GI JOE: Ghost Viper

by Solosam

Lost in the deep jungles of Thailand, Mutt and Junkyard must join forces with Malay rebels, fight the forces of Cobra, and survive the insidious Ghost Vipers... All while struggling to keep their team alive and their souls intact.

3. Chapter 3

11

The sun does not rise at Wat Phra Gniap. We sit in the shadowed draw between two mountains. When morning comes the mist comes with it, painting the world in shades of gray. Black trees reach towards the sky like twisted, arthritic hands. Venous creepers circle the tree-trunks as if they mean to drag them down. The Muslim Malays gather on the riverside for prayer beneath the fig trees. They recite their creeds in Arabic and touch their foreheads to the damp earth. Somewhere in the mist a rooster crows. It is surprisingly cold this morning, except for old Junk's head resting on my leg. He takes a deep and ragged breath, and sighs. I know how he feels.

I think about the war. I think about Fasha Tan. I think about Tiny, who is standing behind my left shoulder with his AK. I don't think about going home. Home is an abstract concept to someone like me. That's one thing Carol could never understand about the Army. She always thought "home" meant Virginia. I thought "home" was whatever horrible place the Army sent me that month. We never managed to meet in the middle. Oh well.

Junk glances at me. I scratch his head behind his ear, and his leg twitches a little. That's how I know I've found the good spot. My sweet baby dog. Here's your Meditation for the Day: A dog is a wolf that never grows up. And yet we fill his mouth with titanium knives and try to undo thousands of years of selective breeding, essentially trying to turn the dog back into a wolf. Or, at least, our idealized version of the wolf we find most useful.

I touch his injured paw, and he pulls it away. I persist. Once Junkyard understands I'm not going to give up and I'm not going to hurt him, he relents. The cut on his paw looks unpleasant, but not infected. Not that it makes much difference. Either way, I won't be bringing him on mission anytime soon. I go back to scratching his head, until my moment of Zen is rudely interrupted.

"Hey," Chuckles says. "Did you know this place has a koi pond? It's in the back. They put in a skylight and everything. But I'm not sure whether it counts as a 'koi pond,' or if it's just a hole with fish in it."

I let my head tilt back against a pillar and sigh. "Those aren't koi. They're called arowana."

"Ah. Got it. Right." He looks down from our perch and watches the people gathered at the riverside. If he is trying to be cool, he is failing. I watch his eyes dance back and forth, jumping from place to place. Junk picks up on it too. The dog sits up and leans forward, keying on his anticipation.

"So," Chuckles continues. "Um. How did you sleep?"

"With one eye open." And no gun. Can't forget that part.

Chuckles rests his hands on his hips and shakes his head. "Well, it's okay. You've got this guy." He points towards my Malay guard. It's still not clear whether he is there to protect me, or restrain me, or both.

"Yeah," I say, glancing over my shoulder. "I'm calling him 'Tiny.' What's his story, anyway?"

"That's funny," Chuckles says. "I've been calling him 'Viet Charlie Brown.' But yours is better."

"Doesn't talk much."

"Nah. He's a boat gypsy. And on the totem pole of Thailand that makes him, like, not even a real person. I mean, seriously. He's lucky they let him eat people food."

"You keep saying things like that. Aziz. Fasha Tan. Tiny. They all have something in common."

For a long moment, Chuckles doesn't say anything at all. First he takes out his aviators and pretends to clean them. Then he puts them on, even though it is still misty and overcast. "Yeah, that's kind of the theme around here, isn't it?"

He looks at his wrist, and only then realizes he is not wearing a watch.

"Are these guys coming or not?" he asks no one in particular. Then he walks away.

We sit in silence for a long moment. Junkyard whines. I look over my shoulder. My guard is staring at me, shaking his head.

"Don't look at me, man," Tiny says. "I think he's a prick." Then he walks away, too.

Huh. How about that.

It's long after morning prayers when the Joes arrive. They can't bring in the Tomahawk. For starters, the jungle surrounding Wat Phra Gniap is too dense. Doctrine prescribes a landing zone eighty yards from an obstacles. Of course, Wild Bill and Lift-Ticket are both alumni of the 160th SOAR, so they are used to operating in rather less forgiving conditions. The real problem is that this airspace is more contested than we originally thought. A Mamba is capable of air-to-air combat. The Tomahawk is not.

Instead, we get Shipwreck and Torpedo. They come into Wat Phra Gniap on a Thai long-tail. The boat is thirty meters long, which is almost too large to navigate the tight turns of the river. The hull is entirely wood and, like all long-tails, it uses a second-hand automotive engine for power. The illusion is convincing in that it really does look like it might fall apart at any moment. But this is GI Joe we're talking about. It probably has hidden rocket launchers and frogmen hanging off the sides or some other crazy thing.

"What's up?" Shipwreck asks. His voice sounds like Jack Nicholson doing a John Wayne impression. I don't know why, but it just grinds on me.

"Did Stalker give you a hard time?" I ask.

"No. Food and medicine is an easy sell. Stinger missiles... We'd have to get back to you on that."

I climb into the boat and examine the cargo. They've got it covered in a plastic tarp. Underneath, one gross case of MRE's. They've even got a couple of those brown-packaged cakes thrown in for good measure. My blood pressure spikes.

"Are you kidding me?" I shout.

"What?" Torpedo asks. "Did we forget the dog food?"

"No, jackass. First, you brought MREs into a rebel village. Anyone comes through here – Cobra, Jihadist or Thai, it doesn't matter – They're going to see this. If there's even one scrap of trash left over, they'll know these people got a visit from America. And second-" I flip the box in my hands, examining the label. "You brought the wrong ones."

"What do you mean? It's all food."

"The refugees are Muslim," I explain. "And this isn't halal. They won't eat this."

"Who cares?" Torpedo asks. "It's food. They can suck it up."

This is the kind of ignorant nonsense you hear from people who aren't accustomed to dealing with foreign cultures. I rub my eyes and try to explain. "Yes, it's food. But it's the wrong food. We need their help to find Cobra. Actually, no. Right now, we just need them to not kill us. Then we can work on Cobra. But either way, in order to get there we have to craft the illusion that we actually care about them and their problems. And we can't do that if you bring them food we all know they can't eat."

All Shipwreck can do is shrug. "Look, man. We're GI Joe, not UNICEF. We brought what we had."

"Fine," I say. "We'll work with it. Just pull out the vegetarian ones. We'll hand out those first. You can start cutting them open and pulling out anything pork." This is not, in any way, the actual definition of 'Halal,' but it is a start and it'll have to do. "Please tell me you brought the medicine."

"That we got," Shipwreck says. I follow him to the back of the boat, ducking under jangling charms and wind chimes. There are a set of cooler chests in the rear. Inside, I find all the usual emergency medicine: Antibiotics, IV fluids, insulin and glucose, epinephrine. Assorted needles and other sterile gear. Good enough. And, buried in the bottom of the boat, I find our kit: SCARs, plate carriers, NODs, MBITRs, and Junkyard's vest. Even smoke grenades in red and purple flavors. It's enough kit to equip our team.

