Han Chien saw the Imperialist machine catapult out of the sky, trailing a swirling line of black smoke. Others carried on their airborne journey, stopping only briefly to contest the undeniable might of the People.

"Papa," came a small and squeaky voice to his right.

Han Chien turned and looked down; it was Vong, his six year old daughter.

"Vong!" he snapped, "why are you not with your mother and sisters?" Vong flinched at her father's temper, and he sighed. "You know it is not safe when the alarm goes off. The Imperialists are here, and they would do unspeakable things to little girls like you. Go, and do not leave the tunnel until the all clear is given."

She gave a teary-eyed nod, and then hurried back towards the village. Han sighed a second time, she was much too young to understand the world into which she was born. Still, if she didn't learn soon, then it was only a matter of time before she blundered into an American's rifle scope.

Americans. Han's fists clenched at the mere thought of the word.

"Commander!" shouted someone from behind, and Han spun with his sidearm half way out of its holster. He was in no danger, not here, he knew that perfectly well... but old habits died hard.

A young man in the green of the NVA was cycling down the roadway, flailing a palm full of papers. "Commander Chien!"

"What is it?" Han called back, walking to meet the rider half way.

"Divisional orders, sir," replied the young man, coming to a halt. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and then held out the papers to Han.

Han snatched them from him, and after a few seconds of glancing over the scribbled text, he nodded. "It will be done," he said.

The rider turned back, and rode off the way he had come. Han meanwhile turned and marched himself into his village, where a loose row of the People's faithful stood to rigid attention, dressed in their peasant garb but each holding a Type 56 assault rifle against their chests. Their faces were young, but their eyes were full of the kind of determination one would only find in Vietnam.

Han walked in front of them, appraising them with his eyes, pacing backwards and forwards as if making a muted speech. But no words came, for there were no need for any. His men knew the glory of their existence, and he knew they'd die to the last if it meant taking an Imperialist with them.

At last, he stopped, straightened up and said just a few brief words. "We check the crash site for Imperialist dead. Survivors must be taken alive if possible." He turned and pointed a hand out of the village, an extended finger lining up with a small pillar of rising smoke just beyond the river. "Let's go."



Han and his twelve martyrs traversed the shallow river with ease; it was something they practised daily. Once on the other side, they climbed the shallow slope that led into the vegetated hill side. The pillar of smoke became lost behind the thick canopy, but Han didn't need to see it anymore, he knew where the Imperialist machine had crashed.

The Viet Cong section spread themselves out in a thin line, six paces between each man. Weapons were held lazily by their waists; they didn't expect anyone to have survived the crash, indeed, they rarely did. Their approach from the west was slow, their march clogged by the jungle's harsh terrain. The midday heat beat against them, and the humidity reduced their clothes to sopping rags. The life of a Viet Cong guerilla was a hard one, but one Han and his men had mastered.

Through a gap in the trees, Han could see the mangled tail fin of the Imperialist machine. He held up a hand, bringing his section to a stop.

"Tang, Mach, Chiem, go ahead and search the site. We'll keep watch, in case the Imperialists return," Han said.

The three men grunted, and shrunk away into the dense undergrowth. The remaining ten men took the opportunity to catch their breaths, and sat themselves down. Han passed around their only water-filled canteen, and mused at the Americans' stupidity. They were so arrogant! They thought their machines and their weapons gave them strength... hah! True strength came from the kind of courage one needed to watch their peoples die by the thousands, unflinching, kept secure in the belief of an inevitable victory. The kind of courage that made one smile in the worst conditions. Han had that courage, and he was confident.

Perhaps too confident.



The Huey had snapped itself against a thick Spanish joint fir tree; the tail laying twenty feet away from the body. All things considered, the Huey's human cargo had fared well. Six men clambered from the smouldering wreck dragging their gear with them, coughing and cursing as they tried to marshal their situation.

Sergeant First Class Ryan Davis poked his head back into the mangled body of the Huey, and grimaced. Seven men were strewn about the place, some without limbs, some with grievous shrapnel and bullet wounds - but dead all the same. He didn't bother to check the pilots, because a blackened hole was all that remained of the cockpit.

They'd spun in the air a several dozen times as their bird plummeted towards the jungle below. By luck, the Huey had struck the Spanish joint, breaking its disastrous momentum and allowing the body to hit the floor in a controlled way. Well, as controlled as a pilotless chopper could abide.

If it weren't for that damned NVA flak round, they all might have made it out. Everyone seated nearest the cockpit was dead, absorbing the shrapnel and saving the guys further along the seating. A few bullets perforated the Huey too though, and no doubt they'd of been fatal to someone - flak or no flak.

Ryan turned and looked at the survivors, taking in their faces. Second Lieutenant Myers wasn't among them, and a quick double take of the Huey's interior confirmed the worst. He stepped back out of the smouldering wreck, but before he could start organising the men into some semblance of order, something moved in the corner of his vision.

