Title: Born for Adversity

Author: Sockie1000

Summary: Reserve weekend. A training jump. At night. Over the ocean. With a storm coming in. Sounds like a bad idea for Steve. Sounds like a good idea for anyone who loves Steve whump.

Rating: T (for injuries. The rest is fairly G rated.)

Warnings: None, unless you are squeamish. But so am I, so I tried to keep squicky things to a minimum as much as possible.

Disclaimers: The usual. No ownership, no money. Not a doctor or in the military or anything else remotely cool. All I know I learned from Google. And no, I don't own Google, either.

Author's note #1: Thanks, as always, to my wonderful betas Cokie316 and Rogue Tomato. Any mistakes are mine alone.

A/N #2: I have to admit, I thought I would never finish this one. I've been working on it forever. Or at least since February, which certainly feels like forever. And since it took so long to complete, I thought I'd make it my long summer story to keep us entertained until the new season starts. The story is roughly 37k and 14 chapters long. I will post once a week until we are finished, approximately at the end of August.

A/N #3: Due to RL's interference, this will most likely be my last long H50 story for the foreseeable future. I hope you enjoy it. :)

*H50*

A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.

- Proverbs 17:17

Chapter 1

The inside of the C-130 shimmied and hummed as it lifted off from the tarmac at Pearl. The noise inside was loud, but not deafening. Still, it was loud enough to make the usual joking difficult so for the time being, the ten men sat in silence as the plane gained altitude. They sat across from and facing each other, strapped in on the hard seats that lined the length of the fuselage. They occasionally made eye contact but largely ignored the small circular windows placed every few feet since the nighttime sky provided nothing to look at other than the dark night. And they would see plenty of that, up close and personal, in less than an hour.

Each of the men were already outfitted "combat light" for their training mission, with a primary and reserve parachute, helmet, goggles, and a rifle. They didn't exactly plan on running into any unfriendlies in the Hawaiian islands but they were going to engage in a shooting exercise after the jump. Plus, it was always a good idea to jump in as realistic conditions as possible and odds were any time you hurled yourself out of a plane, it was for a reason. And that reason almost always involved engaging in combat with an enemy who wasn't exactly happy to see you. That was, assuming they didn't shoot you out of the sky on the way down.

But that was what training was for: to practice and hone your skills, to give you and your country as much of an advantage as possible. Because even though all of them were willing to give their life for the U.S. and had signed paperwork that said as much, they still preferred to make it home at the end of the day.

And make it home they would; each and every one of them.

Steve looked at the men who would share the mission with him; some were new to him, others he had known for years. None of them, other than himself, had been SEALS but they were all former full-time Navy men who, for whatever reasons, were now in the reserves. For some, like Steve, they had eventually chosen a second career outside of the Navy but the life was too engrained in their psyche to ever let it go; others had grown tired of the nomadic lifestyle and wanted to put down roots and gain stability for the sake of their families; some simply liked Hawaii too much to ever leave. But all of them were committed, qualified, and experienced.

However, that didn't mean some of them weren't nervous. After all, they were about to jump out of a plane into the night. Over the ocean. Trying to hit a beach in pitch black darkness. Some nervousness was understandable.

One young man in particular, sitting directly across from Steve, was fidgeting. His name wasn't on his jumpsuit but Steve remembered it from their briefing earlier- Petty Officer Joshua Wilson. He looked like a nice, mid-western farm boy, in his mid-twenties with light brown hair and a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He also looked like he wouldn't hurt a fly but Steve knew sometimes the ones who were the nicest were also the most deadly when they needed to be.

The noise inside the plane died down to a manageable level so they could talk. "How long have you had your jump wings?" Steve asked, referring to the military's parachutist certification, worn on the uniform as a set of golden wings with a parachute in the middle.

Wilson looked up at Steve, surprised. "Four years last March."

Steve nodded. The kid had plenty of jumps under his belt, but still, he was way too uptight about the night's upcoming activities. "This your first jump in Hawaii?"

Wilson was obviously embarrassed that someone had noticed his bout of nerves. "Third," he replied. "But first at night," he offered as an explanation.