"We've also brought our own gear," Torpedo explains.

"Don't worry about it," I say. "We need you to go a few miles upriver and find a bed-down site. If things go south, we'll be counting on you to exfiltrate. Send me a message on the Iridium once you find a place."

Shipwreck and Torpedo look at each other. I already know what they're going to say. There's no way they can just hide a thirty-meter boat for forty-eight hours. The best option may be to take it out to sea, but that would mean going all the way back to Narathiwat, which defeats the purpose. But, to their credit, they're Joes. They don't give up so easy.

"Sure, man," Shipwreck says. "We'll figure it out. Just be safe out there."

We drag the supplies onto the shore and let the refugees sort it out for themselves. I figure about half of them actually care about the content of the meals. They're all grateful, regardless. My personal favorite is a big pouch of sloppy joe filling. It takes about five minutes for the ration heater to warm it up. I sit next to Junk, on top of our kit crate. We watch Shipwreck and Torpedo push off. They putter off into the mist, and I notice for the first time that the sun is starting to peek over the mountaintops.

"So I guess we're really doing this?" Bombstrike asks.

For Pete's sake... Can't a guy take a knee for five whole minutes? She's standing there with her hands on her hips, staring at the box of military gear. I don't know how long she's been up, but I can tell she didn't sleep well and she probably hasn't eaten.

"Yeah," I say. "It's kind of late for objections. If you aren't on board with this, you should have gotten on the boat."

"Don't be snide. That's Chuckles' job."

"Alright," I say, cracking open the crate and looking for my kit. "What's the problem?"

"Just that we know nothing about Fasha Tan. Or any of these Harimau-whatever people. They could just be a bunch of terrorists for all we know. I don't mind giving out food and medicine... But we're about to head off into the mountains with them. And we're making promises that we might regret."

"Well, I think Chuckles had it right."

She crosses her arms and glares. "What do you mean?"

"This is what Special Forces does. It's kind of our thing. Look, I get that GI Joe mostly does direct action. But that's not what Special Forces were really intended to do. The entire point of Army SF was to train indigs for unconventional warfare. That's our bread and butter. Over time we've been evolving away from that to focus more on direct action... Which was never the intent. And post-9/11, we've got units like GI Joe that are entirely focused on DA counter-terrorism to the exclusion of all else."

"I'm not seeing the problem," she says.

"The problem is that we can play Cobra whack-a-mole like we've been doing for twenty years, or we can train these guys to do it themselves. What you've got here is an insurgency. Whatever people want to call it, this whole place has been going through a string of insurgencies from ethnic rebels, to jihadists, and now Cobra. Now we could come in here and fight there battles for them... Or we can help them fight their own battles and secure their own territory. If we can get the Malay to fight Cobra, they'll do it faster and better than we ever could."

Bombstrike shakes her head and paces the floor. I try to have patience, because I know this is new territory as far as she is concerned. Bombstrike is (A) young and (B) Air Force. As a JTAC, most of her wartime experience consists of directing close air support onto targets. Ambiguity and moral compromises are not part of her curriculum.

For a moment she doesn't speak. She just stands at the window and watches a peacock half-hidden in the mist. "And then what?" she finally asks. "When this is over, does she just go back to fighting the Thai government? They're supposed to be our allies. I don't think she's just going to give up. What happens if she turns into a monster and we have to come back next year and fight her, too?"

All I can do is shrug. "Maybe a year from now she'll be running this place, and everything will be sunshine and rainbows. Or, maybe she'll turn out to be the next Bin Laden. I don't know. People are going to make their own choices, and we can't control the future. All we can do is play the hand we've been dealt. Right now, Fasha Tan is against Cobra. That puts her on the same side as us... And the Thai government, for whatever that's worth. We can keep going and finish this, or we can give up and go home. I think we can give her a shot."

Bombstrike chews her lip when she's anxious.

"Fine," she says. "You're the boss."

She turns to walk away, but I can't help myself. "A piece of advice?" I say.

"What?"

"Don't get wound too tight. You'll crack in the end. I've seen it happen."

"Now you sound like Chuckles," she sighs.

"Yeah," I say. "Exactly."

12

Wat Phra Gniap. 1730 hours. It's a Monday, if anyone was wondering.

We're standing around the 'horse blanket.' Translation: A giant sheet of paper that includes the map, scheme of maneuver, and assessment of enemy positions all on one giant graphic. Joes normally use computer imagery and CPOF automation for this kind of thing. The Harimau Jadian don't have those luxuries. Come to think of it, they don't even acetate. What we're left with is a folding map of the Malaysian border and a fistful of magic markers.

Our team consists of three: Myself, Bombstrike and Chuckles. Aziz sits with Junkyard in the back of the room. He won't be coming. On the other side of the table we have Fasha Tan and Tiny. Behind them, eight more Harimau Jadian rebels with their eclectic mix of weapons and equipment. That makes thirteen pax, total. More than I would like, to be honest. That's twice what we need for a recon mission. It's more than a single person can supervise and I'm not okay with that.

"So what are we looking at?" I ask.

Fasha Tan makes a bright red mark across the paper. "Everything south of this line is Cobra territory. They have driven out the Thai and Malaysian governments. We assume they have either eliminated or driven out any jihadist rebel cells, along with most of the civilian populace." The line runs south and west of Wat Phra Gniap. It leaves us about ten miles before we cross the border and enter the reservoir region.

The Tasik Durbaraja is a man-made lake in northern Malaysia. It is also our target. Like the Tasik Kenyir and Tasik Temenggor, it is the product of damming a river to create a miles-long reservoir. A submerged mountaintop peeks over the surface of the lake, essentially transforming itself into a large island. The geography is chaotic and formidable. The mountains are steep and covered in dense jungle. The roads are concentrated on the far end, around the dam. Without boats or helicopters, the island will be unreachable. I'm starting to regret sending Torpedo and Shipwreck to the rear.

"But," Fasha continues. "We all know Cobra can and will operate wherever they please. We've heard reports of them launching attacks as far north as Pattani. There's no clear distinction as to where their AO begins and ends."

"So this is what I don't understand," Bombstrike interrupts. She runs her fingers through her hair and pushes it away from her face. This place is so humid the loose strands cling to her skin. "You keep saying Cobra controls this territory. Why? What are they getting out of it? This is the exact opposite of how insurgencies are supposed to work. They blend in the with the population specifically so they don't get targeted, right?"

"No," Chuckles says. "They blend in with civilians because they want to bait us into attacking them. And when we do, they cry and whine and put videos on the internet, to make it look like we're the bad guys."

"But more importantly," I explain, "Cobra wants legitimacy. It's the end game of every insurgency, really. The goal isn't just to rebel. It's to take power, seize territory, and transform yourself into a legitimate state. Nobody wants to fight asymmetric warfare. It's long, hard, and painful. Every insurgency wants to make the jump to symmetric, conventional warfare as soon as possible. And Cobra just happens to have the resources to skip straight to the endgame, which is statehood. It's almost an obsession with them."