He wasn't sure what, but in 'Nam you didn't take chances. Not with Charlie the way that he was.

His frantic hand waves sent the men throwing themselves to the ground where they were covered by the thick shrub of the jungle floor, and Ryan himself ducked down behind the Huey's crumpled form. His finger flicked the safety off on the rifle he clenched tightly in his hands.

Three black-clad figures entered the rough clearing carved out by the Huey's descent. They stood tightly packed, peering over the scene with casual awe - excitement even? But they hadn't spotted the American soldiers just fifteen feet away, partly because they weren't expecting survivors, but mostly because a downed American helicopter up close was quite the sight.

Ryan gritted his teeth, swearing silently inside his own head. His body ached, his skull pounding with every heartbeat, and if he was being honest with himself he still wasn’t sure if all of his parts and pieces were properly attached. Risking a second quick glance around the chopper, he judged the distance between them and the enemy and then looked at the trees towards the edge of the clearing.

It was too far; the enemy was too close, and there was no way in hell he and his boys would make it across that open ground and into the treeline before Charlie cut them all down. Their position could be worse, however. He did a quick sweep of his own men, his mind running through the possibilities.

Four rifles and an M60 could throw down a lot of firepower, and the enemy was well within range of PFC Barne’s shotgun. The metal hulk of the bird would provide cover, and they had hand grenades and a thump-gun that further multiplied the damage they’d be able to dish out. Most importantly, the men approaching the bird were calm, distracted. They clearly weren’t expecting resistance, and the fact that six men had escaped the crash alive was a miracle nobody would have seen coming. The element of surprise was firmly on their side.

Nodding grimly to himself, Ryan set his jaw and knelt to address his men, his eyes hard. When he spoke his voice was pitched low, barely audible over the crackling flames of the smouldering chopper.

“Gents, Charlie’s here,” he said without preamble. “We aren’t gonna make it from here to the treeline, they’re too close. We’re fightin’ our way out. Derricks, I want you at the back of the bird, behind the tail. Use it to brace the Pig, it’ll steady your fire, but don’t heft the thing up there until the action starts. I don’t want you gettin’ popped because they see you moving. Barnes, stay on his ass. The rest of you, use the chopper for cover as best you can.”

Pulling a grenade from its pouch, he raised a finger and gave them all a glare.

“Semi-auto, boys. Any of you motherfuckers cuts loose and wastes a magazine on that bush, I’ll pistol whip you. We go when my grenade pops.”

Ryan himself crept towards the nose of the Huey as the others moved to take their positions. He gave them a five count, then pulled the pin and clutched the grenade tightly. He took a breath, forcing down the pre-battle adrenaline that was flooding his system, then flipped off the spoon of the grenade. One...Two…

He leaned out and lobbed the grenade underhanded towards the tightly-packed VC, aiming for the ground just in front of them, then quickly pulled back behind the sheltering bulk of the Huey.

Chris Hoffman puked onto the grass when he finally crawled out of the wreckage, whether it was from the rough ride down or the smell of burning flesh, he was not sure. First he reached and checked for his glasses, still on his face and then groped around for his prick. He sighed with relief when he felt it was intact and noted that the PRC-25 radio would be their lifeline to call for help was also unscathed. Squinting in the bright sun that beat down on them, he could see other survivors, including the Sergeant. It gave him some confidence to see someone with stripes but the lieutenant was no where to be found.

Keeping down among the long blades of the razor edged elephant grass, he gathered his rifle to him and checked for any damage. His heart jumped when the Sarge’s rumbling voice warned them of the enemy heading right for them. He followed the orders, scuttling towards the chopper, feeling the weight of his pack and radio bobbing against his back. Chris crouched down, taking a knee, glancing at Sergeant Davis before raising his rifle at the figures heading in their direction.

“Gnarly...” he breathed out at the sight of the crunched in nose and flames licking. When the grenade exploded, he began to fire, popping off rounds at the enemy. He thought he might have hit one in the thigh but as they ran for cover it was hard to tell. When the Pig roared to life, he winced, his ears ringing but was grateful for the heavy gun that sent Charlie scrambling.

Han looked up, confused by the sudden explosion that had rocked the ground beneath him. Perhaps, he thought, the helicopter's fuel tanks had caught. Then the gun shots sounded, and he realised he'd blundered.

"Everyone, spread out," he said, clambering to his feet. "Six paces apart."

The group of Viet Cong jumped at his orders, arraying themselves into a loose line. They weren't nervous, no, they were eager. They lived to fight the Imperialist, and now they had him cornered. They did a quick check of their weapons, and signalled their readiness down the line.

"Death to the Imperialist!" Han yelled, surging forwards through the shrub.

His men cheered at his words, and broke into a likewise sprint. The crash site was up ahead, but so was the enemy. Caution may have served them better, but Han believed he was dealing with one or two survivors - not six. Besides, for all he knew Tang, Mach, Chiem were still in the fight. They'd swarm over the Americans, and put them out of their misery at the end of a gun barrel.

