40 hours later.
Late night.
The C-130 "Hercules" transport plane tore through the deathly silence of the North African stratosphere, the rear cabin door hydraulic system roaring open on both sides.
The violent negative pressure airflow instantly sucked dry the cabin air, emitting a hellish abyss-like shriek.
Sixteen members of the SAS "Chair" squad were like black statues welded to the deck, the temperature-regulating fibers of their pressurized suits frosted in the -56°C cold.
The red light at the top of the cabin pierced the darkness.
"Green light thirty seconds!"
The jump master's shout was hammered directly into the eardrums by bone conduction headphones, overpowering the furious roar of the four Allison T56 turboprop engines.
Sergeant Macmillan, the commander, had ice crystals forming on his oxygen mask, and the ice-blue pupils behind the night vision goggles remained unmoving.
He raised two fingers wrapped in fireproof Nomex gloves and chopped forward—"GO! GO! GO!"
