Directive …
Can't breathe…It hurts, it hurts, it hurts
… CONDITION …
A blank space shaped like a name, where a face should be. Help me...
Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT
Going nutty?
Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT
Regaining consciousness.
The sunlight filtered translucent pink through his closed eyelids. When he opened them with difficulty, he saw first that the sun had moved only a little since the last time he'd observed it; perhaps less than half an hour had elapsed since he'd blacked out. He'd tried to keep track of the distance he'd travelled through the tree canopy, but the count had become difficult and fuzzy after about the third mile. He vaguely remembered making that last jump from branch to branch. His boots had landed solidly, but disoriented from pain and dehydration, he had missed his grip and toppled backward into empty air. For some reason his last fleeting thought had been to dread a shatteringly hard landing across rocks and snow.
The slender rappelling line had caught him, and he dangled from where it stretched from the catchplate on his chest armor to a raw gouge of yellow wood where the grapple had anchored into the trunk of a tall evergreen. He closed his eyes and forced himself to extend his senses and to concentrate. There were no sounds except the quiet background hum of insects and wind that would be expected in a wooded area. He smelled only moss and pine and cool greenery. Satisfied for the moment that no humans were in the area, he snaked his metal left hand across his body to one of the canteens on his hip. With extreme care, he unsnapped the canvas sling and slipped the bottle free. His flesh hand shook as he unscrewed the cap, but he did it without dropping it. The water was tepid and tasted strongly of plastic, but once he started drinking it, he couldn't stop. He didn't even really breathe until he had shaken the last drop into his parched mouth.
Directive Three: REPORT TO RENDEZVOUS POINT
Complying.
The clumps of needled foliage at the tops of the pine trees was thick enough for concealment, but when he looked straight down, he had a reasonably clear view of the area beneath him. He did a quick position estimate based on his best guess of the distance he'd gained and the topography he could see. Making twenty miles or more to the rendezvous point on foot with his injuries posed an unacceptable risk of capture. Procuring an alternate source of transportation elevated the risk of discovery and pursuit, but there wasn't much alternative. If he was quick and chose his target carefully, he might be able to get to the rendezvous point and disappear before anyone knew any better.
He knew from the maps and aerial surveillance images he'd been shown at the mission briefing that he was fairly close to an access road that led to the fortified compound. He'd already encountered one patrol, albeit outside of a prescribed search pattern. He supposed that there might be more traffic on the road now, if the earlier radio conversation was to be believed. If he was going to have any options at all, he had to go where the possibilities were, and that wasn't up in this tree.
Climbing down was much easier than climbing up had been. He used his thumb and forefinger to pinch the dual toggling mechanism, and slowly paid out line to control his descent. When he reached the ground, and after he had taken a moment to make sure he was going to stay on his feet, he gave the cord a hard ripple and a jerk. The grappling array retracted forcefully back into its cylindrical shape with a muffled "snap," and he had only to reel it in through the protruding branches.
The brief rests, both voluntary and involuntary, had improved his condition. Walking was somewhat easier, although he had to stop frequently and his skin felt clammy inside his ballistic armor. He was still coated in dried blood, and each time he paused to rest against the trunk of a tree, he scraped off as much of it as he could to discourage the flies and gnats.
There's no such thing as a free lunch… unless you're one of these bugs.
His brow creased and his hands stilled. Meaningless, intrusive thoughts meant that he was losing focus, and would start making mistakes. He had to get to the rendezvous point before going nutty got him killed. No… before the intrusive thoughts caused critical instability. Not "going nutty."
There, take that.
He sighed in annoyance, yet another sign that he was becoming erratic. There was no more time for rest breaks. A slightly shambling walk was his best sustainable speed at the moment, but he intended to maintain it all the way to the road, which he estimated to be four miles to the southeast.
AN: Short chapter. This was a logical stopping place in advance of the next bit.