They got shot down. But, and this was some crazy shit, they survived.

But then the VC were all over the motherfuckin' jungle. Charlie liked souvenirs too.

Barnes knew the drill, he had it down cool with Bobby D; belt of ammo off his shoulder and loaded into the pig like clockwork, laying the belt in Bobby's hand even as he got the shotgun ready; but he didn't rack that, because that'd give them away.

The thing was, Bobby knew how to lay down the fire, but Barnes was his insurance policy, a guy that watched the other points to make sure Charlie, who was a motherfucker when it came to flanks and popping up outta nowhere, didn't just jump out of some bush screaming 'TIEN LIEN!' with a fixed bayonet or a burst from his AK. Bobby had his job, Buck had his; provide ammo, do security. Engage if anything pops up out of nowhere. The gameplan worked pretty well for the two, and the sarge apparently knew better than to split up the gig.

So when it was time for Bobby to get the pig up, it was Barnes that popped around and let off a round with his shotgun at the first Cong he saw, then a second at the guy that looked like he was reacting to Bobby's Pig. The third? Well, that was another one at the same guy; he was fairly sure he got the dude, but he couldn't be entirely sure. He had a rhythm all of his own with that shotgun -- he never hurried, he didn't slam fire, but he could lay out the shots rapidly, and the shotgun always seemed to scare the VC. It was loud, and in a fight, loud had a psychological dimension all of its own.

Eli groaned, as he came to, swimming out of a dark black pool of silence and numbness. His heart hammered in his head like sledgehammers and his ears were ringing. He felt dazed, disoriented, confused as he rolled over. The pain in his head married with the dizziness he felt and suddenly his stomach rebelled hard. The smell of burning flesh did not help as his other senses began to catch up even as he quietly wretched, his body wringing itself out like a dishrag.

Finally empty, he heaved again, but it was dry and nothing came up. Collapsing back to the ground from his knees, he sighed, only to slowly sit up, reaching around for his canteen. As he pulled it off his belt a dribble of water ran out of it. Shrapnel or a bullet had punctured it, making it pretty much useless. "Great," he muttered as he flopped the canteen down, then pulled another free from his belt. It was solid, and full. He took a swig and washed his mouth out, then spat it out on the ground. Taking another pull, he took in some water, which his guts didn't rebel against.

Weapons check, he decided. His newer M16A1 (Named Rebecca, or Becca for short) seemed to be okay. His pistol was strapped to him, and he still had several mags. By then he was aware that half the unit were up and moving. Like hte rest, his joints felt as though they were made from crushed glass and every movement hurt. Last time he'd felt like this was either falling down Beverly Cliffs back home, or a bar fight the day after. Machete, knife, and all his gear was there. his helmet he found which had a piece of metal sticking into it. Tossing the pot, he shook his head. He'd been sitting on it for a seat on the way in. Apparently it had saved his balls from getting blown off but he'd gotten a concussion for it, he guessed.

As the Sergeant outlined the situation he said nothing, and instead moved toward the interior of the chopper, after picking up Thumper from the ground. He loaded a 40 mikemike but didn't snap it shut. The noise would give them away. Instead he flipped his selector to semi-auto and belly crawled to the nose of the huey, bracing his rifle there, while making sure his grenade launcher was ready to rock and roll. As soon as Sar'nt's grenade went off he snapped his launcher closed then looked for muzzle flashes for return fire.

A moment after he had them he plotted for the drop and fired, sending a 40mm grenade sailing with it's characteristic BlOOp! With the shell whizzing on it's way he jerked back down behind the wreckage. He didn't feel like being a target while his hands reloaded. They shook a bit as he pulled a grenade out from the bandolier and put it in place. Snapping it shut, he paused for a moment to see how conditions were shaping up.

"My man," Bobby said as Buck provided him cover fire.

He had the Pig loaded up and ready. Jack Johnson is what he called it. It was big, black, and it knocked motherfuckers the fuck out. With the belt properly fed, Bobby waited until the rest of the rifles were reloading before he broke out the covering fire into the bush. His ears were still ringing from the crash, but that felt like a month ago thanks to Charlie's bullshit. Buck had his back, popping off the shotty while another grenade exploded and sent those dinky dau motherfuckers running for it.

Daniel shook his head and blinked twice as he came to after a rather abrupt crash. He was disoriented, unable to discern where exactly he was or how exactly this situation came to him. It was a wonder how he had survived this crash, from how he was feeling - this was definitely a big crash. There was a pounding ring in his head, dizziness being prevalent as he tried to stand up. However, he had to snap out of it soon. They were probably deep into Charlie territory and they didn't know it. As he slowly came to, he saw the extent of the damage that had been done to the helicopter as it made its final landing here. He could see the mangled remains of those only a few feet in front of him, making him sigh in relief - but at the same time it was a curse, assuming they were deep in enemy territory. If they were overrun, death was a better fate than what Charlie was capable of. Daniel would take death over any Vietnamese torture any day. As he moved to get out of the wreckage, he couldn't help but to take one more quick glance at another dead body. The sheer disfigurement of it was absolutely unfathomable.

