Daniel stuck close behind his local first sergeant, making sure he was close to cover and not out in the open where Charlie could easily tear him apart. They had to be quick, without attracting attention towards them. The element of surprise is what really drove the dagger into Charlie - no matter the firepower they had, nobody could prepare for the sudden onslaught of bullets. Nobody had the reaction time to react to such a thing, which was why it was practically shock and awe. The Charlie had it coming to them - and Daniel was eager to squeeze a magazine into a bunch of Charlie.

After they moved close to the enemy, their sergeant took a moment to dictate what exactly the plan. The good thing was that the full-auto feature could finally be used on the M16A1 - the bad thing was that they couldn't really go willy-nilly. Now that he thought about the situation, it wasn't really that bad of a thing. Ammo was important, so being reckless was frowned upon. As soon as the gunner let loose and ripped apart a bunch of tangos with his machine gun, Daniel rose up from his position and proceeded to put 3-5 rounds of 5.56mm into every enemy he saw. The ensuing gunfire was deafening, but all he could see were Charlie dying and nobody around him falling. This was definitely a well executed tactic.

As the order to cease fire was given, Daniel put down his rifle, and all he could see were a bunch of dead soldiers. Daniel exhaled as he proceeded toward them, reloading his M16A1 in the process. He was running low on magazines for the weapon, which meant he had to find a replacement weapon, fast. An AK would've done very well, and thus he stripped one from a fallen soldier, taking as many magazines as he could from them and stuffing them into his pouches. "Load up, guys! These AKs will last us a while!" He shouted, gesturing to a couple near his location.

Lieutenant colonel Jay M. Johnson sat at a marked and scarred mahogany desk; somewhat a relic of France's occupation some thirty years previous. The room in which he had situated his office, the manager's quarters in a run down Qui Nhơn hotel of French design, was suffering from decades of neglect. The wall paper was peeling, the ceiling fan hadn't worked since Hitler pushed through the Ardennes, and the stifling heat from outside was quickly turning the room into a microwave oven.

He flicked through the pages of after action reports, high lighting casualties and musing over ammunition usage, and stopping briefly to tap the ash from his cigarette. God, how he hated this country.

Charlie wouldn't fight fairly! Always hit and run! Cowards, the lot of them. Lieutenant colonel Jay M. Johnson was top of his game though, when it came to adapting to these kinds of tactics; indeed, the 227th Aviation Regiment had been the 1st Cavalry Division's highest achieving formation since '66. Casualties were quite low, and enemy losses were sky rocketing. They'd lost 24 birds in 2 years of brutal fighting, not a bad number by any count. Today, they'd lost 3.

It seemed Charlie had counter-adapted to Johnson's strategy of using his helicopter formations like a lance, spearing deep into enemy territory in one long line, to minimise the amount of the ground they would have to cover horizontally. Somehow Division had failed to register a large NVA build up in Lima Sector - and early reports suggested an entire brigade had shifted there overnight. They'd maintained radio silence, and allowed Operation Zeus to go ahead unimpeded, only to ambush A Company on its return. Three Hueys had gone down, and the rest was forced to withdraw.

Johnson's first instinct was to gather everything he had, inform Divisional of his decision to cut Charlie to shreds, and head out there himself to oversee retribution. However, most of his elements were already off on other missions, and recalling them would create one fuck-ton of a headache.

There was a knock at the door, and Johnson lent back in his leather chair as Major Chris Thomspon entered carrying more papers. "We've intercepted radio chatter from Charlie, Sir," he said. He paused as the heat of room washed over him. "Christ Jay, how do you bare this heat?"

Jay and Chris had served with each other for ten years, and not always in the cavalry. When they were in public spaces, they maintained strict military procedures and etiquette. In the safety of Jay's office, they were just two guys, hanging out at some FUBAR summer retreat.

"Keeps the pricks away," Jay said with a smile. "So what have we got?"

