Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Apex Predator

The next time we were called out it wasn't a covert operation. History was repeating itself and another uprising had sprung up. It wasn't a peaceful expression of dissent like the Prague Spring. It was a bloodthirsty ruckus. It wasn't on the same scale as the Hungarian Revolution – no – this wasn't a few bands of rebels. This was a whole country: rallying, rioting, revolting.

We were to be airdropped into Bucharest, as all the roads had been clogged with anthropological congestion. And the roads that weren't crammed with people were littered with upturned vehicles, nefarious tableaux of lynching and war torn flotsam and jetsam. Tanks rolled over the destruction, trying to penetrate the heart of the mobs.

Soaring at a low altitude, I could hear the harrowing sounds below. The tanks sounded like the drone of a plague of locust, the firing of tanks echoed off the surroundings and the roar of people buzzed below.

My comrades looked unbothered, staring vacantly ahead, heads bobbing with the clunking of the old plane. I was stiff and bolt upright in the seat, trying not to let my agitation show in the lines on my forehead or around my eyes. But every time a particularly graphic noise rung out I would flinch.

Alexi's hand rested atop of mine, steadying that subtle quake, but neither of us let that reassurance show on our faces.

But opposite me, Yelena's mouth shrivelled into a frown. Her eyes darting from me, to Alexi, she twiddled with the hilt of her knife. She'd worked so damned hard to have James wrapped around her little pinky, only to find I've moved on. She looked lonely without James on her arm. And seeing her so isolated comparison evoked a sense of retribution in my heart.

"We're above the drop zone!" Someone called back from the cockpit and we all migrated from our seats and did our best to stand in the bumpy container they excused as an aviation vehicle. Clinging onto bars and rails on walls and the roof, we watched the bay door open.

Wind rattled through like air entering a flute. A red light glowed close to the door and we all froze patiently. A buzzer sounded and it clicked green, and we all dashed forwards like a stampede, exiting the plane on cue.

I can't begin to explain what skydiving is like. Just for a moment, you're weightless, you're free, you're flying. For just a moment you feel like a bird: free of responsibilities and only thinking of the wind beneath your wings: or outstretched arms in my case.

The way the wind weaves through my hair, cool and refreshing is a serenity of no other – even if I am hurtling towards the ground. My lungs are overtaken with invigoration and exhilaration rushes through my veins with the adrenaline.

And there's a surreal moment where you pull the chute and spiral down, like leaves on the thermals.

But this wasn't a leisurely airdrop into the countryside. This was me landing directly in the heart of a country stricken by the worst kind of oppression and wrecked by the people who refused to be oppressed any longer.

My descent was bumpy. It was at a steep angle, swerving to dodge projectiles aimed at me. Civilians had armed themselves with anything they could get their hands on and they hurled it at anyone bearing the Soviet hammer and sickle.

I could see bursts of fire below as Molotov cocktails were thrown and shattered into flames, gunfire erupted as clips were unloaded skyward and large chunks of pavement were left looking like a crater by stray grenades.

I veered awkwardly as I finally made for the rooftops of the castellated buildings that bordered a square. I landed with a stumble and a roll to gradually lose impetus and ended up tangled in the strings of my parachute. The moment I raised my head, I narrowly avoided a spate of bullets sprayed in our general direction and ducked beneath the battlements to untangle myself.