He eventually came to fully, his senses operating like they were before the crash. The first thing he had to do when he disembarked from the wreckage was find the survivors of the crash. Luckily, they weren't too far away, literally right there after a few moments worth of traveling. He joined up with the survivors, checking his equipment once he got against some cover. Everything seemed to be intact for the most part, which was good. He was way better off after the crash than some people. Their local leader said that there was Charlie swarming all over the place, which was the last thing Daniel wanted to hear. With a heavy presence of Charlie usually meant there was little to no presence of US forces. This was bad, they were pretty much alone in this area, which meant they had to fight to the skin of their teeth to even have a chance of making it out of here alive. Places like these was where Charlie killed the most people. Booby traps, ambushes, and the lot were very effective against American forces. The Americans were in Charlie's backyard and they knew it, but here they were being slaughtered right there.

As Ryan gave the directive of firing as soon as the grenade went off, Daniel nodded as he pulled the charging handle on his M16, making sure a round was chambered. Having it on full-auto wasn't a good idea, one bullet, at the very most two for every enemy they saw. If one Charlie was spotted, there was almost always an unfathomable amount accompanying them. The worst part is, especially with the Vietcong, nobody knew where they came from or how they traveled. The tunnels were a bitch to figure out. He ducked underneath the wreckage, watching their leader chuck a grenade at the enemy. As soon as he heard it explode he popped up, aiming for the first enemy he saw and squeezing off a couple of rounds.

Han was slumped against a tree, his innards pouring out of the gaping wound in his stomach. He tried to curse, tried to speak, but he couldn't. All he could do, was criticise his foolishness, and feel nothing but sorrow that he would not be around for the inevitable victory of the People. That he wouldn't see his wife again, or watch his children grow.

But that didn't matter now.

Han was a warrior, a stalwart defender of his land. He had fought the French, and he had fought the Americans, and now he was a martyr. His eyes started to glaze over, and they casually swung left and right, taking in the sight of his men as they fought and died against a determined and concealed enemy. He would have laughed, if he could, at the irony of it; normally it was the Imperialists who blundered into an ambush.

But he had one more thing he could do, a chance to redeem himself. He stuffed his hands into the small pouch he kept at his side, and pulled out a flare gun. The thing was a relic, used by the French even before Vietnam rose up against them. He hoped the chambered round still worked.

Pointing it up towards a small gap in the canopy above, he pulled the trigger. The round caught, and catapulted itself towards the gap, trailing red smoke and screaming like a Catherine wheel. The flare climbed to around 50 feet and hung briefly, before exploding. A bright ruby sphere glided gently in its place. Though it was daylight, Han knew someone had to have seen it. He hoped, at least, it would tell the other heroes of the People that the Americans were still at large.

And then they'd kill them.

As Han died there, slumped against the tree, the fighting lulled. His men were all dead or incapacitated, and a thick silence fell over the scene.

The smoke cleared after that; brief and intense firefight that left Buck soaked in sweat, shaking and sucking down the air, fouled with powder and gasoline fumes, as he quickly loaded three rounds into the shotgun to replace the ones he'd expended, and then another, because he had a round racked in the old shotgun anyway. He watched those flares go up with impassive eyes knowing what that shit meant -- his eyes shifted over to Bobby, to see if he needed another belt. They were in some deep shit in this place, with a crashed helicopter and a flare going up. The shakes always happened and, strangely enough, they never went to his hands. It was like his knees had to rattle a bit, just to vent off some of the extra tension. Barnes didn't care -- some guy made a comment about it when they'd just gotten in-country, another new guy like him, and then the dude got blown up when he grabbed an ammo can full of papers on a village search. Click, boom went the trap that he'd stepped on.

And Barnes was still here, still shaking.

The thing was, Barnes was a fairly tall guy, but skinny and the 'Nam was taking that off him, leaving him wiry and tough, but he humped extra ammo with no complaint, because he knew that the pig was one of the great advantages in the jungle.

He used his towel to swab off the sweat from his brow, then stuffed it back along his neck, but it didn't really help -- they were on foot in the jungle, cut off, at least until An Khe realized they were gone, maybe the chopper pilot got a radio call out, and search and rescue started up.

That wasn't gonna help them now, though and this place wasn't safe at all. "Man, this place is about to be crawlin' with beaucoup VC in a hot fuckin' minute," he observed quietly to Bobby, keeping his eyes toward the tree line, scanning the area for movement. He'd managed to stay alive three and a months in Vietnam. It was one thing to get wasted a couple days in, but the idea of getting zapped after you've been in, this close to in country R&R, was far more horrific. He couldn't imagine what it would be like a couple weeks out from returning to the World. He didn't think about the World very much right now, because it was just excessively painful to do so.

