Learning to Fly - Steve and Diana
There were things Steve Trevor loved, and one of those was the feel of the wind in his hair when he was in the air—but only if it was on purpose. At the moment it wasn’t making him at all happy, primarily because he wasn’t skydiving or hang gliding or bungee jumping. He was hanging onto the controls of an F-35 with a busted canopy and a jammed ejection seat somewhere over the Pacific.
He was going to crash and die or die and crash. It was debatable which would happen first. Last time he’d bailed out, he’d found the impossible, but Diana wasn’t anywhere in the area—neither as her island home. It was in a different ocean half a world away, and he had no idea where his Angel was.
“Well, I’m fucked.” He let go of the controls and bent down, pulling a knife from his boot. He figured he had tops five minutes before he hit the ground like a sack of wet cement. His teeth drew blood as he focused on cutting the straps that hooked the chute to the seat. If he couldn’t get the seat loose, he’d take the parachute. It’d never work, but he had to do something.
The smell of burning plastic was cloying, and it was joined by the stink of his blood when the knife slipped but he got the unit free. Slamming his fist into the lock on the canopy, he let out a scream as it was yanked into the sky. Steve held onto the chute with everything he had, holding it so tight his arms hurt.
By a miracle when he got it open, the silk caught the air, nearly yanking it out of his hold, but he managed to hang on. His fall slowed to a crawl. He squinted against the glare of the sun off the blue, blue water as the F-35 hit the water near a tiny island. “Bingo.”