"Alright," Bombstrike says. "I can buy that. So what do we do about it?"

"Without information? Nothing." Fasha goes to work with another marker. She makes a half-dozen small circles on the map. "These are the towns our refugees have come from. They're on both sides of the border. And here-" Now she draws some arrows. "-Are the routes the Thai army used when they attempted to infiltrate Cobra territory. My guess is that exploring the villages along these routes will give us the best chance of enemy contact. That's why we will avoid them."

This is admittedly counter-intuitive. If the goal is to destroy the enemy, then logically we should proceed to wherever the enemy is located. But our goal is not to fight. Rather, we intend to reconnoiter and look for clues. The places Fasha has marked on the map are the places we already suspect the enemy is. Confirming the location of enemy defenses would be (at best) redundant and (at worst) suicide. Instead, we plan to find our way around the enemy's patrols to identify their base camp. Seeking an engagement that doesn't offer the chance to destroy our enemy is just asking for a protracted game of whack-a-mole. In a contest of attrition, Fasha Tan will break long before Cobra. For the second time, she surprises me with her shrewdness.

"Alright," I say. "Now we have to narrow it down. What does Cobra need for infrastructure? Buildings? Electricity? Flight lines?"

"That's trickier," Fasha explains. "But we've identified a few locations. First off, the dam itself. They could hold thousands of people hostage by threatening to destroy it and flood the valley. If I wanted to discourage an attack, that's where I would be. But there's also a military airfield with a hospital to the east, and some sort of tourist resort on the ridge line to the west."

All three of these locations are likely to be self-contained cities, with everything a global terrorist organization might need. When Fasha marks them on the map there is no question. The majority of the abandoned villages and aborted infiltration routes fall on the east side of the reservoir. We will head to the north end, and then sweep west.

"We will move across the border after sundown. Follow the roads southwest, but avoid actually using or crossing them. Once we are in the reservoir area, we can set up observation posts in the hills. We should be able to determine whether the dam or the resort is occupied. Do you have anything to add?"

"No," I say. "That sounds good." In truth, there are other ways we could confirm enemy activity. Satellite photography and radio traffic analysis are the first to come to mind. But I doubt anyone is going to drop a Prophet signal locator on us. Getting those kinds of national assets queued up takes time, and nobody in their right mind would make the resulting products releasable to a gang of Malay insurgents.

"Are we engaging targets of opportunity?" Bombstrike asks.

"Of course," Fasha says.

"That's not what we discussed," I say. "Any target small enough for us to attack is going to be too small to be worth it. And any attack we make, even if we succeed, will just attract Cobra's attention."

"No," Fasha insists, slapping her hand on the table. "No, you did that. You came to us, you asked for our help, and you forced us to move up our timetable. Cobra could be on their way here right now, and you'd never even know it. Don't try to put this on me. If we have the chance to fight – and the terms are favorable – we will take it."

Everyone is staring at me. One of the Malay rebels rests his hand on his katana. Another is pretending to clean his gun. They are not pleased. Junkyard looks from me, to Fasha, and back to me. He knows Dad is in trouble. If I so much as raise my hand, he will try to kill her. This isn't just a matter of disagreement. It's become a matter of face. Hot, prickly sweat breaks out on my forehead. I have to back down before they notice.

"Fine," I say. "We'll do it your way. You nominate a target if you see it. But I get to veto if I think it's more than we can handle."

"Deal," she says. "Now we can get ready."

The rebels disperse. Each man gathers his kit and begins his pre-combat checks. I pretend to study the map... As if I didn't get beat by a girl who must be a hundred pounds soaking wet. But that's not what I'm worried about, either. I'm worried that so much of this is out of my control. I came up in the SF world. The old-school kind. My job is to win their trust and their respect, so that I can keep them focused on fighting America's enemies. Sometimes that takes compromise. But this isn't compromise. It's desperation.

We gear up. Today I'm carrying my SCAR-L. It makes me happy. Not just because it's a good gun, but because of the message it sends. If the brass wanted to keep this hushed up, they would have sent us a box of Romanian AK's and some of that crappy, steel-case lacquered ammo; That is to say, weapons that can't be attributed to the United States. But they've sent us some real top-shelf stuff. It means they don't care whether we get compromised, which means both the Thai and Malaysian governments have signed off on this little adventure. It's practically a license to kill.

In addition to this, I'm wearing my woodland uniform with one of those 'combat shirts.' The sleeves are flame-retardant camouflage, but the chest is made of some kind of moisture-wicking sports fabric. The shirt was intended to be worn under body armor in hot climates. The armor itself is a plate carrier. This is a pared-down version of the outer tactical vest. It dispenses with most of the soft Kevlar inserts in order to reduce weight, but retains the thick ceramic plates that are necessary to protect against rifle-caliber ammunition. Add to this my bite-proof wrist armor and I think I'm set. Bombstrike and Chuckles each get their own set. Chuckles insists on wearing a green Hawaiian shirt, and even I have to admit it halfway works as camouflage.

Speaking of which, it's time to doll up our faces. We each apply jungle make-up to our faces. There's not much of a science to it. The goal is to break up the recognizable shape of a face by putting light colors in the shadowed areas and dark colors on the parts that get the most sun, like the cheeks and the brow. The rebels have a bit more fun with it. Tiny gives himself a sort of war-paint death's head. Fasha Tan paints her face with vertical stripes. She also uses pieces of duct tape to silence her charms and amulets.

Their weapons are just what you'd expect. Kalashnikov rifles. Some nice. Some garbage. Tiny shows up with a PKM squad automatic, and one of the guys in back carries an RPG-7. The dork with the sword insists he wants to bring it along. Normally I'd object that this kind of thing is dead weight. But back home we have three ninjas in our chow hall, so hey... Whatever floats his boat.

Junkyard realizes something is wrong. I'm wearing my kit, so he knows what must come next. He comes to me with his vest in his teeth and whines. 'Come on, Dad. Let's do this.' I almost want to take him. But he still doesn't put weight on the injured paw.

"Not this time, boy. Not today." I scratch his head, and he whines some more. He won't understand. This dog could get run over by a train and he'd still coming begging for me to bring him along. He's a Joe. He doesn't quit.

"Aziz," I call. Junior Boondocks reports at the double. I crouch down to talk to him, and I just now realize that I don't know where his parakeet went. "Did you lose your bird?" I ask.

"He ran away in Phra Chao Sua Ban. Just before Cobra shot up the place. Doesn't matter. Just a bird."

"Okay," I say. "Well, Junkyard here isn't just a bird. He's a soldier. And he's very important to me."

Aziz wrinkles his nose. "He's a big softie."

"Either way, he won't understand that I'm leaving. I need you to take care of him, alright? Just tell him to 'come,' and 'sit.' That last one's important. If he bites someone, that's how you make him let go. He'll take care of you while we're gone."

