Stephen Leather - The Tunnel Rats (Coronet books)

The scorpion's jet-black endoskeleton glistened as it scuttled away from the anvil-shaped rock. It moved quickly, its stinger arched over its back, leaving a trail in the sandy dirt the only record of its passing. The jungle at dusk was usually a noisy place, with birds and insects marking their territory before the final rays of the reddish sun disappeared below the horizon, but for several minutes there had been a heavy silence as if the whole world was holding its breath.

A small indentation appeared in the dirt in front of the rock, as if a ghostly finger had scratched the surface. The indentation formed a straight line and grains of dirt dribbled down into the crease. A second line appeared, eighteen inches away from the first and running parallel to it, then a third line appeared, and a fourth, and the lines slowly grew together until they formed a rectangle in the dirt. There was a gentle scraping sound from somewhere under the ground, then the rectangle of dirt lifted up. Grains of soil spilled around the sides as the rectangle tilted, revealing a bamboo hatchway into which dry leaves had been intertwined. The hatch was thrown to the side, uncovering a square hole.

A soft peaked cap made of camouflage material appeared, and then a face. The face was striped with light and dark green paint and there was no way of knowing where the flesh ended and the cap began. Narrowed eyes scrutinised the surrounding area for several minutes. Only when the man was satisfied that it was safe did he leave the hole, crawling on his belly like a snake, a silenced automatic in his right hand, an unlit flashlight in his left. As he crawled away from the hatch, a second figure appeared, another man wearing identical gear, but with a scarf of camouflage material tied around his head instead of a cap.

The first man knelt in the shade of a thick-trunked tree around which vines wound like the veins in an old woman's arm. He made an 'okay' gesture with the thumb and first finger of his left hand and beckoned for the second man to come out in the open, all the time his eyes scanning the jungle, alert for any sign of danger.

The second man joined him, a sawn-off shotgun cradled in his hands like a valuable antique. The second man nodded at the first, then moved off to the right.

A third head emerged from the hole. The third man wasn't wearing a cap, and his short, dark, curly hair was the only sign that he was of a different race to the first two, because every inch of his exposed skin was covered in camouflage paint. He crawled out, an M2 carbine with a paratrooper stock in his right hand, closely followed by a fourth man.

They fanned out until the four men were equally spaced around the hatch, far enough apart so that they couldn't all be taken out with a single hand grenade or a spray of automatic fire. The men were used to working together as a team and communicated only with small hand movements and nods. They remained immobile for a full minute until they were satisfied that they were alone in the jungle, then the man with the flashlight crept back to the hatchway.

A fifth man appeared at the entrance, his face contorted with pain, and the man with the flashlight helped him out. The fifth man could barely walk, and even with the other man's help he stumbled and fell face down into the sandy dirt. The back of his shirt was ripped and torn in more than a dozen places and streaked with still-wet blood. The man with the flashlight knelt down by the side of the injured man and checked his wounds with a professional eye. He patted the man's neck and whispered something in his ear, then went back to the hatchway where a sixth man was already crawling out into the open.

The eyes of the sixth man were wide and staring, the whites exaggerated by the camouflage paint smeared over his flesh. He stumbled to his feet and looked around anxiously as if wondering which way to run.

The man with the flashlight holstered his gun and gripped the shoulder of the sixth man, pulling him close so that their faces were only inches apart. 'It's okay,' he hissed. 'We're out.' The sixth man opened his mouth but no words came. The man with the flashlight glared at him with a fierce intensity. 'It's okay,' he said. 'Tell me it's okay, Rabbit.' He tightened his grip on the man's shoulder.

The sixth man visibly relaxed. 'It's okay,' he whispered.

'Again.

'It's okay,' said the sixth man, slightly more confident this time. 'I'm sorry, Doc. I lost it.

The two men stared at each other for several seconds, then the man with the flashlight nodded. 'We all lost it,' he said. He took his hand away from Rabbit's shoulder and stared at his palm. It was red with blood. 'Are you hurt?' Doc asked.

Rabbit shook his head. 'No. It's...' He shook his head as if trying to rid himself of a bad memory.

A seventh man climbed through the hatchway, a green headband holding his dirt-encrusted hair flat against his scalp. He had a rope tied around his waist and it tightened as he crawled away from the hole. 'Help me,' he said, through tightly gritted teeth.

Doc and Rabbit grabbed the rope and pulled, grunting with exertion. 'Are you sure he's... ?' began Rabbit, but Doc silenced him with a threatening look.

Together they hauled in the rope. Attached to the other end was the body of another soldier. The rope had. been looped under his arms and they heaved the body out of the hole. The neck was a mass of torn flesh as if it had been hacked with a dull blade and the shirt was caked with dried blood.

The seventh man took an eighteen-inch-long knife from a scabbard on his leg and used it to cut the rope from around his own waist. As he replaced the knife in its scabbard he saw that the back of his hand was covered with blood. He knelt down and wiped his hand in the dirt. His skin was a dark olive colour and even under the camouflage make-up his high razor-sharp cheekbones hinted at his Latino ancestry. 'Now what?' he said, looking up at Doc. His voice was flat and cold and his eyes were equally emotionless.

'Put the hatch back,' said Doc.

The man in the headband nodded and did as he was told.

Doc went over to the injured man and knelt down beside him again. 'On your feet,' he whispered. 'We can't stay here.

The injured man murmured something incomprehensible and struggled to stand. Rabbit came over to help and together with Doc he pulled the man upright. In the distance there was a low rumbling growl as if a thunderstorm was approaching. 'I'm all right,' said the injured man.

'Can you walk?' asked Doc.

'Don't worry about me,' he said.

The Latino slotted the hatch into its original position and smoothed dirt over it.

Doc looked over his shoulder. 'Sergio, put the rock over it. Rabbit, give him a hand.

The two men pushed the rock over the hatchway. Doc looked towards the horizon, smeared blood red by the dying rays of the sun.

'That was bad, Doc,' said the injured man.

'I know.

'Reafbad.

'Forget it,' said Doc, cOtfting his head and listening to the approaching thunder.

Rabbit and Sergio joined Doc and the injured man. Doc motioned for the three other men to join the group and they stood in a circle, avoiding each other's gaze as if fearful of what they might see in their eyes. The sun began to slip below the horizon and the shadows of the seven men faded on the sandy ground.

'That goes for all of us,' said Doc. 'We forget it. We forget it ever happened.

'There'll be questions,' said Sergio.

'And I'll answer them. No one gets blamed/No recriminations.' He looked across at the mutilated corpse. 'What happened down there stays dead and buried.' He looked back a; the men. 'Any arguments? If there are, I want to hear them now.' All six men shook their heads. Doc reached towards Rabbit and seized his hand. He wiped his forefinger across Rabbit's bloody palm, then smeared the blood across Sergio's right hand. He did the same to all the men, then held out his own hand, palm down. Sergio put his hand on top of Doc's, and one by one the men followed suit until there were seven hands piled one on top of the other. Below their feet the earth began to vibrate.