somehow marred his carefully conceived plan.

Eight minutes to go.

He dropped through the trapdoor into the hell hole. He already wore a

pair of French paraboots with thick, elastic soles. He hurriedly

removed a jumpsuit from the duffel bag and slipped into it. There had

been no room for a helmet so he pulled on a ski mask and stocking cap.

Next came a pair of gloves, goggles and an altimeter, which he strapped

to one wrist.

He clipped the harness snaps and checked the straps for snugness. He

wore a piggyback rig where the reserve sat on his shoulder blades and

the main chute fit into the small of his back. He relied on a ram air

canopy, a square air foil that is more flown than jumped.

He glanced at the dial of his watch. One minute, twenty seconds. He

opened the escape door and a rush of air swept through the hell hole. He

studied the sweep second hand on the watch and began counting down.

When he reached zero he launched his body through the narrow opening

feet first, facing in the direction of flight. The velocity of the

airstream struck him with the icy force of an avalanche, crushing the

breath from his lungs. The plane soared past with a deafening roar. for

a brief instant he felt the heat from the turbine's exhaust, and then he

was away and falling.

Face down in a stable arched and spread position, knees slightly flexed,

hands spread in front, Lemk looked down and saw only blackness. No

lights burned on the ground.

He assumed the worst; his crew had failed to reach the correct

rendezvous point. Without a defined target zone he could not gauge his

wind drift or direction. He might land kilometers away, or worse,

impact in the middle of jagged ice with serious injury and never be

found in time.

In ten seconds he had already dropped nearly 360 meters. The needle on

the luminous dial of his altimeter was crossing into the red. He could

not wait any longer. He pulled the pilot chute from a pouch and threw

it into the wind. It anchored to the sky and strung out the main

canopy.

He heard the chute open with a satisfying thump, and he was jerked into

an upright position. He took his penlight and aimed the narrow beam

over his head. The canopy blossomed above him.

Suddenly a small circle of lights blinked on about one Mile away to his

right. Then a flare went up and hung for several seconds, just long

enough for him to judge wind direction and speed. He pulled on the

right steering toggle and began gliding toward the lights.

Another flare went up. The wind held steady with no fluctuation as he

neared the ground. He could clearly see his crew now. They had laid

out another line of lights leading to the previously lit circle. He

jockeyed the steering toggles and made a 180-degree bank into the wind.