"It's not any different than a night jump anywhere else," Steve replied, hoping to encourage him.

"Except for the ocean," Wilson said.

Steve chuckled. "Except for that. Steer clear of it and you'll be fine. Here, take Bugs down there as an example," he said, pointing down the row to Wilson's left at a large, middle-aged black man sitting two seats down. "I've known him for eight years and he's jumping, too. And he's old. So it must be safe."

Bugs chuckled good-naturedly in return. "For your information, 46 is not old. And I'll be the first one to cackle with glee when your knees creak and hurt as much after a jump as mine do."

"Aw, quit your whining," Steve ribbed him with a grin. "At least I'm not making you jump with a stacked duck," he said, referring to two inflatable zodiac rafts wrapped together with their engines and equipment, attached to two parachutes and thrown out of the back of a plane. "Now that's a good time."

Bugs shook his head, grinning. "That's called crazy."

"That's called a light warm-up before breakfast if you're a SEAL."

Bugs shrugged. "Same difference."

"Maybe you're just not cut out for this," Steve told Bugs, giving Wilson a wink, glad to see the kid smiling, his nerves practically melting away before Steve's eyes.

"Not all of us were born with gills and wings and a SIG for a rattle like you, McGarrett," Bugs pointed out. "And I'd rather spend my time elsewhere, but you darn SEALs keep insisting on hurting yourselves. So I feel obligated to tag along to patch you up."

"And here I thought you'd rather stitch us up in the field so we don't come inside and bleed all over your nice, pretty, clean carpet," Steve countered with a grin.

"I'd rather you not bleed at all. All that surgery really cuts into my golf game. How am I supposed to defend my title as the reigning golf champ at Pearl if I have to keep coming in off the links?"

"Well, nobody's going to bleed tonight. It's just a simple jump from twelve hundred. Even your grandma could make that jump in her nightgown and curlers."

Bugs laughed; a deep, hearty belly laugh, his eyes crinkling up and twinkling. "And I've seen your grandma, McGarrett. Her nightgown is big enough to make a parachute by itself."

Steve laughed as well, thinking of his rail-thin grandma, tough as nails, whom he never met in person but had seen in pictures. From the stories he heard growing up, he was pretty sure if she was alive, she would have decked Bugs for that comment. "Just for that, I'm throwing you out first," he told Bugs as he unhooked himself from his seat harness.

"Like you weren't going to do that anyway," Bugs groused good-naturedly.

Steve clapped a now relaxed Wilson on the shoulder and gave Bugs a fist bump on the way up to the cockpit. Even though Bugs was a Commander was the highest ranking officer on the jump, he was a doctor, not a field officer. So Steve, with his extensive jumping experience, was acting as the CO.

The pilot, a Lieutenant named Martinez, glanced up over his shoulder when Steve appeared. "We're about to bank. We'll be there in under thirty."

Steve nodded and looked out the windshield into the night. The moon and stars were clouded over, making the night exceptionally dark. However the lights on nearby Maui served as a landmark and out to his left he could still make out Kahoolawe, the smallest of the eight Hawaiian Islands. Steve looked down at the island and smiled. Until as recently as 1990, the island served as a training ground for the US Navy, who lobbed it mercilessly with bombs for target practice before it was transferred to the state of Hawaii and established as an wildlife sanctuary. Steve still remembered the time his father brought him to Maui and they sat on the beach, watching the fireworks. It was better than the Fourth of July to an eight year old boy.

But neither Kahoolawe nor Maui was where they were headed tonight. Having gaining sufficient altitude into the wind, the plane began banking and heading northwest toward Niihau, the seventh largest Hawaiian island and their final destination. They would jump to the beach on the Kaulakahi Channel, which separated Niihau from Kauai, then perform a short shooting exercise before being picked up via helicopter three hours later. Originally, the exercise was going to last six hours and include an eight mile hike and some additional munitions training, but an incoming storm caused the brass to revise and shorten the training plan instead of scrapping it altogether.

"What's the wind speed?" Steve asked.

"Seventeen mph," Martinez replied.

