So then there were two of them.
Bachewychomp, the Backseater bit his lip in mock concentration but it was only the tension that was gathering in the small hollow at the base of his neck.
Mongo looked back at the smoldering wreck of the 0-1.
"We're fucked aren't we?"
Mongo said it matter-of-fact-ly, without any hint of the nervousness he felt at being shot down in Indian Country.
Bachewychomp hobbled upright, he gripped Mongo's shoulder. No good, Mongo thought, no good. That crash took something out of him, his eyes aren't the same...Bachewey pointed to treeline. They'd have to cross a thousand yards of elephant grass. Fast.
The Pathet Lao were sure to be in the neighborhood. Oh yes, and they loved American flyers and their Hmong Backseaters...they love us too much...
Mongo draped Bachewys arm solidly around his neck, and took a step forward.
I'll be a motherfucker, Mongo wheezed, we've both had the wind knocked out of us haven't we?
Bachwey looked at Mongo. His eyes understood the unspoken sentiment. Mongo let out a little chuckle. He let a slow grin slide across his face.
Something in his ribs argued with every movement.
They were only lightly armed.
Barely had any water.
Due to the beauracracy back in Vientaine, it would be hours before a rescue mission was launched...
Bachewy returned Mongos smile.
"C'mon." Bachewey's smile said. "You waiting for an invitation?"
They both hobbled towards the trees.
Someone would die today.
But not them.
"The God that makes iron grow,
loves no slaves."