Just before the mission got under way, I saw the shooter pass the pictures to Ondine. As soon as he handed them back, Pink pulled out his Zippo and torched them. Pink was giving Ondine some respect with this preview. A little r-e-s-p-e-c-t, so he doesn’t come off like some fucking new guy, I told this to Dang, who said that Captain Barnes had stonewalled Ondine, saying that the shooter had a target all right, and Ondine would be informed on a need-to-know basis. As far as Ondine was concerned, the team’s main mission was cartography. Intelligence knew Charlie was running wild in Cambodia and they wanted B-52 targets. When I saw Pink burning the pictures and became part of the secret, Ondine told me to procure an M-14 from the armory. I was one of the better marksmen on the team, and if special ops thought they needed to send us some lame-ass dogface for an assassination, Ondine was going to prove there was no need. Anyone on the team was up to it. Ondine was resentful that Captain Barnes had so little faith and to tell you the truth, Pink was not that impressive—he was a wiry little motherfucker, making the rest of the team look like Clydesdales in comparison. Actually, wiry wasn’t such a bad condition. Ondine had been in a pisser of a mood—restless, edgy and full of bitterness. I didn’t think it mattered. I still believed that luck was with us. At least until I saw the dink on the bicycle. I was sure I locked eyeballs with the cocksucker and now felt like my luck was all used up. I was conflicted as all hell.