Pitch black.

Silence - no, a pounding.

A heart beat.

Crouched, he listened. The cold steel of his rifle was ever reassuring.

 Dampness from the constant rain seeped through his outer fatigues, chaffing his neck.

Rustling?  He wasn’t alone. 

He tensed.

Without moving, he scanned the area using more than traditional senses.  Experience had taught him the value of paying attention to his sixth sense. His practiced and well tuned instincts searched the dense jungle around him, despite the lack of light.

Muffled sounds broke the silence. How many were there? One, two... three?

More.

He would wait. If there were more than six, he would wait for Chris. His partner should be only five minutes behind him. But minutes were long, and five was an eternity.

His enemy came closer - no more than forty feet away. He could identify six men, muttering, walking...breathing. Soon to be six prisoners.  The fact he was outnumbered didn’t faze him.  If he could see them... if he could hear them, he could hit them. It wasn’t arrogance. It was a cold hard fact.

The Cong came into view.

He sighted them through his rifle, placed his finger on the trigger, closed one eye and focused on the closest Kat Cong soldier’s knee. He was surprised by how clearly the new night vision goggles worked.

There was a distant whisper.  His acute hearing detected the unmistakable signs of other Cong. These six were a scouting party!

He’d found them. The entire squad! He listened, identifying more than two dozen in the second group. The lead party would be on him any second. Glancing over his shoulder, he peered through the jungle waiting for sign of back up. The situation had just changed drastically.

Come on, Larabee!

He was still composed, despite the seriousness of the situation. True, he was crouched only a couple of feet away from six armed men who were backed by a full squad – a full squad of Cong who would like nothing better then to kill him, but this was far from the first time.

When the scouting party was only ten feet from him, one of the Cong paused.

He held his breath. The entire party stopped. Whispering among themselves, they discussed a break. The quick chattering of their language stood out in the stark silence of the jungle. Chris would have heard them now. The colonel would be moving into place.

He shifted his weight, preparing to attack the six men.  There was no place for guns or rifles today... no chance to take them alive if he and his partner wanted to get out of here with their own skins. He and Chris would have to take these scouts out without alerting the main party only two hundred feet away.

One shot - one scream - would bring the entire party of Kat Cong attacking.

He glanced to his right. Sure enough, crouched in place was his partner. He had not heard Chris arrive, but he had sensed his presence. The light of dawn filtered through the trees, both men discarding the night vision goggles.

Their eyes locked together.

They’re a scouting party.

The main group?

Close.

We go in with knives.

Not a single word passed their lips, but then, they didn’t need words. They had handled dozens of situations exactly like this. Chris would take out two, and he the other four. It was the way it had to be. The party had broken into two groups - a pair sitting together to the extreme right, and a group of four standing several feet away. Only one man still held his rifle. The others had carelessly discarded them to light cigarettes.

He drew both of his knives. Thanks to Nathan’s training, he was proficient in the weapon’s use - deadly proficient. His breathing quickened as he allowed the adrenaline to surge through his body. Without looking, without a signal to or from his partner, he attacked.

It was over quickly. The swishing of knives, a couple of muffled gasps, the snapping of two necks - six heavy, apathetic thuds as the six bodies hit the ground. Mechanically, he replaced his knives.

There had been no struggle.

No fight.

He and his colonel had taken the six completely by surprise.

There was no feeling of victory.

No reason to celebrate.

They had killed six human beings. Not six demons or devils - six men who had been fighting for what they believed. He had seen first hand the atrocities the K.C. was capable of. He had witnessed mates killed by these so-called monsters. But when it came down to it, they were just as scared of dying as any one else. What the hell was the point of all of this?

Abruptly, Chris had him by the arm, urging him to retreat into the jungle. The main company was closing fast. They had no idea what lay ahead and continued to advance oblivious to the carnage.

He wondered how they would react to this sight he was responsible for. The Kat Cong were human... probably mates too. What if one of them had a relative in the scout party... a brother now dead, thanks to him.

Moving shoulder to shoulder, he and Chris headed towards their team, only twenty minutes behind them. They moved quickly, without a word. Minutes later, shouting filled the dawn. The Kat Cong had found their scouting party.

Without discussion, he and his partner accelerated. Staying quiet was no longer an issue. Their enemy would never hear them over the noise they were creating themselves.

