Suddenly, the Loadmaster outstretched his right arm above his head with one finger pointing skyward. "One minute!" he bellowed down the fuselage. They had done it countless times before, always under the cover of darkness, and always with the promise of a fight to welcome them when they hit the ground: shock troops - the ones who were sent in when all else had failed. History had documented that, at Arnhem, Entebbe, the Falklands and, most recently, Iraq. That was the game they'd all volunteered for, every generation, and this time was to be no different. If it was easy, anybody could do it. But, it wasn't.
"Action stations!" cried the Loadmaster. Again, the outstretched arm.
This time, two fingers were crossed in a tight 'X'.
The men were on their feet, they'd already checked each other's gear: front and back, top to toe. Morgan cast a discerning eye over the faces of his troops. There was Sean Collins, just a few men ahead, barely recognisable beneath the camouflage cream and the shadows cast under his helmet by the dim red hue of the overhead cabin lights. As usual, the cold metal floor of the aircraft was awash with vomit, still detonating in florid bursts from those who, despite their seasoned experience, had been unable to control the effect that claustrophobic conditions and hours of contour flying, imposed upon the human body. And so, as always, the confined interior of the Herc hummed with retching and nervous tension. Morgan prayed for the cold comfort of exit, and the escape it would deliver from the stench and the crushing embrace of his equipment.
It was time. From the edges of both the port and starboard para doors, red jump lights blazed into life.
"Stand by!"
On either side of the aircraft, the para doors were up and clear. The deafening howl of punishing, ice-cold winds screamed into the fuselage. The men automatically packed up hard against each other, facing the door, one behind the other, ready for exit. They were just seconds from the drop zone - moments from the green light, an instant away from the life-and death decision to leap into the ominous call of the night.
The lights blazed green. "Green on!"
"Go!"
Without hesitation, each man in turn shuffled to the para doors. Stumbling under the weight of their gear in a macabre parody of waddling penguins, slipping on the vile carpet of vomit and spit, they scrambled for the freedom of the sky and the rollercoaster ride of the slipstream. Seconds later, Morgan was out, discarded from the bowels of the aircraft, grateful for that familiar instant release of weight, and relishing the sting of the cold, fresh air upon his face, sucking it deep into his lungs. The exhilaration of the experience found him every time, as he was thrown out into the darkness.
It was a perfect exit. Feet together, hands clasped firmly at the top of his pack and a good strong leap.
Already he was counting to himself: "1000!"
Falling. "2000!"
Falling. "3000!"
Routinely counting down until the reassuring tug of the parachute deployment and the billowing beauty of a full canopy would take control of his life and carry him safely back to earth.
"4000!"
Still falling.
Morgan felt the tug of the static line and the parachute reluctantly deploying from his back.
"5000!"
Concern. It was taking too long.
He felt the snap of the risers, and the suspension lines as they were dragged violently into the air, and then nothing.
"6000!"
Still nothing! Nothing but nerve-racking speed straight down, and the ominously mocking noise of useless silk whipping high above his head - a streamer! A totally failed canopy.
Morgan knew it couldn't be worse. He looked up again, praying to gaze up into the centre of a full and strong canopy mushrooming overhead, only to be confronted by every paratrooper's worst nightmare.
Falling, falling. Speed. Wind. Noise.
A mess of twisted risers and rigging lines engulfed his tunneled view, all the way from his helmet and upwards to the parachute skirts. There was no chance of a full, dark green dome billowing majestically on the slipstream. His retarded chute was totally collapsed, struggling to catch even the slightest breath of wind.
Dropping like a rock. Speed. Wind. Noise.
Without warning, the parachute began to disintegrate, shredding mercilessly in huge chunks under the relentless onslaught of his uncontrollable descent. Like rats from a sinking ship, great chunks of silk tore free, disappearing forever into the endless darkness of the night sky. Morgan's blood was boiling, his body's automatic response mechanisms trying desperately to ignite every instinct and skill hewn solely to ensure his survival.
Suddenly at the pitch of his struggle, clawing at the last remaining seconds of his life, Morgan caught the unmistakable image of Victor Lundt, the missing SIS agent, withdrawing back inside the Hercules, his twisted face broken in a snarl, as he pulled down the para-door hard, shutting it tight. Then the tail of the giant bird lumbered on into the night, free of its cargo, leaving Morgan behind to his fate.