His mind went back to the circling Antonov. He had stood by the open jump door, wind tearing at his clothes, and watched the light flash in the darkness below.

Long, long, short, the light flashed. The letter G in Morse, It was the agreed signal. So why this sense of danger?

The valley dimmed as a cloud covered the moon.

Suddenly, on the east side of the valley to his left, figures emerged from the forest. Almost immediately more men appeared on his right. Then a third group came out on the northern end, straight ahead of him.

For a moment Bolan thought they might be Nark and his Montagnards come to look for him, but they were too silent for that.

A reception committee was a noisy affair, especially when the parachutist landed as far off the drop zone as he had. People would thrash through the bushes shouting instructions to each other, calling the parachutist's name.

But this group was on a manhunt. They moved furtively, communicating by hand signals, and they held their weapons at the ready.

The moon came out from behind the cloud and Bolan could see them better. They were soldiers and wore the distinctive fatigue caps of the Nationalist Chinese.

Tiger troops. It was a trap!

Bolan looked around for an avenue of escape. The only one was the way he had come, to the south. Even then it would be touch and go; the moment he left the bamboo they would see him.

He unhooked two Slepoy grenades from his gun belt, took one in each hand, and armed them using the opposite index finger to pull the safety ring. He glanced at the sky. Another cloud was approaching the moon. The gods were on his side.

Bolan waited, a motionless shape in the night.

To the north, a line was being formed, the original group swelled by new arrivals. They began to sweep the valley like game beaters while those on the side made sure their prey did not escape that way.