The Colonel would probably abort the mission and retreat. Then again, Chris may decide the mission was too important, and stay and fight. This Kat Cong squad had been through eight local villages in the past three weeks... but they hadn’t sought refuge and food from their own people.  They had slaughtered them - men, woman and children. Babies, still in the arms of their mothers, were left battered, bloody and lifeless. The Cong had been planting evidence to frame the soldiers of America and her allies. The Easterner’s army wanted the world to believe it was the international peace forces responsible for the massacres - massacres of the Cong’s innocent civilians. General Travis wanted it stopped, hence the STF1’s mission.  Find and nullify... those where their orders.

Josiah, Buck and Nathan came into view.

"Only twenty left. We'll take them," Larabee snapped without emotion.

Only twenty. 

Twenty more to die.

True, twenty more of them - twenty men who deserved to die for the barbarity they’d inflicted on their own people - but still, twenty more deaths.

The Colonel saw. Chris knew. Without mercy, the older man laid into him verbally - stating the atrocities, the fact these men had to be stopped... the fact this was war and there was no place for sympathy for animals the likes of these.

For some reason, it didn't work this time. He didn't feel fired up. He felt empty... tired... drained. Chris approached, laid his hand on his shoulder – a silent apology. They were all on edge after three weeks of non-stop missions deep in enemy territory.  Three weeks of coming across the butchery of this particular group of bastards.  Today they would be stopped.

The party of K.C. re-grouped quickly and was moving again. The STF1. relocated silently, encircling the twenty man party.

He waited for his Colonel's signal. Chris’ eyes grabbed his. In reply, he returned a nod. He was ready. He wouldn't falter. He would not allow his personal emotions to interfere. He was a member of the STF1. - America’s elite response unit. Chris was right. These men had to be stopped before they murdered any more innocent people.

Slowly his colonel surveyed his team. All had their eyes on him, awaiting the signal to send them into action.

Chris rolled over, the bed creaking under him. He was moving uneasily in his sleep.  Concern for Vin, the contract, the Hawks and a dozen other things refused to grant him the rest he needed. Yesterday afternoon he and his team had arrived at the ranch for some R and R. After the skirmish with the Hawks, and the emotional hell in the hospital waiting and wondering if Vin was going to come through the ordeal, Chris knew a break was in order.

Larabee settled. In the next room, laying rigid in anticipation, Vin was caught in the hell of his returning memories... waiting for orders to attack! 

With Larabee’s signal came the thundering of automatic weapons. The STF1 cut the twenty men down before they had time to fire in reply.

As the ringing in his ears faded, Vin dropped from the tree he was perched in. His nostrils pinched at the smell of blood. He watched his mates search for the leader of the opposing group. The Kat Cong head would have the group's orders. Larabee had been instructed to retrieve them.

Mechanically, he joined the search. Every one of the K.C. looked the same. They shared the mask of death - death he was responsible for. What sort of a monster had he become?

Carelessly, he turned over another body.

"NO!" he gasped.  His voice echoed in the clearing. He wasn’t staring down at the inert face of a K.C soldier.  He was looking at Chris’ pale face. He'd murdered his best friend!

"No! Dear God, nooo! Chris!" he cried, frantically shaking his silent mate. But Larabee wore the same mask of death as the Kat Cong soldiers he had killed. "NooOOOOO!!"

Six men burst onto the second storey landing of the ranch house, guns in hand, summoned by Vin’s cry. Larabee forced open the bedroom door.

"Vin!"

The sharpshooter was thrashing, and awoke startled as his colonel shouted his name.

"Chris?"

Larabee crossed to the bed and crouched.

The younger man’s eyes were glazed with confusion and he pulled against the sheets tangled around his limbs. With dogged determination, Vin attempted to free himself.  

"Easy," Chris soothed, reaching for the dazed man’s trembling shoulder.  "Easy, Vin. It's alright."

"Chris?... where the hell am I?" he demanded, scanning the unfamiliar room, his eyes flashing with the terror he felt.

"The ranch. Relax. It was a dream."

"A dream?" The words echoed in Vin’s racing mind. Abruptly the vacuum folded and he remembered. The Hawks... the hospital... the boys... his amnesia... a dream.

"Hell," Vin grunted, the tautness leaving his face.  He pulled himself upright, shut his eyes and ran his hands through his damp hair as he attempted to force the memories back to wherever they’d come from.

