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sunglasses. Jamie, Doc, and Quincy all pointed at LB, the unbroken sky at his backside. Showtime.
    From the cockpit, the pilot answered the F-16 pilot’s distress call.
    “F-16, this is Air Rescue HC-130 Kingsman 1 . We are airborne. Guardian Angels are en route to your location. We are in your sector. Keep your head down.”
    LB turned to face the whipping air, the plane’s huge tail fins overhead, and the roar of four propellers. He lowered his goggles, did one deep squat to shrug all his gear into place, then the green light flicked on. He ran three steps, because there was no fourth.
    LB plummeted, arms and legs outstretched, cupped in the palm of rushing air. His cheeks rubberized; the stiff camo uniform flapped. The drop deafened and silenced him, took away his weight, and left LB nothing but velocity and the beauty of falling free.
    Far below waited a carnival atmosphere, applause, kids—air shows were a taste of glory, a pat on the back, the best temporary duty a GA team could go on. Looking toward the fast-closing ground, LB saw a pillar of gray smoke billowing from the grassy plain just east of Waterkloof Air Base. By now, the downed pilot would have staggered out of the trees, drawing applause from ten thousand spectators in lawn chairs and on blankets at the edge of the big field. The air show crowd would have heard his Mayday call and Kingsman 1 ’s reply over loudspeakers. Every eye would be scanning the firmament for the plunging dots, the American Guardian Angels jumping to the rescue.
    LB’s wrist altimeter checked off eight thousand, seven fifty, seven thousand, six fifty. The smoke rising from the fake crash site confirmed that he was coming in downwind. Five miles north of the air base, Pretoria sprawled with pubs and pretty Afrikaans girls for later.
    At thirty-five hundred, LB gritted his teeth, crossed his legs to ease the brunt of deceleration, and yanked the pillow grip of his main chute. The canopy fluttered out behind him. The gray silk rectangle filled instantly; the lines went taut and squashed LB together at the midsection as the leg straps yanked his lower body into his upper half. He slowed and snapped back to his squat shape with a grunt, beginning the downward drift to the landing zone.
    LB hailed over the team freq: “PJ One up.”
    Doc, soaring in behind and above, answered, “PJ Two up.” Jamie and Quincy responded, then Wally, at the top of the stack, replied last, “Team Leader up.”
    At eight hundred feet above the open grass, the cheers reached LB. Children pointed skyward, the thousands of folks below clapped and waved American and South African flags, the aromas of steaks and sausages on hundreds of braai grills winged up to him. LB worked the left and right toggles beside his head to circle around, coming in downwind to slow his approach.
    LB spilled altitude fast. At one hundred feet he released the fifteen-foot tether that lowered his med ruck, doffing that weight before landing, jerking him when the line went taut. He leveled off when the ruck dragged the grass, pulling both toggles to his waist to flare the chute and bleed off the final bit of height. His boots touched down, and with smooth, practiced movements LB released the chest strap and bellyband, then flipped the ejectors on his leg straps, freeing him from the harness. The chute fainted at his back. LB unclipped the tether, dragged the ruck close, and took a knee, weapon up.
    Stock to his cheek, eyes down the open sight, LB scanned the open field with his M4. He didn’t watch Doc, Jamie, or Quincy drop in a ring around him; his task was to be the first peg down of a protected perimeter. Wally landed fifteen seconds after LB. With the team on the ground, the PJs reeled in their med rucks and left all five chutes collapsed in the grass. Wally, the team’s combat-rescue officer, took tactical control.
    All his commands, “Move,” “Stay tight,” “Go, go,” “Watch our six,” were broadcast over the