and in lifting my eyes to see him, I brush against a bush. I stop but the branch swooshes in the air above me. As I shift the weight to my left foot, a twig snaps. My skin crawls. The old man lifts a bite of food to his mouth with his chop sticks, pauses at the sound, finishes his bite slowly, and looks carefully up in front of him. He knows something is behind him, but he is wise. He rises, pauses for an instant (his eyes flashing quietly at the brush), and walks away into the undergrowth. I put my knife back into its sheath, now aware of having drawn it. I move again, deadly quiet, past the small fire to the perimeter of the clearing. I size it up to see if it, too, is covered with stinking water. It isn't, but is even smaller than the one I landed in. It must be nearly time to call in. 0545. I listen carefully, but the sounds of the jungle are loud in my ears and I can't hear any engines droning. Then, slowly, almost imperceptible at first, I hear the chopper coming closer and closer, far away over the trees. I lean forward into my ears groping for the sound. I can almost hear the small green ferns growing beneath my feet. I smell stale. The odor of my body wafts up under the collar of my jacket and into my nostrils, pungent and warm. I have to establish radio contact. Again I pull the small blue radio from my pocket. The aerial extended, I push the CQ button in the hopes that the HUEY will acknowledge. Suddenly, on the third push, the earphones click to life. "Hello Sunflower." It is the same radio man. I'll have to buy him a beer when we get back. Good man. "This is guilded cage. We are closing on your position. Do you read me?" "RRRRoger, guilded cage. I read you five-by. Go ahead. The area is thick with Charlie, but he isn't expecting company." I lie, and hope it won't matter. "Locate my landing zone on a fly by, turn back at three miles, and drop in the northwest sector on your return pass. Let's make this fast, so Charlie doesn't have time to group. Roger?" Slowly, the small buzzing of the sweat flies gives way to the steady, powerful roar of the chopper's engine. I draw my gun, cock it, and watch the brass casing slip into the chamber. I crouch behind a large bush, almost in a runner's stance, and wait for the copter. My mind is whirring again - suddenly I think I hear hundreds of V. C. running out of the brush, shooting, yelling, brandishing flashing knives, ready to cut me to shreds my imagination is going wild. My gaze hurtles back and forth through the trees. I can almost feel them shooting me. Without warning, the chopper cruises over the treetops and passes. Minutes go by. It returns, whirls, hangs for an instant in the air, and drops directly in front of me, ten yards away. I rise to my full height and wave my gun. I want to explode. I run, charging through the brush, waiting for some unseen hand to knock the life out of my racing body. I near the door. Ten feet and I'm still running. Four feet and I throw my gun in. Two feet, I'm diving into the opening under the hot blast of the huge rotor blades. Large, muscled hands are dragging me into the chopper. The engines roar, we lift off, and I hear a few random zips as wildly fired bullets rip through the HUEY's thin shell. We are sixty, seventy, a hundred feet above the ground, hurtling above the trees. Several hands are patting me on the back. I'm panting and laughing; the tears are cascading down my face, blurring my eyes. Salty water drips past my nose to my lips, and I lick it with my tongue. I take a deep breath, look around, and see several expectant faces peering intently at me I smile, choke back the knot in my throat; and slowly melt into a rumpled heap on the floor as I swim peacefully into sleep, too tired to even speak. 20 FICTION CAULDEN'S MAGICAL DAY ROY WEBER NO MORE FAVORS BRUCE BOTHWELL 21