"Okay," Aziz says. "You be safe. Mister Chuck will take care of you. He's -"

"World's greatest secret agent, right?"

"Heck, no. He pays me to say that. Mister Chuck's farang kee nok. But he will take care of you. He does that."

"Got it," I say. "No problem."

We're about to move out. The refugees are having some kind of party on the beach. Fasha Tan decided to leave behind three rebels to guard the place. They are giving them sweets and liquor, and what sounds like pop hits of the 90's. Not all of them go for it, but at least it is a distraction. Our plan is to exfiltrate through the back, and hope they don't realize we're gone until the morning. I stand on the same balcony I occupied this morning, watching the sun set over the mountaintops. The temple is already cast in deep shadows. The refugees have started a bonfire. I'm starting to feel like some kind of modern-day T.E. Lawrence.

"You ready, man?" Chuckles asks.

"Yeah," I say. "Left Junk with the kid."

"Cool. So then what are you worried about?"

I don't answer at first. I just stand there with my weapon. The ammo pouches on my plate carrier give me this nice little shelf I can rest my hands on. Eventually I decide to just be honest. "I don't like the plan. A recon I can deal with. An attack? Not with these guys. Fasha Tan is impatient. She's going to get us killed."

Chuckles laughs out loud. "You don't get it, do you?"

"I don't get what?" I refuse to look at him.

"Fasha Tan. She's not really in charge, here."

Now I glance back over my shoulder. "What are you talking about? If she's not in charge, who is?"

"They are. You know, them. The wannabe Viet Cong. These guys don't get Tricare. They don't get leave days, or life insurance, or discounts at the Commissary. They're all about credibility. You said it yourself." He scratches the back of his neck and straightens his shirt. "Look, man. All I'm saying: She only gets to the be Queen as long as she acts like one. These people aren't dogs. They're wolves. And they want to hunt. Trust me."

Chuckles walks away. I know he's right. I just don't want to admit it.

13

We move at dusk. The sky is a rich shade of violet. The sun is a sliver of fire on the horizon. The team heads out the rear of the temple, climbing up a spiral staircase carved into the living rock. We emerge perhaps thirty meters above and behind the main temple entrance. The woods are dense enough – and the party is loud enough – to cover our exit. Fasha Tan deploys us in a classically Soviet pattern: Three men in the front move out in wedge formation. They are backed up by Tiny with his PKM. Next comes a file that includes Fasha Tan and the three of us Joes. The trail party is another inverted wedge. The battle drills are simple. If the three lead rebels take contact, they fall prone and engage the enemy while the rest of us decide whether we should shift left, right, or to the rear.

These guys might not be ninjas, and they may not even be VC, but I'll give them this much: The noise and light discipline is tight. These are people who know the terrain forwards and back, and have lived in this jungle their whole lives. Americans shift their soldiers from place to place so often they never become masters of any single form of warfare. But then again, very few nations outside America have the force projection power necessary to go anywhere to begin with. It's the great advantage the indigs will always have over us, and it's the mission of Special Forces soldiers to leverage that to the greatest extent possible.

We march through narrow forest paths, keeping under canopy. We are about a mile downriver, when we find it makes a hairpin turn. This is the safest point to cross. Fasha's men have pre-positioned a kolae boat in the reeds, and it only takes us two trips to ferry across. As we ascend the opposite mountain, I stop and look back at Wat Phra Gniap. It's not the bonfire that catches my eye. Its the bats. They come from the hills farther south, rising up in a great column like a pillar of black smoke. The bats swarm in the thousands – the tens of thousands even. Numberless squadrons escape from dark corners of the Earth and circle maniacally up into the sky. I have never seen so many of one animal, in one place, at one time.

And it's just then that I look for Junk, and realize I am alone. Surrounded by people, but still alone. Even as my eyes adjust to the darkness I can't help but feel blind and deaf. I have forgotten what it's like to get along without my boy. Military writers will claim that the jungle is neutral. I always assumed that meant it benefits both attacker and defender in equal measure. But right now I don't know about that. I feel utterly vulnerable, as if a hundred snipers are watching me from every direction and there is no place to hide. Now I understand how easy it must be to believe in ghosts out here.

Going uphill is difficult. The jungle makes it hard to walk even on level ground. We have to move in a zig-zag pattern, ascending slowly so as to avoid tiring our muscles. This is what is so frustrating about fighting in mountainous terrain. It multiplies the difficulty and the time it takes to get anywhere. I can easily march a mile in fifteen minutes in full battle rattle. In the mountains, that might take us an hour. Or worse, we could come to a wall or a vertical drop that we aren't prepared to cross. A mountaintop a mile away could be on another planet, as far as we are concerned.

We pass through a forest of stone. Karst pillars rise from the jungle canopy in defiance of the creeper vines. Limestone cracks beneath my boots. Treading this kind of terrain is like walking on knives. It bites deep into your soles and shreds your heels. We jump over deep cracks in the stone that descend into darkness. I can only guess how many untold miles of caverns there must be beneath these mountains.

It's only when we descend into the forest that we encounter our first snake. And I mean that literally. The point man raises a fist, and we drop to the prone. I don't know what he heard. A full minute passes, and he gives the signal to rise. Chuckles is reluctant to move. I look down, and see the twisting wave-motion of a snake in the grass. It's everything I can do not to jump. Even in the moonlight, I can tell I am looking at a red-headed krait. This is bad news. Not only are they extremely venomous, but they only have two settings: apathetic and beserk. The fact that it hasn't already bitten Chuckles tells me we've probably gotten lucky. He tries scooting backwards on his palms and toes. Doesn't work. The snake is agitated now. It starts to thrash its tail and prepares to bite. At that exact moment, Sword Guy cuts its head off. I'm glad I didn't give him a hard time about carrying that thing.

We proceed in short intervals. Perhaps an hour at a time. For every hour of travel, we take a fifteen minute rest. I chew candy to keep my energy up. One more thing I will say about the rebels: They are tireless. I have to keep reminding myself that most of them grew up in these regions and probably walked this terrain every day. They aren't old men from Jersey. Whenever we stop, I check on Bombstrike and Chuckles. They're bother younger than me, and doing better. I'm just too old for this crap.

Sometime around 0200 hours we reach the saddle point between two hilltops. Fasha orders the group to make camp. This is a hasty set-up. Each man faces outwards so that we have weapons pointing in every direction. They move a few meters into the jungle so that they can identify any obstacles that might create 'dead space.' That is, areas that cannot be hit by a direct-fire weapon. The dead space creates cover that an enemy might take advantage of. The usual remedy is to angle another shooter's sector so that they can cover the dead space. Failing that, you identify it for indirect weapons like grenades. Once this is done, each man takes up his firing position and we all take turns napping until sunrise. I can't sleep, even when my turn comes around. The jungle is too hot, too wet, and too loud. These are the kinds of excuses I make for myself. The truth is that I can't sleep without my dog.

