Unburied: A Mark Hammer Story

“There is nothing more powerful than fate.” - Homer, The Iliad.

The howling winds screeched and clawed at the soldiers as they plummeted towards the earth, their bodies pitched and buffeted like leaves in a tempest. The once orderly formation of paratroopers had quickly devolved into a chaotic free-fall, each man struggling to control their descent. Chutes, like kites caught in a raging storm, twisted and turned in the air, becoming ineffective at slowing the plunge.

The ground loomed closer and closer with each passing moment, rain mixing with the sand and dust creating a pungent smell that stung the nostrils with minerals and grit. Why they were suddenly aware of the odour, they couldn’t say; the strangest thoughts always seem to burst into your head when you are in these situations.

The men could feel the wind whipping past them, tugging at their clothes and equipment as they fell. They could only hear the pounding of their hearts and the rush of the wind in their ears. The ground was now only a few seconds away, and each man braced for impact.

The realisation dawned on them that their insertion had gone horribly wrong. They were now hurtling towards the enemy position; a surge of adrenaline coursed through their bodies as they snapped into high alert, their minds racing with the knowledge that their meticulously planned mission had now devolved into a deadly game of chance.

The wind raged mercilessly, a relentless force that seemed to have a mind of its own. It roared and screamed, whipping the rain around and hurling it at the soldiers from all angles with punishing force. The men fought to stay on target, their bodies bent and twisted desperately to resist the gale’s fury. The wind was a living thing, a malevolent entity that seemed to revel in their struggle as if determined to crush and destroy them. The soldiers could do nothing against its wrath, their fate now resting in the hands of the unforgiving elements.

The first to hit the ground is SFC “Hammer.” He’s the squad leader and was first out on the jump. He landed hard; his chute opened, but too late to provide its full effect. He struggled to get to his feet, trying to untangle himself from the cords, but he found he couldn’t move. By now, the alarm had been raised in the compound, and the enemy was very active. Hammer could see them moving around, their spotlights illuminating the arid landscape outside the compound. It was a sprawling collection of low-lying mud brick buildings nestled in a shallow valley between rocky outcroppings. The buildings were a dull, sun-bleached beige, and the flat roofs were made of a patchwork of corrugated metal and thatch. The walls were thick, designed to withstand the harsh desert environment, and adorned with faded murals. The compound was surrounded by a high mud brick wall, with a single gate made of rusted metal bars.

The gate hung open, inviting the enemy to pour out and hunt down the falling soldiers. Hammer’s vision was momentarily blinded by the intense spotlight trained on him as he frantically searched for his combat knife to cut himself free from the tangled parachute cords. The enemy was closing in, their shouts growing louder with each passing moment. Desperate and out of options, Hammer abandoned his search for the knife and reached blindly for his M4. But it had shifted out of reach during the drop, rendering it useless in his current predicament. He twisted and turned, struggling against the cords in a last-ditch effort to arm himself, but it was to no avail.

They were coming closer. He was going to die.