Singh looked at Felix and said, “Man say, ‘Welcome to Cambodia.’ ” Singh removed a bottle of bug juice and squirted it on a thick leech that was attached to the side of Felix’s neck. When he showed it to the tall marine, Felix recoiled in horror. Singh snapped the blood-engorged leech in half and grinned. Like Felix and the rest of the team, he was curious about the shooter, a small Chicano–Native American with an angular face and a pair of cheekbones sharper than razor blades. Pink showed up at Camp Clarke wearing Spec Five insignia and an Air Cav pink team badge just two nights before the patrol. Word circulated that Pink was a sniper from Special Operations. After Pink had lunch with the Colonel and Captain Barnes, he dumped his gear in Break on Through’s hooch, and broke out a manila envelope bearing grainy photographs of NVA Brigadier General Deng. Everyone knew about Deng—he was an unorthodox NVA strategist and major pain in the ass dating back to the battle of Dien Bien Phu. By all rights, Deng should have been in an old age home in Hanoi, not out in the field wreaking terror and mayhem. He had been old during the French occupation. There was no way he could still be in the field; it was supposed to be just another rumor. But then, too. You never knew. These motherfuckers didn’t quit. Shit, they didn’t know the meaning of the word.