The Major started flicking through the papers, "seems something has Charlie riled up in Lima. They're persuing someone, but they wont say who. No use of the word "Imperialists" so that's got to be good, right?"

Jay raised an eyebrow. "Any ARVN in the area?"

"No, Jay, Arvin is still chilling at Outpost #289 to the south east of Lima. They're too shit scared to go beyond the sandbags," the Major replied, shaking his head.

"Well, let's get them in the war," Jay replied, standing up from his chair to gaze through the crooked blind of the room's only window. "We've got boys out there, Thomas, I'm sure of it. What are the odds? Three birds down, and yet some survivors - a downed Huey is normally a full KIA affair."

"How can you be sure, Jay?" Thomas asked, confused. "They could be after anyone, from unruly locals to a rogue VC unit."

"I can't, and I can't send out my men on a goose chase. Arvin though, our good friend Arvin - I can send him where I want. Outpost #289 is still ours to delegate, right?"

"Yes Jay, but I do-"

"Good. What do they have?" Jay asked, opening the blind slightly.

"Two companies, belonging to the 22nd Infantry Division. They've got a detachment of M113's with them, but I doubt they'd be much use. You'd be sending them on a suicide run, Jay, into the jungle with no aerial assets and no reconnaissance," Thomas said, getting irritated at his friend. Of the two, Thomas was always the humanitarian.

"They'll be our reconnaissance until I can free up resources. Have Hill 91 prepare its AH's for intervention though, I don't think they're anywhere else at present. Tell them to cancel all planned ops. Tell them if they hear Americans on the line, asking for help in Lima, they're to react with full operational freedom - but I'd like to know ASAP if they do. In the meantime, have Arvin make a 'recon in force' into Lima, but have him stop if he meets stiff resistance. Charlie is probably long gone by now anyway, but I want to make sure."

"You're an ass hole Jay," Thomas said, shaking his head. "Of course Charlie is still there. Lima is perfectly defensible, and he wont move until we force him to. Those boys at Outpost #289 are going to be rotting on the jungle floor before tomorrow comes."

"This is war Thomas, and in war, people die. We both know this. Make it happen."

Tommy was moving his gun all around, making sure not to waste too much ammo wherever he could. The number of Charlies was beginning to dwindle, and just as he shot another, Sergeant Ryan called out, "Cease fire, cease fire!"

Tommy stopped firing, looking around for any movement. He was breathing heavily, sweat dripping from his hair. He was running low on ammo, so he started go to around to all of the VC and pick up their AKs and some magazines. As he picked the fist one up, he noticed how red his skin was getting, "Shit," he sighed, "I don't wanna get burned this early."

SFC Davis watched his men gather the guns and ammunition with quiet pride as he idly snapped at a can of Cope. They'd performed perfectly, from Derricks and his suppressing fire up to the new guy who'd jumped onto the flanking team without complaint. He smiled to himself, the gesture not quite reaching his eyes, then dug a generous pinch of tobacco from the can and shoved it unceremoniously into his lower lip.

"Good work, killers," he said, maneuvering the tobacco into position with his tongue and tucking the can away before joining them in their work. Moments later he’d collected an AK and several magazines for himself, tucking the mags into his cargo pockets. He still had a few magazines for his M16, but more rounds was a burden he was happy to carry.

"Good to go, Sarge. Prick didn't get touched."

Ryan looked over at Hoffman and nodded, reaching out to slap him on the shoulder.

“Good. Nice shootin’ there, Private.” He gestured to the rest of his men. “That goes for all of you. Well done. Keep fightin’ like this and we’ll get home just fine. Saw worse shit in Korea; these Cong ain’t got shit on Chinese troops. We can handle ‘em.”

As he stooped to check another body Ryan caught a flash of Army-issue green, peeking from behind a tree, and he swore as he recognized the second of the new arrivals to his little band of survivors. The big medic lay face down. Ryan grimaced as he turned the body over; a bullet had pierced the front of the big man’s helmet, deforming before it entered his skull. There was a fist-sized hole in the back of his head.