Steve frowned. The wind wasn't too strong to call off the jump, that threshold was closer to 25 mph, but it was still higher than he would have liked. "And the latest on the storm?" he asked, looking down to gauge the degree of cloud cover below them. If they couldn't see the ground for the clouds, they wouldn't jump. It was as simple as that. But the sight line to the ground level, or ocean in this case, was clear; the clouds were all above them, blocking the moonlight but otherwise not doing any harm.

"As of ten minutes ago, it's almost four hours out," Martinez replied. He turned to look at Steve as best as he could in the cramped cockpit. "Is it still a go?" he asked. Because even though the pilot was responsible for the safety of the men and putting them in the correct drop zone in a safe manner, the ultimate responsibility for the mission rested on Steve.

Steve locked his jaw, looked down at the ocean one more time, then nodded. "Yes, it's a go. But make sure the helo is there in exactly three hours. I don't want my men out there any longer than necessary."

Martinez nodded, then turned back to his console. "Roger that."

Steve nodded back and headed to the fuselage to talk to his men.

Most of them had already released their shoulder harnesses and were milling around the back of the C-130, telling jokes and generally harassing each other. Even the previously nervous Petty Officer Wilson looked like he was having fun and had apparently wrangled Bugs out of the story of how he got his nickname. ("I'm a doctor, get it? Bugs, like Bugs Bunny.")

"Ok, everyone," Steve called over the general noise from both the men and the airplane. The talk immediately died down and the men gathered around Steve to hear his instructions. "We're running an abbreviated training exercise tonight to get out ahead of the storm. The winds aren't too bad now, but they are seventeen mph."

Next to him, one of the men groaned.

"It's still safe," Steve said, turning to the man, "but it will make things more interesting. There's no room for error. If you watch where you're going and guide your canopy correctly, you'll wind up on the beach and not in the ocean." He looked directly at Wilson, who nodded his understanding.

"If you haven't felt the opening shock by the count of four, pull your reserve. You'll be at about eleven hundred feet then so you'll have approximately four more seconds to pull it before you're in trouble. I've already promised Bugs nobody was going to bleed tonight, so please don't make a liar of me." The men laughed appreciatively and Steve smiled.

"Last things: make sure you stay a minimum of fifty feet apart so you don't get your lines tangled. The ground will be a lot closer than it looks in the dark so be prepared to hit five to ten seconds before you think you will. Remember, five points at landing," he said, referring to the points of impact in a PLF, or parachute landing fall: balls of feet, calf, thigh, buttocks, and push-up muscle. "And release your canopy as soon as you hit so the wind doesn't drag you. Any questions?"

The men all looked around and shook their heads. They were all experienced jumpers so Steve really hadn't been expecting any. Still, it never hurt to ask.

"Ok, then," Steve said with a nod. "See you on the beach. Hook up!"

The men all fell into a line and hooked their static lines to the overhead cable that ran the length of the inside of the plane. When they jumped out of the plane, the static line would become taut and automatically pull each man's parachute from its pack. Then the line would separate and remain attached to the cable while the men fell with the parachute inflating behind them.

"Check equipment," Steve yelled. Each man checked his own equipment—helmet, chinstrap, goggles, lines, and weapon—and then checked the equipment of the man in front of him.

"Sound off equipment check!"

Starting from the back, each man yelled back, "Nine, ok!"

"Eight, ok!"

Wilson, standing immediately behind Bugs, was the last one to sound off. "Ok!"

Steve nodded at his men then turned his focus toward the light above the door, waiting for it to illuminate. A few moments later, the green light came on, indicating that Martinez now had them positioned over the drop zone.

Steve reached over and pulled the door open, muscling it up and out of the way. The slipstream outside was easily 100 mph and the noise was almost deafening. But the noise wasn't as foreboding at the pitch black darkness that awaited them.

Bugs was the first one out, executing a perfect jump- eyes open, chin on his chest, elbows tight into his sides, slightly bent forward at the waist with his feet and knees together- complete with a loud "yeehaw!" that made Steve laugh. For all of the doctor's grumbling, the man was an expert jumper who loved every minute of it and never missed an opportunity to go, even when it wasn't required.

