At sixty meters per second, even a moment’s hesitation could mean hundreds of yards of separation on the ground. Not to mention possible peril in the vidda’s unpredictable terrain.
With a whoop, Stromsheim followed Ronneberg. Then Storhaug. Olf Pedersen was up next. Both waved and proceeded quickly out of the plane. The line moved forward. Then it was the Yank. “Not sure how I ever got into this bloody outfit,” he said with a grin. Then he yanked his woolen mask over his face and disappeared.
Jens was next. Nordstrum knew jumping was his least favorite part of training. As he stood over the edge for a couple of seconds, his stomach always seemed to turn a bit.
“I think I forgot to turn out the light in the barracks,” he said, turning to Nordstrum.
“They’ll forgive you. See you on the ground.”
“Quick, out you go!” The dispatcher gave Jens a push, and with a yelp, he disappeared.
“You’re the last,” the dispatcher said to Nordstrum. “God’s speed to you, whatever it is you’re doing.”
“Thanks,” Nordstrum said. “Don’t forget the packs.”
“They’ll be along.” The dispatcher pushed him over the hatch.
He pulled up his mask and jumped.
Suddenly the air gusted cold and he was flung sideways, free of the plane. The chute cord extending jerked him upright. Above him, the chute deployed with a loud whoosh. He tugged on the straps. Below, he saw six other white chutes illuminated by the moon; all seemed to be descending in slow motion. Above him, one by one, their supply containers started to come out, until there were twelve, their chutes automatically deploying in the same way. It was quite a sight, Nordstrum couldn’t help but reflect. Nineteen white chutes lit up by the full moon and reflected against the sheen of the snow on the ground.
Norwegian snow!
Slowly they all drifted down and hit the ground. Nordstrum came in last and the wind blew him hard against the snow. One by one, the supply containers landed all around with loud thuds, wind gusts picking their chutes and dragging them on impact. Any one of them could have knocked a man unconscious if he’d been struck. For a moment, Nordstrum just sat in the soft, cold snow, letting his hands run through it. It felt good to be home. But it was important for them to extricate themselves from their chutes as quickly as possible. A strong gust could take a man off his feet and drag him, without him being able to do a damn thing about it, right off of a ridge. He stood and unhooked the chute’s lines.
The good news was that the weather had held.
He heard a yelp. It was Jens, who’d landed just before him. His friend was struggling on his feet with his chute, being lifted up and dragged like a marionette across the snow. If a strong gust took him the wrong direction, there was no telling where he’d end up. There could be large rocks or even crevices; he could end up a mess of broken bones. Or worse.
“Jens!” Nordstrum hurried across the snow and cut into his friend’s path. “Give me your hand.”
Jens was frantically trying to free himself from his straps, digging in his boots as the gales dragged him about. “I can’t.”
“Just give me your hand!” Nordstrum reached out for him again. “I’ll hold you.” But the ski suits were slick and he kept tumbling. If Nordstrum missed him, it could be disastrous.
“Jens, grab on!”
Finally Jens clasped onto Nordstrum’s forearm. He dug his boots into the ice and skidded to a stop. At last he was able to free himself from the chute, which was picked up by another gust of wind and carried off like a weightless piece of paper.
“Jesus…” Jens blew out his cheeks. “Thanks…” He looked to see where the parachute had ended up—over a ridge, a drop of about fifty feet down to snow-covered rocks and boulders. “Wasn’t exactly by the book, was it?” He looked at Nordstrum and shook his head.
“Not my book,” Nordstrum replied. He had only the smallest smile in his eyes, all that was visible above their woolen masks.
One by one, the team came together on the ridge where they’d landed.
“Any problems?” Ronneberg asked, as Jens and Nordstrum came up.
“None here,” said Nordstrum.
Jens kicked the snow from his boots. “Me neither.”
“Any idea where we are?” Ronneberg asked.
Nordstrum looked around. He didn’t know the place. It was the dead of night and heavy accumulations of snow could change the look of it from storm to storm. “Near Bjornesfjord, I’m hoping.” Ten kilometers from Lake Maure and Grouse. “But it doesn’t look familiar.”
“Bjornesfjord would be good. All right, everyone.” Ronneberg clapped his mitts together. “Let’s gather the gear together and find our mates.”
They each went across the ridge, locating as many of the twelve containers as they could. Most were scattered about in the snow. They lugged them all together, tiring work without skis, as some of them were a good distance away.
Ronneberg did a count. “Shit, there’s only eleven.”
To their dismay, they discovered one had been dragged even farther by the gusting gales and had tumbled into a deep crack in the ice where it was wedged some ten to twelve feet down.
“That’s going to be a problem,” Ronneberg sighed, peering over the edge. The containers weighed up to eighty pounds, a prodigious weight to haul back up without a place to plant your footing. “What’s in it?”
The markings on it couldn’t be seen. There was no telling what was inside.
They couldn’t take the chance to leave it.
“One of us has to go in.” Ronneberg kneeled over the edge, his face acknowledging the danger. Any man knowledgeable in the mountains knew these cracks could shift or cave in if one stepped on the wrong spot.
“I’ll go,” Nordstrum volunteered. He was likely the strongest of the group. “We’ll find some rope and I’ll climb down and hoist it back up.”
“No, it should be me.” Gutterson, the American, raised a hand. “I’m the stronger climber. I can winnow myself down and wedge it free. With any luck, we can pull it up by its cords.” The cords had held the weight in its descent, after all.
Nordstrum gave Ronneberg a shrug, nodding. “Worth a try.”
“All right, Yank, you’re up.” The lieutenant got back up. “Olf and Jens, start unpacking the packs and locate our skis. Hans…” He pointed Storhaug toward a nearby rise. “Maybe you can go up that ridge over there and see if you can get our bearings.”
“Aye,” everyone said, shifting into motion.
Nordstrum, Ronneberg, and the American kneeled and peered into the crack in the ice. Fortunately, the walls seemed stable, around five feet apart at the top, then narrowing. The crate was lodged on its side. There were small ledges of rock and ice to support Gutterson’s feet.
“See you down there.” He bent down and started to wedge himself inside, supporting his weight with a hand on each side, deftly lowering himself down a foot at a time, his boots searching out and testing the firmness of any ridges he found. He was an experienced climber, and within a minute had maneuvered his way to the crate.
“I’m down.” He looked back up.