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Shaw dropped into the pit and began his descent. He paused briefly and looked up.
The dust from the explosion had not settled, and all view of the anxious faces above was obscured.
On the perimeter's rim, Lieutenant Sanchez' men still crouched behind trees and rocks, maintaining an intense rate of fire into the thicket-covered gully. Since the first shots he had lost one dead and eight wounded. He also had been hit, a bullet passing through his thigh and out again. He tore off his battle jacket and wrapped the entry and exit holes with his undershirt.
"Their fire has slackened," commented Sergeant Hooper, between spits of tobacco.
"It's a miracle any of them are still alive in there," Sanchez said.
"Nobody fights that hard but fanatical terrorists."
"They're well trained. I have to hand them that." He hesitated, listening. Then he scratched an ear and peered between two large boulders that shielded him. "Listen!"
Hooper's brow furrowed. "Sir?"
"They've stopped firing."
"Could be a trick to sucker us in."
"I don't think so," said Sanchez. "Pass the word to cease fire."
Soon a strange silence settled over the battle-scarred woods. Then slowly a man rose out of the thicket, his rifle held high over his head.
"Son of a bitch," Hooper muttered. "He's wearing full battle dress."
"Probably bought it at war surplus."
"Smug-looking bastard."
Sanchez rose to his feet and casually lit a cigarette. "I'm going in. If he so much as picks his nose, cut him in two."
"Stay off to the side, sir, so we have a direct line of fire."
Sanchez nodded and walked forward. He stopped a yard or two away from Sergeant Bentley and looked him over. He noted the blackened face, the netted helmet with the twigs sticking out of it and the enlisted man's insignia. There was no trace of fear in the face. In fact, there was a spreading smile. "Good morning to you, sir," greeted Bentley. "You in charge here?"
"No, sir. If you will please follow me, I'll take you to him."
"Are you surrendering?"
Bentley nodded. "Yes, sir."
Sanchez leveled his rifle. "Okay, after you."
They stepped through the bushes djefoliated by bullets and into the gully. Sanchez' eyes took in the scattered bodies, the gore-sopped earth. The wounded stared back at him with indifferent interest. Three men who looked unscathed snapped to attention.
"Straighten up the line, lads," said Bentley sternly.
Sanchez was at a loss. These men didn't fit the picture of terrorists, not any he'd seen or heard about.
They appeared to be uniformed soldiers, highly disciplined and trained for combat. Bentley led him up to two men resting beside an excavated hole in the ground. The one who looked like he'd been rolling in dirt for a detergent commercial was bent over the other, cutting away a boot that was filled with blood. The man stretched beside him on the ground gazed up at Sanchez' approach and threw ajaunty salute.
"Good morning."
A cheerful lot, thought Sanchez. "Are you in command here?"
"Yes indeed," replied Macklin. "May I have the honor of your name, sir?"
"Lieutenant Richard Sanchez, United States Marine Corps."
