"There's a path up," the old fighter agreed. His face was seamed and weathered with the experience of life, but he was eager for the fight like the younger men, even if he knew what the fighting would be like, "It's camouflaged." 

It was old guerrilla skills to stake out the hunting ground, and he knew the hills in this area pretty well. He'd never be a map reader, but he was a guide with intimate local knowledge. He hunted water buffalo, boar and goat in these hills, emerald green and pinkish-tan, rustling with a bit of wind that barely relieved the heat. The Central Highlands were at the tail end of the rainy season, which made it easier for these young patriots to infiltrate in over the border. There was an old network of guides from the French colonial dayes and they knew the routes and the game. Some of them were working with the young men of the area to provide training and get them ready for the war of national liberation against the colonialists, but others, like him, were assisting the People's Army with setting up the necessary security to move men and equipment through Laos into Kontum province. By night, there was digging and tunnels, set up to provide a secure and hidden place for the soldiers to sleep by day, and a place to cache the weapons.

He slithered through the greenery patiently, deliberate about where he placed his feet. There was still moisture left over from the day's rain that'd soaked them, but it muffled the crackles and masked the sounds of movement -- water drops coming down tended to make a degree of disturbance in the greenery, as did the wind that cooled them. The trail he found was an overgrown one, so he had to move carefully, but he managed to sidle his way into position on the younger man's orders, with his Mosin, an old warhorse with an iron cap on the buttstock, which was a replacement lovingly made from local wood when the old one cracked from local moisture, in hand. He'd checked the barrel carefully, intimiate with the weapon's workings. It was important machinery, a valuable resource that was cared for lovingly. The old canvas sling was long gone, but the metal parts were oiled properly and kept very clean. The ammo too, was wrapped away in a rubberized pouch, kept very dry and away from mud. It wasn't a fancy weapon; it was designed in a far off land for peasant soldiers, and it filled the same function here. The younger men had the newer weapons and the enemy had a scoped rifle...but the man was the one who pulled the trigger, and if that man wasn't good quality, it didn't matter.


The arthritis created a dull, persistent pain in his shoulders and one of his ankles, a result of the weather shifting a bit, but he pushed that all down. Later, he'd rub down with hot towels and try to treat as best he could, but for now, he could fight. And with the worn-smooth wood of his rifle against his cheek as his eyes automatically adjusted to the primitive sights of his rifle, he was as ready as he'd ever be.

He didn't bother to think much of the Japanese or the French that came before, and when this man in his sights was dead, he wouldn't think much of him either. He was fighting for his home; he'd been forced to work on plantations and give up his village's wealth to corrupt Saigon-appointed mandarins. These incompetents came and beat one of his sons, in fact. He had a score to settle, and these traitors were just another enemy in the way of his nation's peace and prosperity...