We wake just after 0500, and examine the area. We are now somewhere on the northwest side of the reservoir. A giant, misty lake stretches out in front of us. On the western ridge, we see a group of darkened buildings that must be the tourist resort. I ignore it and focus my attention on the dam to the south. Lots of lights, but no movement. Last of all, we have the central island. The place has what looks like an artificial shelf, with a handful of huts I suspect are also for tourists. There is also some kind of construction going on. Fasha doesn't look pleased. She hands me the binoculars.

"Oh, yeah," I say. "That's bad news."

The Cobra Terror Drome is a self-contained fire-base and anti-aircraft site. The smallest version is maybe fifty meters in diameter. Each wall segment is assembled out of prefabricated sections, and could theoretically be extended to an indefinite size. Most models include a TOC, living space, mortars, and some larger direct-fire guns. They also invariably include a Firebat. The Firebat is a tiny single-engine jet aircraft that has more in common with a munition than an airplane. Although it only carries enough fuel for about ten minutes of flight, it can launch vertically from inside the Terror Drome perimeter. This can be a nasty surprise if the enemy aircraft aren't prepared for it. The good news is that this particular model is not yet completed. The outer ring is perhaps half-finished. It is rare to find an unfinished Terror Drome, because they are designed to be assembled very quickly. I suspect this one is incomplete because they have to ferry building materials over some very difficult terrain and then move it onto the island.

I also spot some other nasty surprises. A large radar antenna sits on the island's central mountaintop. Both the island and the dam are patrolled by HISS tanks and Cobra Stingers. To be honest, it's the latter of the two that concerns me more. The Stinger is a four-wheel truck that, as the name implies, carries a set of surface-to-air missiles. Sometime in the 80's, Cobra copied the design for the FIM-92 Stinger and bundled them together on a turret. Go ahead. Ask me again why we don't want to give MANPADS to insurgents.

"Is that what I think it is?" Bombstrike asks.

"Sure is," I say.

"Colonel Mewett mentioned the passenger jet was intercepted by Cobra aircraft. Do you think it was a Firebat?"

"With their range? Probably not. I'm guessing Cobra has some other aircraft in theater that we haven't seen yet. And don't forget about the Mamba. If they have one, there are probably others. Maybe at the airfield to the east."

"Hey guys," Chuckles calls. "Look what Tiny found."

The local giant is standing over a large crack in the ground. I can't tell how deep it is. Chuckles snaps a chemlight and drops it in. First it bounces off some boulders, and then we hear a splash. The light comes to a rest in a puddle of water. A huge swarm of gnats comes out of the cave, along with an insect the size of my thumb.

"Alright," Chuckles continues. "I vote that this is a pretty good site for an OP."

As much as I hate to admit it, he is right. The site has everything we need for an observation point: just the right view of the reservoir, cover and concealment all around, and the cave makes for an excellent hide site in case of trouble. Tiny sets down a Vietnam-era Chinese radio, two MREs, and a length of copper wire that can be used as an improvised antenna. We conceal the equipment in the cave and resolve to send a team back to this point after our patrol is complete.

We plot a course down the mountain, to a fishing village a half-mile away. We've only gotten started when Fasha falls into step next to me.

"What were those trucks?" she asks.

"Air defense systems."

"That's wonderful. I should try to steal one." I can't tell if she's joking or not.

"If you have to," I say. "But please wait until we're gone. Those things are going to be enough of a headache as it is."

"Are they dangerous?" she asks.

"Very. They can shut down any attempt to air assault into this place. We're going to have a hard time getting resupply or reinforcements, unless the Malaysian government wants to authorize a very risky and expensive bombing campaign all over the reservoir."

She thinks about this. "What is the alternative?"

"We destroy their radar installations the hard way."

It takes us just over half an hour to descend the rocky mountain slopes. This part is actually not so bad. It is infinitely easier to go down than up. Occasionally we have to use our hands to climb down, but the slopes are gentle enough that we don't need to use ropes.

The first village we come across rests in the shadow of a cliff that surrounds it like a clam. The cliffs are covered in trees and creeping vines. The long wooden houses are perched on tall stilts. It's the Malay custom to elevate all of their houses, even in places where they have no reason to fear the tides or floods. The village also sits on the delta where a secondary stream descends from the mountain and joins the main river. We cross this stream one at a time, sinking up to our chests in the water. The shorter Malays are up to their necks, with the exception of Tiny (who carries Fasha Tan on his shoulders). Even having crossed the river, it's not entirely clear where the land begins and the river ends. We are walking in ankle-deep puddles of silt that suck at our feet. Macaques chatter while they chew on fruit and play with shiny things. The village is unguarded now, so they can pilfer to their heart's content.

"What are we looking for?" I ask.

"I don't know," Fasha says. She keeps her AK-47 at shoulder height and sweeps left to right. "You'll know it when you see it."

Bombstrike and I give each other a knowing look: This is not helpful advice.

"Hello?" Chuckles asks, peeking into a door. "Selamat pagi?" He places the barrel of his weapon near the door-frame and then circles around it, revealing the interior piece by piece. The rebels are more willing to take risks. They walk about at the low ready and do not take enough care. Keep in mind, we're the generation that came up in Iraq. Every thing, place, person, or animal could be booby-trapped. Every time I see a rebel kick a pot or open a drawer, I cringe and expect it to explode.

"Anything?" I ask.

"Nope," Chuckles says. "This place is empty. Although, it would be nice if someone had a dog that could find things."

"Sorry, he just does bombs."

"Still an improvement over these dorks."

Tiny and his crew search a building. I wait a moment to see if it will explode. When it does not, I climb the wooden stairs and follow them inside. It's dark and smells of mold. I would expect to see rotting food, but I suspect the monkeys stole it. There are no electric lights here, although I do see a gasoline generator. The windows are made of movable wooden slats. They also have gaps in the walls at knee-height. Makes sense, as these people traditionally sit on the floor. I glance out the window and see the only concrete structure in the village, a walled building with a dome that I assume must be a mosque.

This house has a decorated kite hanging on the wall. At first I mistake it for a painted work of art, with its floral decoration and pastel colors. I see fishing nets and lengths of rope. Hand tools. A sleeping mat. A colorful mask hangs from the wall, and I can only guess at what spirit animal it was meant to represent. I glance at a table with some plastic bowls and cups. The centerpiece appears to be a brass bowl used for serving sirih leaves, which they traditionally chew at every social gathering. My fingers touch the bare wood surface, and stop on a photograph.

"Now that's funny," I say.

Chuckles comes to look. It's a Polaroid photo, and it looks new. Newer than anything in this place, to be sure. The photo depicts an Indian man with glasses, standing next to a woman in a blue hijab. Her face is covered with unpleasant burn scars. But she looks happy. Her eyes are the color of honey.

"Doctor David Brahamiah," I explain. "Burke's wife claim he invited them to Malaysia. And he was here."

"Is there a date on it?"