"Let 'em come, baby," Bobby said with a wink towards Buck. "Bobby D. got something for their asses."

He was glad he was working the pig. It was heavy enough that it acted as an anchor for his body. He knew Buck got the shakes when the shit got heavy and who the fuck wouldn't? If not for the pig Bobby would look like he had epilepsy he would shake so bad. Jack Johnson helped hide his fear. The skinny guy with the big gun and even bigger mouth who told everyone that his first act back home would be to do Lynda Bird Johnson in the Oval Office, right in front of her daddy. LBJ fucked all of us, he told them, so Imma fuck his daughter. The truth was that as soon as he got home he would kiss the ground and never ever fucking leave St. Louis again.

"I'm good," he told Buck after he made sure the ammo belt still had plenty of rounds. "Jack's ready to chew up the next round of Dinks."

After the second explosion and the grunting Pig, there was little left of the VC that had charged toward them. Chris had shot another, he had watched the red blossom on the man’s chest before he fell. When the distinctive popping of the AKs died down, he felt a thrill that they had won and he smiled a toothy grin.

“Hey, man, I got one!” he exclaimed just as the flare exploded in the sky. His laughter died and he huffed a breath, even dying Charlie was an asshole.

If the grenades and gunfire did not zero in their position then the flare certainly would, it was likely a known signal and soon the trees around them would be full of the enemy. Chris rubbed the sweat from his brow, cleaning his glasses on his t-shirt before glancing at the two black men next to him. He felt that slight trembling in the limbs and the pounding of his heart. It was a rush to be in combat, to be at the edge of death and look right at it and spit in it’s face. Not this time, bro. It was like shredding a heavy and coming out the other side and Chris had come to realize not long after getting over just being shit scared was that he was starting to enjoy the shot of adrenaline that came with a gunfight. It was ass puckering for sure but what fun things in life weren’t? In the quiet moments it bothered him that he might like it too much, but his dad had told him not to be a coward and disgrace him anymore than he already had. Well, fuck it, Dad. Chalk another body up for you, he thought. It was only when he thought of Diana that he felt a little bad. Touching the silver ring around his finger, he tried not to remember her and concentrate on the job they would have when more VC showed up to the party.

“Chuck’s gonna choke on that pork,” he said, with a small chuckle at his own joke before reaching for his radio and shooting a look towards Davis. “Hey, Sarge? Wanna make a phone call and maybe arrange for a ride?”

As the echoes died down from the report of gunfire and grenades, one of which he was guilty of, Elijah made sure he was reloaded, then glanced around. Seeing no more movement, he shuddered a bit. Scooting around, he peered into the gory mess that was the cockpit then sighed. "Guess we don't have to scuttle the chopper. The radio is down, and nothing else looks like it's salvageable," he reported. Gingerly he searched the bodies and pulled a couple pistol mags from them, slipping them into a pocket.

Pulling off his ALICE pack, he opened the top flap and pulled out his boonie hat and put it on. With his pack ratcheted back down he squinted a little. For the moment, he wasn't giving much thought to the situation. It was just another day in Charlie's outhouse. The whole thing was a shit sandwich as far as he was concerned. His hands were shaking a bit, but he felt exhilarated, alive and ready for more. "What's the play, Sergeant. Think we got time to scavenge or we just gonna book it?"

The jungle would be crawling with VC. That much was certain, but he also knew if they just picked a direction and ran for it, they wouldn't get very far. If they stayed at the crash site playing with their dicks for too long, the VC would swarm them like ants, and then it wouldn't matter how many grenades and ammo they had. Right now they had a fair bit of gear strapped to them, but it wouldn't last. The dead, of course, had more. That was why he'd taken a couple mags from the pilots for his pistol. Already he was thinking about putting a grenade in his pocket... just in case it looked like he might wind up in Charlie's hands. One last present from Uncle Sam, right? Not right now though. Thing's weren't nearly that bad.

Ryan flicked his rifle back to safe, cursing as the flare arced overhead. He hadn’t had a chance to shoot more than two rounds; the grenade had shredded the first three VC, and his boys had laid out enough disciplined fire to put down the charging line quickly and efficiently. When the echoing gunfire ceased he wasted no time, dropping to a knee and digging his map out of his map and compass out of his cargo pocket.

“Hey, Sarge? Wanna make a phone call and maybe arrange for a ride?”

“No time,” he said shortly, waving off his radioman. Instead he quickly oriented the map with the compass, using the locations of a few known landmarks he’d seen on the flight in to triangulate their position as best he could. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it would give him an idea of where they were, and where they needed to go.

After a moment or two he pointed one finger at the map.

“Okay, we’re about here, give or take some milage. The Cong came from the West...So...Over here. Maybe this village.” He indicated the spot.

