What  alarmed  him  was  how  sluggish  his  alarm  was.  From  far  away,  it  seemed,  he registered  that  the  fuel  could  ignite  and  that  he  should  extricate  himself  and  his partner  –  dead  or  alive  –  and  get  away  from  his  ship.  It  was  imperative,  but  did  not feel so. He wanted to sleep. No.

He  hyperventilated  with  the  oxygen.  He  tried  to  steel  himself  to  the  pain  about  to come, jock stuff mostly, when the going gets  tough...

He  reared  up,  shouldering  high  against  the  side  canopy,  and  bones  grated  upon bones. The  dislocated knee popped in, then out again. He roared.

Branch  sank  down  into  his  seat,  shocked  alive  by  the  crescendo  of  nerve  endings. Everything  hurt. He laid his head back, found the mask.

The  canopy flapped up, gently.

He  drew  hard  at  the  oxygen,  as  if  it  might  make  him  forget  how  much  more  pain was  left  to  come.  But  the  oxygen  only  made  him  more  lucid.  In  the  back  of  his  mind, the  names  of  broken  bones  flooded  in  helpfully.  Horribly.  Strange,  this  diagnosis.  His wounds were  eloquent. Each wanted to announce itself precisely,  all  at  the  same  time. The  pain was thunderous.

He  raised  a  wild  stare  at  the  bygone  sky.  No  stars  up  there.  No  sky.  Clouds  upon clouds. A ceiling without end. He felt claustrophobic. Get  out.

He took a final lungful, let go of the mask, shed his useless helmet.

With his one good arm, Branch grappled himself free  of  the  cockpit.  He  fell  upon  the earth. Gravity  despised him. He felt crushed smaller and smaller into himself.

Within  the  pain,  a  distant  ecstasy  opened  its  strange  flower.  The  dislocated  knee popped  back  into  place,  and  the  relief  was  almost  sexual.  'God,'  he  groaned.  'Thank God.'

He  rested,  panting  rapidly,  cheek  upon  the  mud.  He  focused  on  the  ecstasy.  It  was tiny  among  all  the  other  savage  sensations.  He  imagined  a  doorway.  If  only  he  could enter, all the pain would end.

After  a  few  minutes,  Branch  felt  stronger.  The  good  news  was  that  his  limbs  were numbing  from  the  gas  saturation  in  his  bloodstream.  The  bad  news  was  the  gas.  The nitrogen reeked.  It  tasted  like aftermath.

'...Tango One...' he heard.

Branch looked up at the caved-in  hull of his Apache. The  electronic voice was coming from the backseat.  'Echo... read me...'

He  stood  away  from  the  earth's  flat  seduction.  It  was  beyond  his  comprehension that he could function at all. But he had to tend to  Ramada.  And  they  had  to  know  the dangers.