The dream had been warped and inaccurate. He remembered the incident the nightmare was based on.  After taking out the scouts, Chris had ordered them to surround the twenty man squad and they’d taken the small company of Cong alive. There had been no massacre. The Cong had surrendered the moment they realized they were surrounded. It hadn’t been easy transporting so many prisoners, but they’d done it. The action had drawn criticism from many quarters, most believing it would have been simpler if the STF1 had shot the twenty Cong and saved everyone time, money and trouble, but that wasn’t the way Larabee’s team operated.

"Relax. I’ll get Nathan," Chris stated with great concern, untangling the sheets.

"No. I’m okay," Vin insisted, opening his eyes.

Larabee stared into his friend’s pale face, the light from the hallway illuminating his dilated pupils. There was a fine layer of sweat covering his face, arms and chest and the windows to his soul stared back at Chris revealing anguish. 

"Your memories of Kat are coming back," Chris cursed. He’d prayed Vin would be spared them.

“Yeah, but I’m... I’m okay.”

"You look like hell.  Nathan," Chris called insistently.

"Dammit, Larabee.” Vin growled, his expression twisting with annoyance. “It was just a nightmare." The medic entered the room, his expression mirroring Larabee’s. "I’m alright, Nathan. Go back to bed."

"We need to monitor this, Vin," the dark skinned man explained, reaching for Vin’s brow.

"I said I’m okay," Vin snapped irritably, slapping the well-meaning medic’s hand away.

"You’re not okay.  None of us were," Nathan commented quietly. “Talking about it helps.”

Vin’s eyes darkened. "I don’t need to talk about anything. Go back to bed. Both of you."

Nathan glanced at his leader, waiting for Chris’ decision. Larabee inclined his head and Nathan left without comment.

"Talk to me," Chris ordered. It was essential.  Vin had to address his memories, not sweep them away and bury them where they could fester.

"Chris..." His leader’s expression revealed immovable determination. "It was just a dream. A routine attack...but it was all wrong.”  His gaze became distant, and his voice lost volume.  “We didn’t kill those Cong. We took them alive... I don’t know why I... everything was mixed up."

"Nightmares usually are,” Chris commented, rising and sitting on the edge of the bed. “Your worst fears play out."

"I’m okay. Go back to bed." Chris didn’t move. "There isn’t anything you can do, Chris. I have to deal with this."

Larabee frowned. He desperately wanted to protect Vin from the hell ahead, but how did he insulate his friend from memories?

Tanner’s chin bobbed in assurance and reluctantly Larabee left.  He was greeted by five concerned men on the landing. Josiah, Nathan and Buck knew exactly what Vin was going through. Each had suffered insidious nightmares following Katinda.

Ezra and J.D. waited, wanting to offer whatever support they could. On their leader’s signal, all disappeared to their respective rooms.

Wearily, Chris returned to his bed and listened, but the house was silent.  He remembered his own hellish dreams on his return from Katinda. Incredibly, the STF1 colonel hadn’t suffered nightmares during the war and yet, when he’d come home, every night he’d been plagued by them. Versions of the truth... of what could have happened, not what did. Josiah insisted it was normal. They were men of conscience and their conscience would not let them forget what happened... or what could have happened, thus nightmares that started somewhere in reality, ended in a hallucinatory abyss of hell.

While in Katinda, the reasons for their actions were clear and required no justification. Once home, each had questioned their own conduct. Things were no longer as cut and dry and the reasons less clear. With time, and a lot of support from each other, the nightmares had faded and were replaced by dreams that replayed only the reality of the situation, though that wasn’t particularly cheerful. Chris and his men had done what was required to survive and end the conflict. Their actions had not always been pleasant, but had been necessary. They had killed other soldiers, but only in battle and only when there was no other course of action open to them. The STF1 had taken more prisoners than any other group during the war. The process of coming to terms with their individual role in the conflict hadn’t been easy, but now they could look back with acceptance.

Vin had never gone through that healing process. His amnesia had prevented it. Now, he not only had to deal with justifying his actions, but also regain the memories of each and every horrific and barbaric incident connected with his time in Katinda.  Unfortunately, the memories were not realistic or accurate, but warped by Vin’s own doubts... by what could have happened, rather than what did. Worst case scenarios, not facts, and all because he was a decent man with a conscience.   As a member of the STF1, he had seen the worst the war had to offer. His reality was bad... his nightmares would be worse, and that worried Chris.

Emotional, mental and physical fatigue amalgamated and sent Larabee back into a restless slumber. 