The men jumped out in quick succession and mere seconds later, it was Steve's turn. He nodded briefly at the ensign who would remain on the plane to pull in their deployment bags and close the door behind him, and then he jumped out into the night.

Steve held his tucked position as he counted to four. He used the spare seconds to check on his team below him. Although the night was dark, he should still be able to make out the white parachutes. Sure enough, nine parachutes were already inflating below him, slowing the mens' speed of descent to a safe level.

Right on the count of four, Steve felt the opening shock as his body was jerked upwards. He looked up to check his canopy and immediately knew something was off. One of the suspension lines had been blown over the top of the canopy before it was fully inflated. As a result, the canopy was now effectively sectioned into two smaller lobes. In more crude terms, it looked like butt cheeks or was called a "Mae West," in honor of the late actress' amble bosom.

But no matter what you called it, it was bad.

The best case scenario was his lift would be hindered and the rate of descent would be increased. The worst case scenario was the canopy and suspension lines could be burned by friction during the fall and weakened considerably, if not entirely shredded. In short, if he did nothing, he'd be hurt at best and dead at worst.

He checked his altimeter and saw he was already under 1,100 feet, close to the lower limit of 1,000 for activating a reserve parachute. But unfortunately, he couldn't open his reserve chute without cutting away the main one or the lines would most likely get tangled and then he'd have little lift and no control.

Steve was faced with a spilt second decision: keep working with the main parachute and do the best he could, knowing it might not be enough and the speed on impact might kill him; or cut away and activate the reserve, knowing it might not have time to inflate properly and the speed on impact might still kill him.

It was the classic situation where you were screwed either way.

But Steve at least wanted a fighting chance.

He quickly pulled the release handle to cut away his main parachute and then grasped the rip cord for his reserve, turned his head, and pulled the rip cord grip out and then dropped it. He was relieved to see the reserve trailing up into the sky in his wake.

He was a little less relieved when he looked at his altimeter again and noted he was now at 975 feet.

He cursed but there was nothing else he could really do except hang on.

Steve felt himself falling for what seemed like an eternity but then his reserve inflated and he was jerked upward, harshly. He knew he would be bruised later but really, that was the least of his concerns. Because even with the reserve deployed, he knew he was still going too fast. He had now fallen below the level of all of the other jumpers from his plane and he had been the last one out.

This close to the ground, he really didn't have much maneuverability, but he could still increase his odds of survival if he could make it out over the ocean and land there. Water landings were risky and never preferable, but Steve thought he'd rather take his chances hitting the ocean and slipping under the water than hitting the hard ground and stopping with a resounding splat. The image of bug on a windshield flashed in his mind and he really didn't have any desire to become one.

He dropped his weapon to lighten his load and began diverting his course away from the beach and toward the water. It was hard to see much of anything but occasionally, he would catch a glimpse of a whitecap in the choppy water below. But mainly, he just let the sound of the waves dictate his direction.

He was fairly certain he was over the water now and his parachute was slowing him down more and more with each passing second. But he still knew it would be a rough landing. The parachute malfunction hadn't been anyone's fault and Steve was doing everything right. But he simply didn't have much altitude to work with and his speed was still too fast. If he was lucky, he would break an arm or a leg when he hit the water. If he wasn't lucky, he would break his back.

He glanced up at his team one more time. They were now farther west of him, preparing for their beach landing on Niihau, and doing a good job of maintaining their distance to make sure their lines didn't become entangled. However, one parachutist was beginning to break away and change course, heading directly toward him. Steve instinctively knew it was Bugs, coming to his rescue, and he couldn't decide whether to be annoyed that the doctor was endangering his own life or grateful that he was trying to help.

But mainly, he just hoped that when Bugs got to him, there would be something left to find.

The night suddenly became even darker, if that was possible, and it looked like Steve was headed into a black hole. But he simply knew that meant he was almost there.

It was about to be over, for better or for worse.

So Steve did all he could do; assumed the correct position, took a deep breath, and prayed.

And then, he hit.

To be continued…