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Vietnam, 1968:

They were called "jungle warriors." Three of them squatted motionless in the bush, watching the trail before them. They were strung out twenty feet apart. It was hot, and humid, and bugs flitted about their faces in small clusters, but they paid no attention to their own discomfort. The trail was all. To the untrained eye, the trail was not discernible; to them, it was a glaring target begging to be hit.

Carmichael's eyes, the only noticeable part of him, shifted in his camouflaged face. He looked down the trail to his left. He could hear something coming. Being closest to the source of the disturbance, he turned his head to his right and lifted a heavily-muscled arm in warning to be quiet.

Adams nodded once, his fingers curling comfortingly around the AK-47. Like Carmichael, his hair hung to his shoulders in a single long braid; his face, too, was painted. Beyond him, Nelson crouched at the ready. His skin was darker than theirs, but was painted nonetheless, and his hair had been shaved into a Mohawk. He cradled his sawed-off shotgun in his arms.

All three men wore sleeveless shirts that clung to their bodies. Sweat trickled unnoticed down their faces. They watched the trail. Carmichael tensed. His hands slid into position along the length of the AK-47 that he carried.

They heard them before they saw them. They were moving quietly but quickly, so confident of their ability to remain undetected in the jungle that they weren't even watching for an ambush; these were experienced bush fighters. They came along the trail single-file, six in all. Their weapons were held lazily at their sides or were slung over their shoulders. For three weeks, they had laid effective ambushes throughout this part of the jungle. Carmichael and his men had been sent out to find them.

The six Vietnamese soldiers were passing within ten feet of them when the three Americans opened fire. The crack of the AK-47s was punctuated by the boom of the shotgun. When the smoke cleared, the six Vietnamese soldiers lay twisted and bleeding along their "hidden" trail. Leaves chopped off by the gunfire drifted slowly to the ground; the jungle echoed.

The three Americans stepped out onto the trail. Carmichael stood watch, standing close to a thick-boled tree for cover, and motioned to the others. They went quickly from body to body, searching pockets and relieving the dead of their weapons. Carmichael watched them and thought about the ambushes that had claimed the lives of thirty-five men over the past three weeks. Only three men had known where those men would be on the days they were ambushed.

Only one of those three was a Communist sympathizer.

He waited for the right moment- waited until both of them were facing away from him- and then he turned the AK-47 on them and opened up. The bullets stitched across their backs and they pitched forward over the bodies they'd been searching. He stood for several seconds staring down at them before turning and disappearing back into the jungle.

It was getting late.

The sun left him in darkness. He didn't mind: he actually preferred the dark. He looked up at the moon, visible through the leaves overhead, and determined his position by the stars. He was still three miles from base, but he was in no hurry to get back. He'd done his job and he would be commended for surviving an enemy ambush. The loss of six comrades was regrettable, but he'd had no other option: to tip his hand before he did would've been to give himself away. His work was too valuable for that. He was "in deep" and he needed to stay that way.

He settled onto his haunches, arms crossed over his knees, to rest. He was tired. He listened to the jungle. It lulled him. Before long, his head began to slowly sink forward onto his arms. He slept.

The noise that woke him was close. His head snapped up automatically and he listened for the telltale sounds that would help him pinpoint the type of sound and its location. His eyes moved over the moonlit foliage. Nothing moved. He slowly cradled the AK-47. Whatever it had been, it had been close.

Foliage rustled to his left.

He swung the AK around and fired a quick burst. The sound lingered much too long and much too loudly in the night. He saw leaves fall softly to the earth. He waited, teeth clenched as much from fear as anger at whoever had tried to get the drop on him. If there was anyone there, they weren't reacting to his gunfire. He relaxed.

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