His sleep was short.

**********

Running.

Running!

Frantically manoeuvring his way through the thick foliage.

He had twenty minutes. Twenty short minutes to get the message through. Without the orders he carried locked in his mind, 'L' squad would have no idea when the air strike would come.

Chris had been incensed Travis couldn’t find someone else to deliver the orders, but there had been a lot of mixed messages lately. The general wanted to ensure this one got through, thus his insistence Chris arrange it. Larabee’s sharpshooter was the youngest and fittest on his team and so Chris had no choice but to send him.

His keen eyes picked up the hidden punji trap. Leaping across it, his legs continued to push his body toward the co-ordinates he’d been given. Despite the speed he was moving at, his breathing was coming easily and he didn’t feel tired. He swerved to avoid another punji trap. The K.C. had heavily trapped this area.

Still running, his eyes darted from side to side identifying every trap and mine. His ears searched the jungle for signs of human life. Josiah had warned him to watch for land mines. The Kat Cong had begun to use them extensively after stealing an entire shipment from a French arms depot. He knew his Colonel hadn’t wanted him to run this one. Only hours before, his team had returned from a mission. Mentally, he was tired. Physically, he was still able. At least, that's what he thought. Basically he was weary, but 'L' squad needed these orders.  He knew the area and was the most capable of the men available to do the job.

Chris had wanted the entire team to run the message in, but that wasn’t practical. There was no way the likes of Josiah would be able to sustain the pace. Besides, the more of them there were, the more the K.C. snipers had to shoot at. As a result, he ran alone. Alone in a physical sense - isolated emotionally.

A rustle!

Reflex saved his life. Bullets ripped the ground where he’d been standing. Coming up in a crouch, he fired. He didn't consciously aim, but the bullet found its mark. If there was one sniper in this area, there would be more, and now they knew he was coming.

Wish you were here, Chris.  His weariness became a conscious feeling. Rising carefully, he set off low to the ground.

Movement to his left. His aim was dead on target.

A breath. Again his finger squeezed without his brain actually telling it to. Another K.C. sniper fell to the ground with an empty thud -- three more within three hundred feet. His instincts had not failed him.

A shot rang out about a quarter of a mile away. Six shots followed. What the hell was going on ahead? Then an explosion rang in his ears despite the distance he was from it. Someone had just made the fatal mistake of placing his foot on a land mine.  It was a sound all of its own.

Continuing his mission, he wondered if the victim of the land mine was an ally or an enemy.

 Two more snipers hiding only feet apart. Vin fired. Now they lay dead only feet apart.

The smell of burning flesh greeted his nostrils as he drew closer to where the explosion had echoed only seconds before. He knew not to look. It was one of the first things Chris had taught him. No matter what the inclination, you didn’t look.

Pushing his way through the jungle, he was greeted with tragedy - 'L' squad. Four of the men uninjured by the blast, fired on him. He dived for cover, screaming, "I'm American!"

Two of the soldiers rushed to him apologizing. Expertly he surveyed the scene - he had no choice but to look. There were three dead, one in several pieces. Five were injured lying neglected on the ground -- three hurt in the blast, two from previous engagements with the enemy. The four uninjured returned to tending the wounded. Their desperate expressions belied their concerned actions. They were experienced soldiers.  They knew hell had found them.

Swiftly he offered whatever assistance he could. Reassuring one of the soldiers, he bound the man's burnt arm using skills Nathan had taught him. If only Nathan were here. The soldier’s arm was a horrific sight - black, charred, weeping. How did Nathan do it?

One of the other wounded started screaming. The pain was too much. The rest of the squad stood and stared - frozen in tragic horror. He reacted immediately, grabbing a stick and shoving it between the injured man’s teeth

"Bite it," he ordered, more calmly then he felt. The man obeyed.

Looking down, he discovered the source of the man’s agony -- first degree burns from the thigh to the ankle. This man wouldn’t make it. With no medical facilities to treat him, he would shortly go into shock and die.  The remaining members of ‘L’ squad frantically sprang back into action.

The situation was hopeless. The K.C. snipers in the area would have heard the blast and screaming, and would be zeroing in on them. They would arrive any minute.

He scanned the scene again, searching for a solution. There were too many wounded to carry.

"Shaun?  Shaun!" one of the soldier’s shouted as he desperately tried to find a pulse.

"Quiet! You'll bring the K.C. straight to us."

