"For Christ’s sake, we’re being shot at!" Charlie Bell cried

over the steady pat-pat-pat of semi-automatic gunfire.

"You think so, Bell? I don’t think so. I think that’s some

kid shooting off bottlerockets," Leslie Lopez shouted sarcastically as

the group of American journalists ran for cover. The four of them

scrambled behind a grove of trees, ducking down as the branches above

them were cut to shreds.

And then it became silent, the gunfire stopping abruptly. The

air was hot and sticky, smelling slightly of gunpowder. The heavy

breathing of the journalists sounded obscenely loud.

This was only their third day in the Republic of Congo, and already

this was their second brush with death. The first had taken place when

their rented Toyota had been ambushed by rebel forces and set on fire.

The Americans had had just enough time to escape before the flames hit the

gas tank.

The four crouched down in the brush, four pairs of eyes wide and frightened.

Charlie, a reporter for People, reached out and squeezed his photojournalist’s

arm reassuringly. Vivienne Gray bit her lip, pushing a lock of sweaty black hair

out of her eyes.

Leslie slowly maneuvered onto her stomach and the others followed her lead.

Out of all of them, Leslie was the only one with any experience in the military.

She had spent eight years in the army, wanting to go into special forces, but being

restricted because she was a woman. She was the camerawoman for a television reporter,

David Potsdale, who was an excessively vain man and cowardly to boot. Now David was

hunched over on the ground, his usually-perfect hair mussed and greasy, his face beading

with sweat.

Footsteps crunched somewhere near them and Vivienne fought the urge to look

around, or to get up and start running. She slowly turned her head in the direction of

the sound and sucked in her breath. A rebel soldier was standing only twenty feet away,

gun drawn, surveying the area. He took a few cautious steps forward and Vivienne closed her

eyes, trying not to panic. He was only moments away from discovering them when

David clambered to his feet, uttering a cry of utter terror, and tried to run. He got a

pretty good head start before he was gunned down by the rebel, the spray of bullets hitting

him square in the middle of his back. David fell to the ground and Leslie muttered an

expletive under her breath.

The journalists heard the rebel reloading, knowing that he was going to come over

the short ridge to the grove and find them in seconds. As the click echoed through the

trees, a spatter of gunfire came from the opposite side of the jungle, and Vivienne opened

her eyes to see the rebel falling, blood trickling from a wound in his temple. Blood

sprayed across the three prone figures as a dozen American soldiers came cautiously into

the grove.

"Are they dead?" a distinctly Georgian voice said softly. It was met with several

"shhh’s". Someone whispered an order and the soldiers branched out, carefully peering

through the trees.

Vivienne felt hot relief wash through her, making her shaky and weak. A strong

hand lifted her wrist to feel for a pulse and she squeezed her fingers to let the medic

know that she was very much alive. She sat up slowly, gingerly, watching as another

medic tended to David. He looked over at the man next to her and shook his head with a

frown, dropping David’s limp wrist.

Only seconds passed before bullets were ripping through the other side of the

jungle, obviously aimed for the Americans. The soldiers dropped to the ground, weapons

drawn, firing back with little or no cover.

"Damn it, lady, get down," a deep voice growled next to Vivienne’s ear. She was

pushed harshly to the ground as bullets whizzed over her head. The soldier who had

shoved her down covered her with his body as grass and mud flew up in chunks only

inches in front of them.

Something fell to the ground a few feet a way, first making a small "ping" sound

and then a steady sigh. Vivienne opened her eyes -- she hadn’t realized they were closed

tight with terror -- and was horrified to see a smoking grenade to their right. She cried

out and tried to move, but the weight of the soldier was keeping her in one place.

"Sit still!" he muttered.

"But -- but. . .grenade!" Vivienne stammered.

She felt his body tense as he finally noticed the device. He linked his arms under

her armpits and rolled with her to the left, away from the grenade. When the explosion

went off, the soldier and the journalist literally flew into the air, landing next to the

commander.

Captain Donald Greenfield looked at the disheveled pair and then at his men, who

were fighting bravely but using up their ammunition on an invisible assailant.

"Retreat!" he bellowed hoarsely. Captain Greenfield had never had to retreat in

his life -- but this was not conventional warfare.

The Americans continued to fire as they moved away. Captain Greenfield herded

the other two journalists to the middle of the group, then grabbed Vivienne’s wrist,

pushing her to the relative protection, as well.

"Wait!" she cried suddenly, trying to push her way out of the group. "My

camera!"

Before anyone could stop her, Vivienne was charging back into the clearing,

searching the tall grass and roots for her camera. She spotted it, picked it up, and was

immediately shot. The impact made her fly backwards. Her last coherent thought before

she fainted was the hope that she hadn’t broken her camera lens in the fall.