“There’s a river out here to the East...Got some clearings, might make for a good LZ. Couple villages, too…”

He stared at the map for a brief moment, then folded it up and crammed it back into his cargo pocket.

“Alright. First thing’s first. We’ve gotta clear this LZ most ricky-tick. Charlie and his boys will be here any time, following that flare. We need to move East, towards that river. If we can find some open ground, I’ll try and call back for an extract, but our main goal is finding somewhere to hide ourselves so I can get a better grip on our pos. If we can spot a village I can figure the rest out from there, but I can’t get a solid fix from fuckin’ trees.”

He pointed at Sgt Pope.

“Pope, you’re on point. Eyes peeled, head on a swivel, and watch the fuckin’ ground. I don’t think there’ll be a random trip-wire this far out in the boonies, but there’s no sense not playing safe. Everyone else, give me a staggered column behind him. Six meters dispersion, watching your footing. We need to move quick but careful.”

Ryan looked to Buck. “Barnes, you’re next in line. Derricks, behind him. I want that gun where we can deploy it forward or back. Then it’s Hoffman, me, and Dodgers. Dodgers, you’ll be at the rear. You’ll be able to hear Charlie coming before the rest of us, and if he starts catching up you bust out Thumper and drop a forty-mike down his throat. Shit goes dinky dau, pop some smoke. We don’t have the numbers for a stand-up fight.”

He stood and hefted his rifle, adjusting his helmet on his head.

“Okay boys. Move ‘em out. We’re gonna show these motherfuckers why Uncle Sam sends Cav to do the hard shit.”

As the firefight settled, Daniel scanned the environment in front of him just to make sure that there were no survivors. If there was one thing American forces liked to know, it was knowing that there was nothing but dead Charlie. A dead tango was the only tango they liked, and with this particular kind, they tended to be nasty and killing them was the best way to make sure they wouldn't do much damage. Those sons of bitches knew what they were doing against the Americans, and boy, did it work. The helicopter right in front of Daniel acted a testament to that. And that was only one out of a hundred instances just like that. As soon as the environment was deemed clear, Daniel put his M16A1 on safe. Right now, bullets were the most important thing someone could have in an environment like this. All but one bullet would go to Charlie, the last one, on the other hand, would go straight back to sender.

Daniel backed up to First Sergeant Davis's position, crouching down and peering at the map from time to time as he got settled. He did figure out their current location pretty well, which was a good thing considering the nature of the situation they were right now. At least they had their bearings, and that was a valuable piece of information. As First Sergeant Davis dictated his instructions and where exactly they were, Sgt. Pope was put on point. Perfect, at least then he would be able to put his skills to use, finding out whatever booby trap they had. As everyone got lined up, Daniel switched his fire selector to semi-automatic, knowing that having firepower at an immediate notice was a very valuable asset.

Daniel took out his compass and pointed himself due east, signaling for everyone to line up on him as he commenced the traversing towards the river. "Alright guys, on me! We're going to take this nice and easy." He said, pointing his gun and walking forward, careful to maintain his proper footing. He had to be on high alert constantly, never knew when there could be one of those damned traps. It was unlikely this close to here, but it was better safe than sorry.

The marching orders were a little odd, Eli thought, but this was a seriously SNAFU anyway. The selection gave a relatively decent dispersal of fire, a balance of assault and overwatch, and kept their ass-end covered. A good tracker though could figure out how many survivors, and with a staggered unit, they doubled the chances of catching a mine or tripwire, but this deep in, it wasn't likely to set one off. Charlie didn't boobytrap his own back yard where one of their kids might catch a tin-can trap instead.

Normally Dodgers had his own fireteam to lead, but it looked like they hadn't made it out of the crash. Already he missed the reliability of those guys. They were much more vulnerable, but at least this situation wasn't their problem anymore. Hefting Becca, his M16, he positioned himself to take a sector of fire different from the rest while they got their orders, but now, he was bringing up the rear as they formed up to move out to the east. Not only would he have to watch where he stepped, but where everybody else did as well, and keep an eye out behind.

Once they were moving out of the clearing, he maintained a steady pace gained from years of walking in the rocky terrain around Borger, with it's red clay and red dirt hills, the sand bars around the Canadian River with the occasional patch of quicksand and more frequent slow sand (yes that's a thing), and then a couple years stomping around in the jungles here, he found the travel to be easier for him than a lot of the new guys. He could move without disturbing the vegetation as much, his eyes had learned how to sort out the visual junk of all the vines, bushes, twigs, branches, and trees. The humidity sucked, it made you hot, made you sweat, but you could never get dry, and so you never realized how much water you really lost. With the area he was from, it was a semi-arid region. Desert survival and water conservation he knew about as well.

With the adrenaline crash that came after a fire fight, a sudden emergency... those kinds of things, he knew people were going to get dull soon. Stress, especially combat stress, was the greatest thing for causing mental and even physical fatigue, and with the guys starting to come down, it could lead to some bad mistakes. They were going to be heading into some mean bush too. Besides just VC there were snakes, tigers, wild boar (he thought), and a few other things that could make life... interesting. Not to mention the traps and mines and all they could possibly run into. It was one reason Eli tried to stay emotionally detached... using his head for something besides a hat rack.

