"Shit, look at that!" said Lake, pointing downwards, "Their armory's been blown away!"
Sergeant Dave Trevor looked to where the kid was pointing.
"Looks like someone's on the ground already," the sergeant said, "And they're giving us a hand."
Lake nodded. Trevor checked his watch, and saw that it was midnight.
"All right, you beasts, let's move! You're a bunch of hulking monsters, you know that? Isn't a Mongol in the world that could stand up to some beasts like you! Let's go! Let's go!"
The flamethrower squadron threw themselves out the door of the place one by one, into the swirling snowstorm that was beginning to form. Trevor leapt out last, to make sure that the whole rest of his squad was already on their way to the ground.
As snowflakes danced around his face, the sergeant wondered briefly if his hands would be too numb to pull the rip cord. He knew it was just a typical parachutist's habitual complaining, combined with a typical flamethrower handler's habitual complaining.
Far below him, the first members of his squad were hitting the ground and firing. The night was being lit by flames, and the snowflakes were making the light of the fire twinkle and dance as it reflected. He felt his stomach lurch as the ground drew nearer and nearer, then, with a sudden thump, his parachute opened.
He didn’t release his rip cord until he had hit the ground painfully feet first. The parachute, designed not to be a hindrance for combat, disintegrated immediately. Only then did Trevor drop the rip cord and pull the nozzle of his flamethrower from behind his back. Screaming, he ran into battle, trying to push back the advancing Mongols with walls of flame.
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