There were too many ways to die in the jungle.<br > It had been a ferocious teacher， and in the past six<br >years he had damn near died from snakebite， from a half<br >dozen Asian diseases， from attacks by the CPT， the<br >~a% ~%q~e~Po! Pot s blood)~ sweeps， artillery from<br > various factions lobbing indiscriminate shells into the<br > bush. It had taught h~rn an anirna~ c~i~-<br > As he padded down the narrow trace through the<br > bush， his boots making little noise on the spongy ground，<br > his ears were sorting out the chatter of the monkeys<br > in the trees， the whistling calls of the birds in the mul-<br > titiered foliage overhead. His nose had picked up the<br > faint scent of smoke far off， not the usual burning of rice<br > straw or a fire to drive back the edge of the jungle， but a<br > mixture of smells， including the sweetish， nauseating<br > stink of burning flesh.<br > He began to trot， the .45 pistol heavy in the holster on<br > It the webbed belt around his middle， not a run， no， for the<br > heat would strike down a man who spen( too much en-<br > ergy too auickly. A trot， yes， the sweat pouring down<br > over the hard muscles of his bare back， the breath searing<br > in and out of his lungs， his legs hurting after the first<br > mile"<br > The smell was stronger. He could see the smoke now，<br > a faint haze hanging in the trees， not even a hint of a<br > breeze to dispel it， and he cursed to himself. Goddamn，<br > again. Always again.<br ><br >