Who knew how many miles they were going to have to hump it before they could get extracted? He knew that ounces were going to turn into pounds, in their gear, before the end of the day. Pounds would turn into tons. "Welcome to the suck," he muttered to borrow from a couple Marine buddies. Part of him hoped they wouldn't have to walk the whole way back. Maybe a friendly river patrol boat or huey could pick them up or something.

Elijah paused once in a while to listen to the jungle around them, as well as for signs of pursuit, looking for movement behind them as well. His steps were designed to fall into the footfalls of the others to help at least partially conceal their numbers, and still he kept paying attention for signs of traps and mines, even though others had traveled in front of him, through the same space. Most of all though, he paid attention to his gut instincts, the hairs on the back of his neck, the kind of thing developed with a long time in the bush, and in country.

Chris shifted his pack, standing up as the all clear was sounded. No casualties among them, other than the dead in the choppers. It was a relief because there was no time to call for help, like the Sarge said and they were humping it out of there. Through the jungle. He hated the fucking jungle with all the shit in it that could kill a man. If it wasn’t a booby trap or a VC ambush then it was snakes, poisonous ones that could drop a man with one bite before he could take seven steps. And tigers. Fucking tigers, man. Then there was the black ants that stung like fire and leeches the size of his palm even monkeys throwing their own shit. Fuck this place. Fuck Charlie and fuck LBJ.

Keeping himself slightly behind and aside from Bobby D., Chris scanned the vegetation for any movement, the slight breeze hardly stirring the humid air. His glasses slid down on his sweating face and he had to scrunch his nose to push them back, keeping his hands on his rifle. His radio was still silent, no one had tried to raise their platoon, no one seemed to be missing them yet. He glanced at his watch, wondering just how long it take for them to do something about the downed choppers. He was glad to have the Sarge at his back, someone who had been through the shit longer than anyone.

As they entered the forest, the chirruping of jungle birds that flitted among the higher branches and the buzz of insects filled the hot, damp air. “Fuck you! Fuck yoooou!” the infamous lizard started up its call as the soldiers shouldered their way through the brush, the hooked claw like thorns snagging at his fatigues and exposed skin. It seemed like even the wildlife resented the American presence in this primeval land. He would he more than happy to leave, fuck you very much. He had waves to ride and beer to drink and a pretty girlfriend back home. He did not need this shit though apparently Uncle Sam felt otherwise.

Chris was thirsty but he was wired too tight to pause and drink, blinking through the sweat that stung his eyes. He would glance at the ground, around the forest floor for any wires or strange mats of leaves that might mask a tiger trap. Those were nasty things lined with shit smeared sharpened bamboo stakes. The young man kept his head on the swivel, as Sarge told them too, watching the jungle as it closed in around them.

It was some fucked up shit, but Barnes did one smart thing; he wedged a grenade between the pilot's body and his seat and pulled the pin when he was sure it was in there tight. The spoon was held in place by the corpse. By the time the sarge was done with the speech, Barnes came back into the group to hear that he was taking drag behind Pope, which suited him just fine. But before they started off, "Oh, sarge, if you hear anything going off behind us, that was me setting a grenade in the helicopter so when Charlie tries to pick over it, he don't get nothin' but shrapnel. That way we know the muthafucka be comin' too."

He was kinda proud of that touch, and was grinning like hell when they set off into the bush.

"And fuck you too, Charlie."

"I'm telling y'all," Bobby said just loud enough for his voice to carry to those closest to him. "The book is hard as fuck to read, but you can relate to it. Different jungle, same fucked up logic. 'It was written I should be loyal to the nightmare of my choice.' That shit sounds like something a one-star tells Congress when he justifies napalming a Dink village."

Hearing no takers, he shrugged and kept walking. By now they were use to Bobby and his bullshit. They realized he ran his mouth because that was all he could do to deal with it. Some ate their anxiety like the sarge, some shook like Buck. Bobby just couldn't shut the fuck up when he was nervous.

"Fine. Trying to enlighten you motherfuckers. Nobody wanna listen."

Bobby shifted the pig on his shoulder to keep his arms from going numb and getting tired. It had been a struggle for him to learn how to carry that thing. Shooting it was the easy part. Hell, shooting anything was the easy part of being in the Army. For him hefting that black bastard across thirty miles of jungle was a real bitch. He was still skinny in his legs and waist and chest, but his arms and neck were bulked out from the burden of the pig.

Thomas "Tommy" Sullivan awoke to a blinding headache and extreme nausea. He vomited almost immediately, but his breakfast went up his nose and into his eyes - as opposed to down his front.

"The fuc..." he mumbled weakly, before the obvious dawned on him. He was upside down, suspended by the strap of his backpack that had hooked itself on a twisted tree branch.