“Son of a bitch…” Ryan sighed, hanging his head, then reached into the man’s fatigues and fished out his dogtags, snapping the chain and tucking them into his breast pocket. He wished they could recover the body, but that simply wasn’t feasible. A dead man was heavy, especially one as big as this, and it would slow them down. He quickly gathered the man’s ammunition and grenades, and paused for a moment looking at his rifle. Everyone already had weapons, and bringing another one would just mean one more thing to carry. At the same time, he was loathe to leave it behind where it would help the enemy. Ryan settled for removing the bolt, shoving it into his pack, then picked up the doc’s med bag and looped it over one shoulder.

He stood and turned to his men.

“Doc’s dead,” he said simply, his voice subdued. He tossed his gear on the ground in front of the men, keeping a magazine and grenade for himself. “Share this out. I’ll carry his bag. Trap a Cong or two, if you like, but leave the doc’s body alone. I won’t blow apart one of our dead, not even to kill a few Vietnamese.”

Ryan spit a thick stream of tobacco juice onto the ground and turned away, leaving his men to it. He let them work for a few moments more, brooding in silence, then waved them over.

“Alright. We need to get a move on.” He nodded at the other tall newcomer, the Irishman. “I’m Sergeant First Class Davis. Welcome to the shit show. The others you can get acquainted with on the move, we ain’t got time for introductions. Good work pitching in when the shit was hot, though. The rest of you; we’re heading the same direction we were before. Gotta find that river, and try to locate a village or something else we can pinpoint our location off of. I’ll take point this round. Barnes, Derricks, Hoffman, put yourselves in the middle like last time. Pope, you take the rear with the new cat and Dodgers. Hoffman, I want you making calls every few minutes. Scan through the frequencies, try and get us in touch with anyone American. Then sound off to me if somebody picks up. Fall in, and let’s move ‘em out.”

Without another word, Ryan set off into the jungle. He moved quickly but carefully, eyes sweeping for hidden dangers.

The new SMG had some sort of green finish on it, and a dead simple safety; you pulled the bolt back and snugged it up into a slot for it. The whole thing was a damn tube, everything real simple. Light and handy.

He had plenty of magazines for it via the supply services of zapped Charlie, and that's what counted. When the Sarge announced that one of their own was zapped and to share out the guy's equipment, he just watched with impassive eyes -- seen a motherfucker wasted in the bush once, and he'd probably see it again before he damn well died. He wanted a Newport, but this was Charlie's bad bush, and he'd heard legends about how the Cong could smell that smoke from a long way off. It probably didn't matter with the gunpowder going, but Barnes found that he was fuckin' well quitting here. All around was Charlie's bush, and he could feel the eyes on the back of his neck. Green everywhere, big ass hills and Charlie. If he weren't fighting for his life, he could grow to appreciate the scenery-- this was something you couldn't get in the goddamn Bronx. It was just too bad that it was Uncle Sam's tour and the guides had AK-47's.

When the Sarge said to trap a Cong, he got the feeling that he was speaking directly to Buck, who had learned how to do that. He didn't waste his own grenades, and used the Russian type the Cong carried instead. There wasn't all the time in the world, but he carefully set it up so the men with the most gear still on them were trapped, making recovering the equipment perilous.

Even so, there was a moment to make an observation to Bobby, quietly, "Yo man, all these VC man, it's only a matter of time before they get wise to us and really start to pile on the numbers."

Buck didn't have to like their chances in this situation, he just had to keep doing whatever he could to try and make it out alive. Life was sweet, and he didn't want to die in Charlie's fuckin' bush in goddamn Vietnam with boom-boom time on R&R in Subic so close he could taste it.

