Han looked up, confused by the sudden explosion that had rocked the ground beneath him. Perhaps, he thought, the helicopter's fuel tanks had caught. Then the gun shots sounded, and he realised he'd blundered. 

"Everyone, spread out," he said, clambering to his feet. "Six paces apart." 

The group of Viet Cong jumped at his orders, arraying themselves into a loose line. They weren't nervous, no, they were eager. They lived to fight the Imperialist, and now they had him cornered. They did a quick check of their weapons, and signalled their readiness down the line.

"Death to the Imperialist!" Han yelled, surging forwards through the shrub.

His men cheered at his words, and broke into a likewise sprint. The crash site was up ahead, but so was the enemy. Caution may have served them better, but Han believed he was dealing with one or two survivors - not six. Besides, for all he knew Tang, Mach, Chiem were still in the fight. They'd swarm over the Americans, and put them out of their misery at the end of a gun barrel.