"No." Just then, Fasha Tan enters the building. "Have you seen this guy? Doctor Brahamiah?"

Fasha shrugs, but doesn't look at the photo. Something outside has her attention. "I remember the name," she says. "He was a doctor that came through a few months ago. Gave vaccines to the villagers. Things like that. Part of some charity."

"That's weird." The photo finds a safe place inside my kit. "I thought he was a biologist."

We keep moving through the village. All of the houses are much the same. Depressing. Small. Poor. Smelling of fish and mold. We find little else of value. Or rather, little of value to us. The place is littered with discarded clothes, family pictures, and the occasional toy. Just leftover pieces of human lives. I think about the refugees camping outside Wat Phra Gniap. I wonder how many of them came from this village. There's a reason all I have is a dog.

We move on, zig-zagging our way up the next slope. It is early morning now, and the sun is up. The plan is to follow the edge of the mountain to the southeast, and look for a second OP near the mouth of the river. This would allow us to look for any traffic moving out of the reservoir back towards the Thai border. I have not seen any Cobra watercraft, but it is the most logical exit point for low-flying aircraft. But more importantly, we might need to come back through this way if we mount an attack on the reservoir. We will need someone in position who can watch the entrance and let us know when it is safe to infiltrate.

We are just over half a mile southeast of the village. The forest here is less dense. Sight lines are good out to perhaps 75 meters. At this point, I am starting to get worn out. It has been twelve hours since we left the temple, and I estimate we have been hiking for about eight of that. My feet are sopping wet from crossing the stream. It makes an unpleasant squishing sound when I walk. This is the kind of nonsense I am thinking about, instead of paying attention to what is going on around me. And that is when I got shot in the chest.

14

I fall flat on my back. I'm not actually hurt, although there will be bruises on my collarbone, later. The round hit me square in the center of the SAPI – the Kevlar-and-ceramic sandwich inserted in my plate carrier for just such an occasion. The wind is knocked out of me. I gasp for air and cough a little. When I move, I realize the plate has almost ceased to exist. Now I've just got a big sack of broken ceramic attached to my chest.

The whole forest turns into Hell. Automatic weapons open up from less than a hundred meters away. People start screaming and throwing themselves on the ground. I struggle to get to my feet. My boots slip in the mud. I'm disoriented. I reach out to grip a tree, and hear the whip-snap sound of bullets passing by my face. Pieces of bark disintegrate right before my eyes. I realize that I'm being an idiot, and fall to the prone.

It takes a moment to re-orient myself. Bombstrike is to my right, crouched behind a wide tree truck. She empties a magazine in a single burst of fully automatic fire. It drops into the grass and the loads another. Slaps the bolt release. Fires again. Hot pieces of brass flicker in the sun as they leap out of her weapon. I look back, and see Chuckles crawling through vegetation. He takes up a firing position and proceeds to fire in long bursts. They're trying to achieve fire superiority. The theory goes that whichever side puts out the most bullets can seize the initiative just by volume of fire. And then, having done so, they will be in position to maneuver on the enemy.

I don't think anyone will be maneuvering, here. Sword Guy tries to move forward by sprinting towards a tree. He immediately takes three in the chest and falls down, dead. His head rolls back so that he is looking at me, and I watch the lights go out. It's hardly even a metaphor. You can see the life pass out of someone's eyes when they exhale that final breath.

"Shoot!" Fasha Tan is shouting. I'm not even sure where she is; I just hear her voice. But when I place the weapon on my shoulder and peep down the ACOG, I can't see anything. No people. No muzzle flash. Nothing. The forest is so dense here, it's not possible for anyone to see beyond seventy-five meters or so. And trust me on this... A human head at seventy-five meters looks like a beach ball in your sights. I give up a long burst of grazing automatic fire at ground level, sweeping the barrel of my weapon from left to right and back again. Drop the mag. Slap in a new one. Hit the bolt. Take aim again.

Still nothing.

There's another burst of gunfire, and another rebel goes down.

"We need to fall back!" Chuckles says. Then a grenade hits a tree, and the whole thing explodes in front of us. I feel the shock-wave inside my chest. Hot splinters dig into my face and arms. Chuckles is screaming something, but I've gone completely deaf. All I can tell is that he's pointing to the right. Then the tree itself comes crashing to the ground. For a moment I'm terrified of being crushed. Then it lands with a tremendous thump that shakes the earth beneath me.

For a moment we just stare at each other like idiots. Then Chuckles pulls himself up to the side of the fallen tree and starts shooting again. It occurs to me, belatedly, that we suddenly have a literal ton of wood between us and the enemy. I crouch and move, tapping Bombstrike on the shoulder and motioning her to follow me. We both pull the pins on our smoke grenades and throw. It is truly astonishing how much colored smoke comes out of one of these things. Great purple clouds billow across the battlefield.

Cobra knows what is coming next. The only real uses for smoke grenades are signaling and providing concealment while moving. They can no longer see us – at least, I hope they can't – but they start shooting blindly into the cloud with the expectation they can catch someone on the move. It works. As I retreat from the smoke, I see Tiny with his PKM. He is firing from the hip, spraying the forest indiscriminately so as to cover our retreat. He takes a round in the leg and I see his flesh explode in crimson gore. He cries out and falls to his knees, then a burst of automatic fire cuts across his belly. Tiny is already dead. He just doesn't know it yet. He fires until the belt runs out, then finally falls backwards and gives up. Dead.

"Go!" I shout. I'm amazed I can hear my own voice. My ears are still ringing. Bullets pass through the leaves around me. People are screaming. And I have no idea what is going on. The truth is no one ever really does. Being in combat is like looking at the world through a soda straw. There could be a tank coming up behind me and I'd never know it. Your focus narrows intensely. All I really know is that we are done here. I'm running. Bombstrike is running. Tiny is dead. I've lost track of Chuckles and Fasha Tan. I look back one more time, and see a rebel running after us. He takes one in the back and falls down, gripping his neck. Dead.

We retreat down the hillside, half-running and half-sliding through the dead leaves and loose soil. At one point I lose my balance and fall forward. I reach out and grip a vine, and actually swing like some kind of idiot until I lose my grip and fall six feet to the Earth. Bombstrike tumbles face-first into a stream. I grab her by the vest and pull her to her feet.

"Where are we?" she asks. "Where is everyone?"

"I don't know," I say. There is still gunfire coming from the top of the hill, but it is sporadic now. Then it slows to the point that all I can hear is the occasional burst. We wait for a moment, hoping that we aren't the only ones that made it... but the odds are against us. Ambushes are, by definition, ridiculously lopsided affairs. The only reason I'm alive right now is sheer luck and an inch of ceramic plate. "We've got to move. Back to the village. Can you call in anything for us?"

"I'm on it," Bombstrike says, keying her mike. "Shipwreck, this is Bombstrike, over." If anyone picks up, I can't hear it.