Tommy stood up, having collected enough magazines to last for a while. As he turned around, he saw the Sergeant down near a body, he looked over, and then the sergeant stood back up, "Doc's dead," he told everybody.

Thomas couldn't believe what he had been told, "Shit," he said, "How did we not..." Tommy didn't finish his sentence, he couldn't continue speaking. He got out a cigarette from his pack and put it up to his lips, lighting it up and taking a deep breath.

After people had gone through the doc's stuff, Tommy followed his cigarette, throwing it down to the ground, trying to focus on getting out alive.

“Good. Nice shootin’ there, Private.”

Chris jerked his head in a nod at the Sergeant’s praise. For a moment he thought that Davis meant his execution of the wounded VC but he realized he meant in the firefight. Breathing out, he relaxed slightly, the young private watching the others gather the goods. God, he wanted a cigarette, even better one of the joints he had secreted among the menthol Kools. Mellowing out sounded good after the mad rush of adrenaline but they still had a long way to go. As he took a drink from his canteen he heard the Sarge’s announcement of the Doc’s death.

He sighed, putting away his water to resist drinking it all. Chris looked at the body of the big man, it seemed so much more real than the scattered corpses of the enemy. Poor dude bought it. Chris felt a moment of relief, that it had not been him. No bullet had his name on it during that fight. Taking off his helmet, he rubbed a hand through his sweaty hair. Glancing at the others he could see the strain in their faces but he was glad to be with them. Everyone seemed to have their shit wired tight and he was the most cherry of them all. With Davis leading them, they could make it out of this green hell, maybe even by the end of the day.

At the orders, he fell in line behind Davis, grateful to finally be allowed to use the radio. With a grin, he set his helmet back in place, hooking the M-16 over his shoulder as he began to check frequencies. Static hissed and clicked but nothing was caught, it could be the jungle. Chris fussed with the antenna while he walked, but none of the presets worked.

“Bummer,” he said, hearing nothing he could zero in on as he checked the channels. “Might be outta range, Sarge. Or too low.”

Chris had a long range antenna and could attach it though it would make him a nice target. It had a range of 18 miles and could deal with the elevation better than the standard short range. His battery was still good and he kept spares in an ammo can. The handset always worried him though, the surfer kept it wrapped in plastic, rubberbanded at the bottom to keep the moisture out of the sensitive microphone. Listening to the squeaks and white noise, Chris reached back to get the long antenna out.

Dodge grimaced for a moment. Hearing that the Doc was dead. Awful shit. It had been a good day, until they'd been shot down. It was one thing being on a search and destroy mission, but this was just survival and evasion. The Congs were everywhere, like white on rice. It was worse than the wild west out here. And the heat... sure they were in the shade but there was no air, and the jungle was like a thick, hot sauna that they probably weren't getting out of anytime soon.

As traps were laid and the Doc's things were shared out, Dodge stayed on security detail, watching the jungle, serving as vanguard, ready for another attack. As the Sergeant called for them to get on the move, he formed back up at the ass-end again. Staying silent... Everybody else wanted to talk, make noise, smoke a cigarette. Dodgers kept his mouth shut, listening for the Cong he knew would be coming. That firefight could have been heard for miles, and they were already hunted.

As they moved out, he pulled his magazine out, checking it over, then put it back in. They had a long way to go, he was pretty sure, and there would be more shooting. More killing. He'd already put down six by his estimation for the day, since they'd crashed. Probably not as high as some, but he wasn't about to push his luck too much, otherwise it would run out.

He could feel sweat trickling down his back now. Under the rotors of the choppers, a hundred feet in the air there had been plenty of wind to help cool him off. Even back home in the semi-arid desert of the Texas Panhandle, there was enough air most days, a breeze most of the time, to cut off the sweat, and the humidity was low enough in thie hottest months to make it bearable. Here it was the same kind of temperatures, but there was no evaporation, so no cooling... no wind. The jungle was suffocatingly hot. At least he had it better than some of the boys in the unit, being used to hot.

