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mortar tubes were arranged in a neat line on the far side of a small hill. There were two battered Toyota pickup trucks behind them, and a gaggle of fifteen or so men lounging about. There was no conformity to their uniforms as far as he could see, but as he watched he saw precise movements by the mortar gunners, loading in unison and calling out shots. There were neat stacks of rounds behind them that an ammo carrier could keep bringing to each gun.
     
    Vince watched it all for a minute, trying to pinpoint the flow of the operation. It really had the laidback feel of a day on the gun range, and if he hadn't been on the receiving end of those rounds and had just walked up on the scene, he might've assumed that's exactly what it was.
     
    Vince Sweeney had no problem with killing these men. The odds of this being some random attack were high if not extreme, and while he liked their odds, especially considering the fact that there were no guards posted and most of the men behind the tubes had laid their weapons on the ground. Vince was still wary about leading his four-man band up against twenty or more if there were some he couldn’t see.
     
    In the end it wasn't Vince or even Karl who made the decision. It was Christian's grandfather, who hopped out of the creek bed and marched purposefully toward the enemy emplacement.
     
    "What's he doing?" Karl hissed.
     
    Christian looked as confused as Vince felt. They'd just lost their element of surprise. First one member of the enemy and then another followed by all of them raised their weapons. They began shouting at the unarmed man walking into their midst. The grandfather had his hands up and was saying something rapidly but calmly. There were confused looks exchanged by the men by the pickup trucks.
     
    "What's he saying?" Karl asked Christian.
     
    The boy shook his head, "I don't know, I can't hear. The mortars, they're still—” and just like that, the mortars stopped firing. Now they could hear voices, the grandfather's clear above the others.
     
    "He's saying, ‘You know who I am. You know who I am,’” Christian translated.
     
    It was apparent the old man was not offering himself as a prisoner to the enemy. The words spoken came from a position of authority. He was demanding to be heard. By now half of the men had lowered their weapons. The grandfather was speaking loudly again.
     
    "He's asking why they are firing on him and his friends. Why are they doing the work of the devil in their own land?" Christian continued translating.
     
    Then there was a commotion toward the back of the group, and Vince saw three more men running toward the pickups. One man stood out among the enemy troops. While the remainder of the rebel force had dark skin that ranged from cedar to ebony in color, this last man, who was yelling, looked to be of Asian descent.
     
    "Bingo," Vince said, raising his weapon.
     
    Now the Asian man was standing right in front of Christian's grandfather, but Vince couldn't hear what he was saying. There was obvious discord now. Vince could see it in their body language. Over half the men were listening to the grandfather while maybe a quarter took a less-than-resolute stand with the Asian man. Vince could feel the tide turning.
     
    Christian said, "He's asking them why they're calling this man, the stranger, their master when in fact it is his own nephew who would take care of them."
     
    This last question elicited the most drastic response. Now there were men backing away, as if being in the mere presence of the Asian would damn them for life. There would be no better time. Thanks to the old man, they'd taken back the mantle of surprise. It wouldn't be easy, but as an operator who'd fired millions of rounds over his career, Vince knew his shots would be true. He'd already picked out his first targets - the men who still stood behind the leader. The Asian man he would keep alive because he would make the perfect bargaining chip no matter the