As they neared the beach, the boat slowed and settled in the calm water. There was only about fifty feet of sand between the waterline and the jungle. Every pair of eyes in the little rubber boat scanned the beach and the thick jungle in search of a sign that they weren't alone.

Even with their night vision goggles there was nothing much to glean beyond the empty beach. The jungle was too thick. Insertions were always a tense part of the op, but for tonight, at least, the intel guys had told him that it was highly doubtful they would meet any resistance upon landing.

A large, mangled piece of driftwood sat at the water's edge. On Devolis's order the boat headed in its direction. Unless it had moved since this morning's satellite photographs, that was their spot. Just to the right of it, and in from the beach approximately a hundred yards, was a shallow stream they would use to work their way inland to the camp.

The boat nudged onto the sand beach, just to the right of the driftwood.

The men moved with precision and speed. This was where they were most vulnerable, here on the beach out in the open. They spread out in a predetermined formation that they'd practiced with numbing repetition. The lead men in the front of the boat maintained firing positions while the others fanned out, creating a small secure beachhead that provided 180 degrees of fire.

Devolis lay in the prone position slightly ahead of the others, the muzzle of his rifle pointed at his sector of the jungle, his heart beating a bit faster but under control.