It takes us five minutes to run back to the village. That is an eternity in combat time. I'm gasping for air with every single breath. It feels like my chest is full of knives. Hot beads of sweat are dripping down my face. Everything tastes like salt. But I have to keep my weapon up. I have to focus. "Come on old man," I whisper to myself.

The trick here is that once you've made contact with the enemy, it never really ends. You move as if you expect one more ambush. That means sweeping your gun around corners, looking for places to hide, and always scanning the horizon... Or at least, as much of a horizon as you can get in the jungle. For a moment, I think I see someone to the right. It comes out the corner of my eyes. I turn and take aim. There's a shape in the bark of the tree. But that's all it is. Just a shape. Mind playing tricks on me.

"Almost there," Bombstrike says. She points to the stream we waded in earlier. I lower myself into the water, and once again it is up to my waist. I stumble my way across the rocks and crawl out. Now it's Bombstrike's turn. She lowers herself into the water and is just about to move when- Oh. Oh no.

There is a crocodile in the water. A big one. Literally twenty feet long. It glides through the water like a serpent. The studded, armored hide crests above the water. It's like looking into some kind of primordial nightmare. I don't shout out. I don't even know what I would say. I just shoot. I empty the whole magazine into the water. What will my 5.56 do against a crocodile? I might as well be trying to kill a dinosaur.

Bombstrikes turns and shoots. Her first rounds go high and splash behind it. Then she aims down and sprays long bursts into its face. We both shoot and we don't stop until the monster is good and dead. Dark blood twists and curls across the surface of the brown water. Smoke rises from our weapons. We're both breathing hard; More from the shock of it than the exertion.

"Mutt!" she screams, and points.

There's two of them. The second crocodile is already on land. It charges me. How can something so big move so fast? The monster is on me in a second, and it's all I can do to leap back and kick at its snapping jaws. I try shooting, but I'm already empty. Instead I trip and fall down. The croc lunges again. The only thing between me and death is my wrist armor. I feed it to him, and he bites down on it. Hard. Maybe hard enough to break bone. But the teeth don't pierce it.

Instead, I have bigger problems. When a crocodile bites, the first thing it does is roll over so as to tear a chunk of meat from its prey. I do the only thing I can: Drag myself onto his back, grab him by the neck, and hang on. The croc rolls and crushes me beneath its bulk - but at least my arm is still attached. It rolls a second time and I slam into the ground. That one knocks the wind out of me. I'm seeing flashing lights in front of my eyes.

I try to reach for my handgun, but the moment my grip loosens the crocodile rolls again. If I let go, I'm dead. It's that moment I hear the bolt go forward on Bombstrike's SCAR. She presses the gun against the side of the monster's head and opens fire. I'm left there, on the ground, covered in crocodile, and gasping for air. Everything hurts. But I'm still alive.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"Yeah," I lie. "Yeah."

And that's when I see him.

Croc Master walks out of the jungle, cradling a rifle in his hand. The man is a titan wrapped in croc-hide armor. Six-foot-six and two hundred sixty pounds, at least. The regulator built into his mask hisses with every breath. Reflective red lenses hide his eyes from us. And his skin... His skin changes as he moves. First, he is the color of tree bark. Then he is speckled with green. And finally it turns the color of flesh. 'What the heck is that?', I wonder. 'Some kind of active camouflage?' No. That's his skin.

I realize I was wrong. This is the monster.

"Look out!" I shout.

Bombstrike spins, but she is too slow. He shoots from the hip and puts three rounds into her gut. She falls backwards into the mud. I draw my pistol and shoot with one hand. One bullet strikes his AK, right in the receiver. Three more bounce off his armor. The rest... God knows where they wind up. All it does is piss him off. He kicks the gun out of my hand and punches me in the face. When I try to catch myself, he stomps on my left hand and proceeds to crush my fingers beneath his boot. I hear – and feel – my ring finger snap. I scream like a little girl.

"What is this?" he says, staring down at me. His voice is from the grave. Black and wet, with a timbre that could shake the Earth. It even gurgles, just a little, as water drips from his voice-mitter. He twists his heel, and my broken finger twists the other direction. I curse out loud.

"GI Joe?" asks Croc Master. He cracks his knuckles. "Surrender now and I'll take good care of you. I never ate anyone who didn't deserve it."

I reach for the first rock I can find and slam it into his ankle. Croc Master stumbles, and I'm free. I roll to my feet and pick up my gun. Forget my finger is broken. Fumble it. Crap. Croc comes at me again. He is built like a pro wrestler, and he fights the same way. First he kicks me so that I roll backwards through the mud. Then he lifts me up and throws me into a tree. I hit it like a rag doll and crumple on the ground.

Come on, old man. Move. Just move.

Croc Master takes aim with his rifle and squeezes the trigger. Nothing happens. I can only guess that I must have damaged it earlier. He throws the weapon aside, but those three seconds buy me the time I need to get to my feet.

"Give it up, GI Joe."

"Give up?" I ask, raising my fists. I'm coughing, and gasping for air. I'm swaying like a drunk. It's all I can do to form complete sentences. "I'm just... Getting started."

Then I notice he is bleeding. I must have grazed him on the outside of his arm. His arm is stained in shades of red. It drips from his knuckles into the puddles at his feet. I grab up the first stick I see and strike the wound. Once. Twice. He is surprised. He tries to block. When he finally grabs the stick, I just give him my shoulder and we both fall into the mud.

Then I see something else. The freak show is wearing a knife on his belt. Now here is a piece of advice: When you get in a fight, the knife isn't your knife. The knife belongs to whoever thinks to grab it first. I'm already on top of him. I grab the knife and pull it free, then drive it into his collarbone. Croc Master screams in rage and agony. I stab again, splitting open his helmet as I push his head into the wet mud. I see bubbles and blood. I stab him again, and I don't stop stabbing until he stops moving.

And I'm done.

I have literally nothing left. Every muscle in my body is exhausted. I rest on my knees, over Croc's dead body. The knife falls from my limp fingers. I look at the sky and gasp for breath.

"Bombstrike?" I ask.

She doesn't reply.

Instead, I see them. Cobra. Three shapes moving in the jungle. They are blurry and indistinct. The active camouflage buried in their skin warps and changes as they move. Ghosts. All of them, ghosts. I see their camouflaged pants, and the Rhodesian rigs that carry their ammunition. At least those don't change. It's only the exposed skin. They're like some kind of cuttlefish, changing the color of the pores in their skin.

"Okay," I say, groping in the mud for a gun. "Okay. Come on. Come get some."

I never expected to hear the gunfire. I thought a bullet in my head would kill me before the sound caught up to it. It takes me an extra second to realize they aren't shooting. Chuckles is standing behind them, spraying the Ghosts with the PKM. He sweeps it left and right and doesn't stop until the belt is gone.

When all five are dead, he drops the weapon into a puddle, draws a pistol, and comes limping towards me. The man is a mess. His pants are shredded and stained with red. Scratches cover both arms, as if he pulled himself through a thorn-bush. His shirt is ruined and he sways like a drunk. Probably concussed.

