![]() Its supports had snapped like the legs of a child's chair under the girth of a fat man. The pilot seats in a Blackhawk are designed to stroke downward in a major crash, and mine had done that and more. Slowly I moved my aching head and glanced around the cockpit, and found I was sitting level with thefloor. I sure as hell was fully conscious now, although my thoughts and reflexes seemed to trudge through a sort of syrupy fog. I stopped moving and just tried to breathe without passing out. Every muscle in my back must have tried to prevent that catastrophe and been ripped apart in the effort, and it felt like some evil giant had me on his worktable, squeezing my spine in an iron vise. Two of my vertebrae had smacked together on impact, displacing the disk between them and pulverizing each other. Super Six-Four had come down like Dorothy's house in The Wizard of Oz, spinning fast, falling even faster, and finally slamming its nine tons of steel into the hard-packed ground. I reached up to shove the thing from my cockpit, and then the pain swept over me like a wave of molten lava. Yet my first sense of emotion wasn't relief, but fury at the disfiguring of my helicopter by that rusty blade. The chopper's windshield was almost completely gone, pierced and disintegrated by a slab of corrugated metal that had stopped only inches from my face. And when my eyelids finally fluttered open, I was stunned to take in the light. ![]() It was like emerging from an altitude chamber with a case of hypoxia as my mind began to stagger, slowly, through the darkened hallways of my concussed brain. I woke up in the silence of my own grave.Īt least that's what I believed in that first moment, because in my last flash of consciousness I had clearly seen the clawing hand of the Grim Reaper. ![]()
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