Bodies crammed together in the belly of an iron whale on a rough sea. Only light is a red star burning by the side door. Jumpmaster runs a hand along its open mouth as if caressing a loverâ€™s lips. Propblast whips his umbilical as he scans black ink for a patch of green. Paratroopers rise from cargo seats, line up like pack mules. Parachute, reserve, rucksack on knees, weapon carrier jammed beneath an arm. Each jumper leans into next, traces yellow static line zig-zagging his back like bootlaces. An error could mean the life of the man in front, but trust is an infant in a dark room.