"Who the hell are you?" one of the soldiers demanded.

"STF1. I was sent with a message about an air strike.”  It was strange how priorities could change so quickly. “We've got about three minutes before Cong’ll be swarming all over this place."

"He's right," the Irish Sergeant agreed.

"What are we going to do?"

Each and every one of them turned his gaze to him.  What the hell did they want? A miracle! They couldn’t stand and fight. The Cong had a strong hold here. There was no telling how many were out there. The only way out was to retreat - and retreat quickly. He could already hear the enemy approaching. In situations like this there was only one way -  every man for himself. The wounded would have to get out the best way they could. Realistically, that was the only choice, but he knew 'L' squad was a team, like the STF1. These men were part of an Irish Special Squad. They had seen a lot of action and would not leave one of their own behind... he wouldn’t expect them to.

His heart rate increased. He had to do something! One of the wounded died.

Cowboy. Reaching for his hand set, he did the only thing he could think of - he summoned a miracle.

"TWO to WINGS. TWO to WINGS. Do you read me?" Come on, Buck! Buck had dropped him close to the area. The pilot was waiting only a couple of miles away. The rest of the team was back at camp - too far away to help.

The radio crackled and the very welcome voice of Buck Wilmington filled the air.

"I read you, TWO. What's up, kid?"  Kid! He hated that term and the memories it stirred up from his past, but right now wasn’t the time to think about that. Relief flooded his system. He wasn’t alone. In this God forsaken place, he had found something he had never had before and because of it, he was never alone.

"Buck, the situation is red. We have five dead and four wounded. The Cong are moving in. I need some help." There was no time for codes. He needed help, now.

"I hear you, TWO. Can you give me your approximate position?" Buck’s voice was calm.

"I’m about six miles from you. I'll send a grenade up so you can pinpoint us."

"Got you. Keep your head down. I’m on my way."

"Will do. Grenade in sixty seconds."

"Roger, out."

Glancing across at the men still rushing around and trying to attend to the wounded, he shook his head. They had lost five of their team. He could not imagine losing anyone in his.

Three seconds... two... one... and he sent the grenade hurling into the air. The explosion echoed sending branches and leaves showering the group. Seconds later, Buck’s chopper swooped over them and sent massive fire into the jungle ahead. Muffled screaming indicated the K.C. thought they were under full attack. Listening intently, he identified the sounds of their retreat. The K.C. were running, but that wasn’t the end.  There were still four wounded. Two critically.

"TWO to WINGS. Thanks, mate."

"How is everyone?"

"Not good. We need medical help."

"I'll see what I can do. Hang on."

"Roger. Out."

Helplessness consumed the men of 'L' squad as they watched their mates die in agony.

He hated burns. Bullets wounds were bearable, but burns were cruel. He tried to cool the skin of one victim by pouring water on the burns, but to no avail. Cradling the soldier in his arms, he attempted to reassure someone he didn’t know.

"I'm going to die, kid, aren't I?"

What the hell was he supposed to say? "Just hang in there. Help’s on the way."

"Shit you're young. How old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

"What the hell are you doing here? You’re barely out of school! I've got a kid. He's sixteen. Not much younger than you."

"I'll bet he's proud of his Dad."

A smile creased the man's lips. "Yeah, yeah he’s proud of his old man. You know... Oh, God!"

"It's alright." He felt so stupid telling another human being everything was alright when the other was in such agony, but what else could he say? The man's eyes stared into his and then they went blank. It was a look he recognized. He’d seen it so many times... too many. The soldier had lost his fight for life. Death was never a pretty sight. The dead man continued to stare with open, glazed eyes.

He felt ill as he closed the man's eyes to provide him with dignity, and then lowered the body to the ground. He'd done everything he could - hadn't he? What else could he have done?

One of the Irish soldiers moved closer.

He didn't expect anything. Abruptly, there was splitting pain on the side of his head. He felt his body hit the ground. Everything went dark. Reflex pulled him into a standing position. His vision cleared.

"You bastard! You let him die!"

He stared at the grief stricken Irishman who had struck him so mercilessly. The feeling of vulnerability and the need to find a reason for all this stupidity had led the man to lash out. The soldier blamed him for the death of his team mate. But... he'd done everything he could - hadn't he?

"There was nothing I could do. He died of shock."

"You let him die!"

"I..." His head was swimming. The other man had hit him hard. He began to reel. "I did everything I could...."

**********