The sound of tropical birds, and buzzing insects filled the lush jungle canopy.  A guerilla patrol of four men was moving through one of the many winding trails which led in and out of the brush.  Suddenly, those sounds typical to the jungle would fall silent, a sign that a predator was stalking the wilds.

Silent bootsteps fell, doubling back around the patrol.  The last man in the group had stopped to take a drink of water from the river.  He didn't even get a chance to scream, because as he leaned down, he saw his own reflection, and then a pair of eyes looking back at him, and before he could react, the cold steel blade of that serrated knife had been plunged into his larynx.  He tried to scream, but no sound came, except a muted gurgle as he drowned in his own blood, falling forward into the river.

The splash alerted the leader of that patrol.  He ordered the other two to wait while he went to investigate.  He figured it was nothing, but he could not have been more wrong.  Approaching the river, he saw his dead comrade, and crouched down to see what had caused his untimely demise.  Rolling the body over, he would hear a clink as a small piece of metal struck his foot.  By the time he had realized that the body had been holding that spoon on the grenade under the corpse, it was too late, the device detonating about his crotch region.  The blast killed him instantly.

That got the attention of the other two guerillas, who ran toward the sound of the explosion, knowing that something had happened.  The first to arrive fell on his knees, now in tears at the sight of his brother, who's entrails had been spread by the blast, bloody chunks everywhere.  The second went to run for help, turning, only to be greeted by a man with green greasepaint covering his face, before the guerilla could react, that same knife which had been used to dispatch the first, was driven into his eye socket, the man quickly getting behind him, and applying quick, direct force, snapping the neck of the guerilla. 

The last man rose in anger, reaching for his sidearm, only to have it torn from his grip by the impact of a .45-caliber round tearing through his hand, leaving him with bloody stumps where his index and middle fingers should have been.  Crying out in agony, he would see the man with green greasepaint approach him, vision blurring from pain as a boot struck him in the solar plexus.  Another shot would resound, the man on his knees slumping over, the round having entered through the socket of his right eye, and exited just at the base of his skull, blood pouring from the exit wound, grey matter being sprayed onto the ground with several fragments of bone, leaving four dead in that river clearing.

The man with green greasepaint would holster his sidearm, and survey the area.  Using the radio which he had been outfitted with, he would call in for an extract, the sound of that Black Hawk helicopter would be heard in the distance.

Four more victims would have been claimed by Echo Five Nine.