Another soldier came close enough to wave—one he didn't recognize, with the insignia of Sixth Battalion, from Rolls-Royce. Mirsky waved back and motioned for him to prepare his sled. The soldier held it up—folded, in tatters from a projectile impact—and shrugged, flipping it aside. They were to maintain radio silence, but the soldier used his rockets to approach close enough that they could read lips.

—Can I survive without?

—I don't know. Tuck up into a ball and present your back to the air. . . if you can.

That was difficult to convey with lip movements, so Mirsky mimed by folded himself up as best he could behind the shield, drawing up his knees and wrapping his arms around him.

The soldier nodded and signaled okay with his thumb and index finger. They drifted apart—the soldier falling more slowly because of his thrust toward Mirsky. Mirsky watched the soldier thrust again to move away from the cap surface, toward which he was drifting, and then busied himself preparing for the entry.

He checked his position with relation to the bridge. One more adjustment with the thrusters. He could feel some pressure now against the sled. A vibration, weak nudges.

He made one more thrust and, then unfastened and discarded the rocket pack. Where it fell he did not care, so long as it didn't land on him.

For an instant, through the preparations and the near-fury of anticipation, he looked again at the city and wondered what the Potato's secret actually was. Why were they fighting for it? What could it bring them?

How would the West react, facing the theft of its greatest prize? Or the attempt (he had heard rumors) to take out its orbital platforms and spy satellites?

How would Russia react in the same circumstances?

He shuddered.

The sled jerked and whirled around. He blacked out for a moment, then came awake to a bone-crushing slam and a high-pitched, wavering scream.

Coming down.

The sled swung around again and bucked but was now committed to one orientation. He was pressed against its inner surface, padded elbows and knees braced, hoping he had broken no bones. It had been more violent than the falls from three meters in training. He tasted blood in his mouth. He had bitten almost through his inner cheek—he could flap the tissue with his tongue. He closed his eyes against the pain—

(And gathered up his chute in the golden grassy field, smiling at the burning sun, looking for his comrades, shielding his eyes to spot the distant speck of the transport plane—)

And fell. He hastily unbuckled from the sled. The air roared around him. Then he grasped the straps loosely in his hands. He flipped the sled over and it was torn from his fingers.

Made it!