As they walked, he continued to follow the footsteps of the others, walking where they walked as best he could, keeping an eye out for Two Step snakes and cobras, tripwires and pitfalls while keeping one eye and one ear out for signs of pursuit, listening for the telltale sounds of one of their parting gifts being set off. He kept a watchful eye for ghostly figures moving in the hazy sunbeams of light and mist when he could.

"-- I swear to god, man, mamma-san had a dick bigger than mine. When I saw that shit, I got out there ricky fucking tick. First and last time I'll go into a Saigon whorehouse."

Bobby finished his story and exhaled cigarette smoke as they humped it through the jungle in formation with the rest of the squad. He'd bummed a Newport off Buck on the promise he'd pay him back when they got to camp. Even though he lost his sidearm during the crash, Bobby had managed to keep his aviators and wore them on his face as they walked. The revolver tucked in his waistband was purely from hunger, but it'd do. He did a quick rundown of the ammo left for the pig and wasn't too optimistic about what might happen if they stayed in the bush through tonight and tomorrow.

Chris glanced over his shoulder at the machine gunner regaling them with his tale of near debauchery. He chuckled and shook his head, "Dude, I heard some of those girls are Charlie's bitches. Anders told me some of them stick a razor blade up their snatch. No thanks, between that and surprise dick, I'll pass. Gotta girl back home anyway."

He tried the buttons again but there as nothing, even when he tweaked the knobs. The RTO tried speaking into the mic, maybe someone could hear him, but there was no response. "Hey, Sarge, I got nothing."

It was frustrating and frightening to think they had no contact with the base. One of the benefits of humping the 25 pound radio was that it felt like a comfort, it was a life line and he could work it. Now it wasn't working. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself and went through the troubleshooting once more. Chris was fairly sure if they got to higher ground, they could get something. They could not be that far away from any friendlies.

"Yeah, if they don't charge, they're VC, if they charge, wear a goddamn rubber unless you want to catch a dose." He found that out the hard way on some boom-boom at a steam and cream; pissing needles until he went to the doc and got a shot of antibiotic. "But man, they say the best pussy is Subic. Save your pay and get the gold plated muthafuckin' snatch there, god-damn!"

He was humping his shotgun, down on ammo but not too bad, yet, and the new SMG. It was light and handy enough, and it was something he could throw to Bobby when the Pig went up. He didn't have ammo belts anymore, so he still felt like he was humping a light load.

"Best of all, the Filipina senoritas won't slit your throat. Best boom-boom in the entire Pacific, can't even get that kind of groove going with round-eye nurses." That was a 'Nam fantasy, but not a reality -- the roundeye nurses were officers only, and that's only if you got lucky.

Daniel eventually finished scrounging through for supplies and ammo, having enough to kill a good amount of Charlie but not enough for him to be slow enough to be consumed by them. He considered it to be a good balance - and he figured he would give the sons-of-bitches a taste of their own weapons. A 7.62 round meant to kill Americans now turning against him? That was poetic justice, if you asked him. Charlie deserved no rest, no relent. Every single one of these people deserved to die. Ten Charlie for every American killed by their hands, it was a pretty good tradeoff for him.

It looked like Daniel had some shooting to do, as his heart sank to his feet upon hearing about Doc's death. He turned around and saw an American body. A clean shot through the head, instant death. He didn't bother scrounging through his body, he had a lot and decided to leave Doc for the others. Before long though, they had to get back into formation, with him taking the rear with Dodge and the new guy. He started walking with the others, making sure he had the rear secure and no Charlie could get a jump on him. Nobody would want that sort of thing at all, absolutely not. The story about the women here in Vietnam was rather humorous, Daniel had heard about stories like that all the time, but he didn't want any of that for himself. Absolutely not. He had a wife he was committed to, and not an entire ocean could break his commitment to his wife.