He wiped the vomit away from his face, which of course encouraged him to throw up the morning's coffee too. After a second attempt of cleaning himself up, he peered around to get some vague idea of his bearings. Upside down, in a tree - about six feet off the ground. He could see his M16A1 down below, snapped in half at the slipring, along with his helmet.

Shouts sounded suddenly, off to his left. For the first time, he became aware of the smell of burning fuel, and with the more of his consciousness that returned, the more he was able to gauge the shouting - and gather back some of his memory prior to his situation.

He'd been in a helicopter, returning to base after a job well done. Then he remembered being spun around like a rag doll, and then he remembered falling.

And those shouts weren't American.

He fumbled for his Ka-Bar knife, and sliced at his backpack's sling. He had a split second to regret the decision before he fell six feet to the floor, but had what felt like an eternity to embrace the feeling of having the air knocked out him. After rolling around in quiet agony for a couple of minutes, he clambered to his feet - urged on by more angry shouts.

Tommy looked down bitterly at his shattered M16. He thought about gathering it up, to have a go at fixing it later on - but the shouting was getting louder, and all he wanted to do was run in the opposite direction. He checked his holster for his Colt M1911A1, and felt a wave of relief when his fingers edged around the weapon's cold metal. Not wanting to get caught up in whatever commotion was taking place a few dozen feet away, he started to crawl off into the surrounding shrub.

"I SAID I SURRENDER, YOU SLOPE EYED MO-" the owner of the new, Americanised, shout was promptly cut off.

Tommy froze - he knew that voice, and knew it well. It was Doc Wyatt.

"Fuck," he mumbled quietly. He couldn't leave Wyatt, he just couldn't.

He crawled back towards the shouting, and flinched as a shot rang out. He sat motionless for several seconds, thought about running, but then decided against it. Some things could haunt a man to his end, and leaving Wyatt would be one of them. He continued, drawing his Colt and prepping it for duty. He stayed low to the ground, using trees, stumps, rocks and shrub to carefully mask his movements - though for all he knew, Charlie was watching him and laughing. He pushed those thoughts down into the abyss, and carried on.

The shouting drew him to a small glade in the jungle, torn and carved by his Huey's awkward descent. Judging by the way it sat neatly - albeit shot to shit and bent to fuck - on the grass, the pilot must've lived long enough to affect the situation in some way. Tommy peered over a large green leafy plant in front of him, and saw 3 men wearing those stupid conical hats and carrying avtomat fuckovs. They were laughing, shoving each other in jest.

Tommy growled when he saw why.

Wyatt was sitting in front of them, on his knees. His face was puffed up, with his left eye swollen shut.

So these fuckers liked beating a defenceless man, did they?

He raised his Colt, took time to line up each of the three men going from left to right, and then repeated the motion - but pulling the trigger at each stop. They never had a chance, and fell to the ground before they could even bring their weapons to bear. Tommy surged forwards, putting an additional shot in each of the downed Charlies - you could never trust those freaks to stay dead.

Wyatt glanced up at Tommy with his one working eye, and gave a bloodied smile. Tommy helped him up, and they went about collecting what gear they could - namely an M16 replacement. Wyatt, stumbling with light concussion, managed to grab most of his gear up. Tommy asked about the rest of the Huey's occupants, but Wyatt just shook his head.

Their little foraging session was abruptly ended, as the distinctive sound of AK tore into the glade. Tommy saw a muzzle flash flare up from the other end of the clearing, fired back a few shots with his M16, then grabbed Wyatt. They fled to what Wyatt thought was south, retreating as quickly as they could without tripping on a root. Shouts followed them, and more gun fire - bullets slamming into the earth and trees around them.



The first seven shots had sounded pretty distant to Ryan and his men.

Of course, the next thirty or forty had been getting gradually nearer, as if some form of epic running gun battle was taking place. Charlie was up to something - but what? The other two Hueys? Maybe. No one knew exactly where they'd gone down, the squad had been too busy being spun around like a catherine wheel as the jungle rose up to greet them.

"WYATT, COME ON MAN!" came a very distinctive Irish sounding voice, just beyond the thickness of the trees north of the squad's current position.

Ryan and his men deployed themselves in response, not quite sure what to expect, but knowing their guns were going to have to do some work. Sure enough, two flailing figures emerged, shifting past trees, jumping recesses and cursing every time a bullet hit something near them. But cursing in English!

Behind the two flailing figures, were a score more - except these guys weren't flailing. To Ryan and his men, they were just black silhouettes arrayed into a loose line. But their distinctive conical hats were a telling sign of who they were. A rough count would have put them at 20 strong, maybe less, maybe more.

Tommy and Wyatt had barely the time to both mouth "SHIT" as they almost slammed into Ryan and his men. They threw themselves into the undergrowth a few feet ahead of their comrades, to avoid being cut down by the impending cross fire.