He crept back the way he had come. Then he glimpsed Tiger lying there, he moved behind a broad tree trunk and listened. He heard the wind rustling through the foliage overhead and, in the distance, the sounds Of piston and jet engines.

Once more he was waiting for a deer in the Appalachian mountains, expectant, without fear.

If he died here, he would lie near Frank Allen and Tiger Cole. If he survived, there would be Callie. He moved his right hand to the sleeve pocket and felt the hardness and promise of the ring. You’ll have to get closer if you’re going to have a chance. You’ll have to be close enough to kill them before they get their assault rifles into action. He waited with a calm fatalism, but his breathing was shallow.

He held the automatic in his right hand and the magnum in his left. It would be very chancy. They were seasoned jungle fighters who would be alert for the unexpected; he was a warrior from the sky.

He was distracted by the deep thunder of a Skyraider approaching low over the treetops. He glanced up and when he looked at Cole again, a man stood near him. Jake moved forward as the engine noise increased. The standing man, clad in black, his back toward Grafton, tilted his head toward the sky. Jake made out another figure, bending over Tiger. As the sound intensified, an assault rifle ripped a burst.

The pilot flinched, then slowly relaxed. There was much to do before a bullet found him.

With infinite patience he took another step.

Through the foliage he discerned a third man lowering an AK-47 from his shoulder as the noise of the Skyraider faded. Then he scanned the jungle. None of the soldiers detected the pilot in a green flight suit in a world of green.

All three of the soldiers crowded around the supine figure and talked excitedly in low tones. One of them leaned over and slapped Cole’s face, and the others laughed, sure of sanctuary now from the steel wrath of the warplanes.

Three soldiers with automatic rifles. Are there any more. Careful, Grafton. If there’s a man you don’t see, you won’t get off a shot.

He waited. He was still more than fifty feet away, too far to be sure of getting them all. One or two would not be enough. He would have to shoot if they tried to kill Tiger, but for now he waited.

He examined their black cotton clothes and the dark bush hats they wore. Their only provisions were carried in belts around their waists.

Very faintly he heard the radio. The three scrambled around in the ankle-high detritus of jungle floor. One of them picked up the radio triumphantly and held it out for the others to see.

Jake moved forward one step, then another.

Two men were clustered around the box and were partially obscured by the jungle. Grafton advanced two more steps.

If they would only keep looking at the radio!

He took another step. They were just forty feet away.

He extended the automatic to arm’s length as shifted his weight for another step. The man in the middle, facing him, saw him at that instant. A look of surprise registered on the brown face as a slug from the .45 hit him square in the chest. His head snapped forward and the rimmed hat came off as he fell.

The man on the right twisted and turned while trying to position his weapon.

The pilot fired. Thinking he had scored a hit, he swung the .45 toward the falling fighter on his left and jerked off three fast shots as the man on the ground and rolled away amid flying debris kicked up by the bullets. Wait! Aim!

The man kept rolling in the brush as Jake to careful aim with the pistol and fired again. The body jerked under the impact of the bullet and came to a stop, quivering.

Jake swung back toward the man on his right, who was rising from the ground and struggling with his rifle Jake fired quickly and missed. The rifle barrel was coming level. He fired again and the rifle fell as the soldier collapsed.

The man on the left, partly hidden by brush, was still moving, so Jake took several steps toward him, forcing himself to concentrate on the front sight as he steadied the automatic. He squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. It was empty. He dropped the automatic, grasped the

.357 with both hands, and eared back the hammer.

The man was on his back now, in the leaves. He was squirming.

Jake moved sideways to get a better shot,. The man’s rifle flashed repeatedly as Jake tried to aim at the squirming figure. He squeezed the trigger just as something hammered into his head.

His head was splitting with pain. His vision was blurred. He tried to move but the effort made the pain in his head unbearable.

“Jake?”

The sound was distorted and far away. “Jake?”

The voice seemed closer. He reached out with his arm.

“I’m behind you, Jake.”

With great care, Jake turned over until he was looking up. The world was spinning and he felt as if he were falling, but gradually the spinning slowed.

After a rest he tried to sit up. He fell back moaning.

“Looks like a bullet clipped you on the temple, Jake. But you got the bastard.”

The pilot rolled onto his left side. He gazed at the bombardier, eight feet or so away, his head turned toward Jake. Jake’s vision slowly came into focus, although Cole shimmered with every heartbeat.

“I knew you’d be back, Grafton.”

Slowly, slowly, Jake curled up and eased into a sitting position. He put both hands like a vise on the sides of his head.

“You probably have a concussion from that bullet.”

He let his gaze wander. The North VietNamese sprawled around him, their bodies slack, the life smashed out.

So this is what it looks like.

He crawled with glacial slowness toward the nearest body. The dead eyes were focused on a point far, away, beyond the ken of living men. This was the man he had shot. He moved closer. The soldier had traveled many roads, come many miles, seen many things, probably killed many people, and died here in the jungle with his friends. The smell of feces registered in spite of his clogged nostrils.

The dead man’s sphynctor had relaxed. So, the smell of death is the smell of shit.

Appropriate.

He sat up straighter and waited for the spinning sensation to pass. The throbbing in his head and knee whirling nauseated him and he retched. The world settled down. He looked again at the dead. Already the bodies seemed to be returning to the earth. they were partly covered by leaves from the forest floor.

Near him lay a rifle. They would need it if many North VietNamese came. He picked up the weapon and saw that it was on full automatic.

Inside the action he could see cartridges waiting to be stripped into the barrel by the closing bolt.

He turned the weapon upside down and leaves and dirt fell out of the open action.

The pain in his head was subsiding to one hell of a headache. He braced the butt of the rifle on the ground and slowly climbed erect.

“I thought you were dead. You going to make it?” Tiger asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then why don’t you find that damn radio and ask those flyboys when they’re going to get us the hell outta here. If they dick around much longer, you’re going to have to kill a whole regiment.”

Jake found the radio. Bending over very carefully, he retrieved it.

He picked up the .357 with the same care and scanned the leaves for the Colt .45.

“If you’re looking for the automatic, I think maybe you dropped it over there. Jesus, Jake, you looked like Wyatt Earp when you gunned those guys.

Remind me to always call you ‘Sir.”‘ Jake picked up the .45 and keyed the mike. “I got the gomers. They’re dead. When does the chopper get here?”

“What’s your service number?”

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