"Mutt?" he asks. "You alive?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Bombstrike?"

Oh, God. Bombstrike.

We find her by the stream. She's done. Both hands are clutching her gut. The bullets went in right below the plate. There's more blood than I've ever seen in my life. She's not coming out of this.

"Bombstrike?" I ask. She realizes it's me, and she grabs hold of my wrist.

"I'm good," she says. "I'm good. Just give me a gun." Chuckles and I look at her. We can't even begin to treat this. We both pull out our first aid kits and find small wound dressings. Bombstrike has to manually hold them in place. It doesn't matter. Even with the dressings, she'll bleed out internally.

"Alyssa," I start, and then realize I have no idea what to say.

"I know," she says. "Just give me a gun." She is struggling to breathe now. That means her lungs are filling up. I stab an IV needle into her collarbone to relieve some of the pressure. That might buy her thirty seconds. Chuckles hands her a pistol.

"Mutt," Bombstrike whispers. "I'm good. You've got to go now. Go on. Please." She's gripping my wrist like a vise and doesn't even realize it. I have to literally pry her fingers off.

"Are we set?" Chuckles asks. He picks up a rifle and slaps in a new magazine.

"Yeah," I say. "Let's go."

"What? No way. We're taking her."

"It's done." I try to reach for him.

"No!" he shouts, slapping at my hand.

Gunfire erupts from the forest. A bullet grazes Chuckles' leg. He falls on one knee, and starts shooting into the treeline. I grab him by the carrying handle on the back of his vest and drag him. He kicks, he screams, and he shoots until his magazine runs dry.

I don't see it end. I just keep going. First I hear the shouting. Then I hear the sound of Bombstrike's handgun. And finally the chatter of assault rifles.

15

"Hey Mutt," Chuckles says.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"How is it we're still alive?"

"I don't know, man. God must hate us or something."

We're sitting on the edge of a river, a few miles north of the village. I have no idea how far we ran to escape the ambush site. Three miles, maybe. It's funny how every time you think your body is completely spent, you can dig just a little bit deeper and keep going just a little bit longer. I guess the fear of death will do that to you.

The sky is a warm shade of amber. The sun is a red flare setting in the West. The world is painted in black and gold. I see a dark pillar rising in the distance. It might be smoke, but it is probably the bats. Has it really been twenty-four hours since we started this? I can't even keep track anymore. I'm nauseous. My skin burns. I ache inside and out. The broken finger of my left hand is swollen and throbbing. I can't even move it anymore.

But I am alive.

If 'knowing' is half the battle, then 'staying alive' must be the other half.

"Did you see anyone else?" I ask.

"No," Chuckles says.

"Fasha Tan?"

"I said, 'No.'"

Chuckles is crouching in a depression, shielded by a boulder to his left and bushes to his right. The dressing tied to his leg is stained dark crimson. He's definitely going to need an new pair of pants. Actually, if we make it out of this we're going to need new everything. We sip rubber-flavored water from our canteen bladders and we're thankful for it. Time passes slowly when you have nothing to do but wait. It isn't safe to exfiltrate until after nightfall.

"How long has it been? Twelve hours?"

"Yeah," he mumbles.

This is how it goes. Most people don't realize there is such a thing as adrenaline withdrawal. For the longest time you feel like an engine pushing the red-line. Then you come off of it, and your body crashes. It's not just the fatigue, or the ache in your muscles, or that drifting, light-headed feeling. It's a deep depression that wraps you in a black cloud and makes you ask, 'what's the point of all this?' It's the feeling that you don't matter and nothing you do matters. We die out here in the jungle and we have nothing to show for it. All the colors seem muted, now. The world is quiet and unimportant.

I can't tell the difference between genuine, deserved guilt, and the post-adrenal crash. There may not be any difference, at all. Maybe you just hit the point where you see something so terrible that all your illusions fall apart and you can't justify going on, even to yourself. I can't even blink without seeing her die all over again. These are the thoughts that come to you when its all over, and you have nothing left to do but think.

I try to think about something else, like the kids I never get to see.

"Mutt," Chuckles says. He hesitates, just for a moment. I say nothing. I don't want to encourage him. I know what he's going to say, and I don't want to hear it. "I like you and all, but I think you've got to own this one."

"What?" I ask, even though I know what he means.

"You should have brought the dog. You know, the one with a thermal camera mounted on his back?"

"Junkyard's hurt. I've got to take care of him."

"So you traded him for Bombstrike?"

"That's not how it works," I say. Not actually a denial.

"Yeah," Chuckles whispers. "Yeah, it is. His whole job is to spot things we can't. So we don't get ambushed and shot to pieces. But you left him behind. I mean... That's your whole thing, right? You're the dog guy. That's like, if Tripwire showed up without his mine detector, and somebody's leg got blown off. He dropped the ball on the one thing he's supposed to do, and somebody paid the price. A lot of people paid the price."

"I'm his Dad," I insist. "He counts on me to keep him safe."

"No," Chuckles says. "You're his owner. And you tell me: If you aren't willing to deploy with him, what's the point of having him in the first place?"

I shake my head, even though he's not looking at me. "You don't get it. You've never had to make a choice."

Chuckles looks me in the eye. For the first time since I've been here, possibly even for the first time since I've known him, he just looks me straight in the eye and stares. "You don't know me," he finally says. "And you don't know what I've done."

The first impulse is to tell him to get lost. But I don't. I'm past being offended. I'm even past being angry. Now I'm just tired and used up. I don't even have the energy left to argue with him. Not right now. So instead I rationalize. I tell myself Chuckles is just upset and looking for someone to blame. I tell myself he is all ego, and he needs excuses to explain his failures. I tell myself he doesn't understand. Then I start wondering if I'm even talking about Chuckles anymore.

The sun sets. The world is dark. Barely an hour after nightfall, we hear the sound of a motor. Shipwreck and Torpedo come down the river in their long-tail fishing boat. I start flashing my IR beacon. It's not a perfect solution. Cobra has night vision, too. But it's what we've got and its better than nothing. They find us on the river bank. Shipwreck sits at the rear with the engine and the rudder. Torpedo crouches behind a tripod-mounted 240.

"You boys all set?" Shipwreck asks.

We crawl out of the bushes and wade into the water. The muddy bottom clings to our boots. It takes every ounce of my strength – and Torpedo's help – to drag myself over the side and onto the boat.

"Hang on," he says. "Where is everybody?"

"They aren't coming," Chuckles says.

"What? Seriously? Where's Bombstrike? What happened?"

"We're it," I say. "Get us out of here."

There's a long moment of silence. Eventually Shipwreck gives it some gas and turns us around. We head north, threading our way up the river of ink. Bats chase flying insects above our heads. The motor is unpleasantly loud. I lay back against a pile of rope and wonder at the injustice of a world that lets me escape while Bombstrike dies. I'm an old man. It's not fair.

"Where are we headed?" Shipwreck asks.

"The temple," I say. "I've got to get my dog."