By Owen Rapine
“Do you have your instructions?”
The private gaped up in disbelief.
The mustachioed sergeant, a misshapen, scarred-over walrus of a man who stood at the edge of a hundred-foot embankment, looking at the private like the recruit owed him something. Which he did: a leap from said embankment.
“Son, do you not understand how a gravchute works?” the sergeant growled.