The two men raced through the jungle.  Not the all-out gait of a track star running the 100M, but a more graceful lope marked by long strides and soft landings.  It was a technique called "stealth sprinting", created to effectively mingle speed and invisibility.  It was only slightly past noon, and the sweat was pouring off their scalps.  Normally, it would glisten, but the specialized camoflague facepaint absorbed and released the water into the air.  Their normally light skin was darkened by the thick paint, but, combined with the stealth sprinting, made them nearly invisible.<br/><br/>Ricky checked his watch mid-stride, then held his hand slightly to his right and moved it up and down.  He and Navrez, who was to his left, turned slightly, still maintaining their quick pace.  Even after maintaining this speed for twenty minutes, neither was particularly out of breath.<br/><br/>Suddenly, Navrez dropped, going prone instantly without making a noise.  Ricky, who had been trailing slightly behind, fell simultaneously, pushing himself into the damp soil.  Their dark green camo and painted heads blended in perfectly with the jungle's undergrowth.  As soon as Ricky joined him, Navrez began signalling with his hands.<br/><br/><em>One soldier, hostile, ten meters due south.  Engage?</em><br/><br/>Ricky made a slash across his fist.<em>Negative, endangers prime objective.</em><br/><br/>Navrez seemed unsure.<em>Interrogate, location of Resistance fighters near objective.</em><br/><br/>Gum hesitated.  Rica had a point.<em>Engage.  Non-lethal, no gunfire.</em><br/><br/>He nodded and both rose to a crouching position.  Navrez nodded a second and slowly moved forward, his Commando slung on the small of his back.  Gum had his weapon out, backing up his partner.<br/><br/>The guard was propped against a tree, a cigarrette clamped tightly between two lips.  She wore the light green fatigues of the paramilitary group Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC, the acronym for the Spanish translation), known locally just as "the Resistance".  She had a slightly too large green beret mounted on a head of light brown hair.  The height of the headwear indicated she had a sizable bun underneath.  Her weapon, an outdated Russian RPK, leaned against the same tree, stock in the ground.<br/><br/>Navrez finally reached the oblivious soldier.  As Ricky watched, he stealthily removed the rifle from her reach.  Still unknowing of the elite commando behind her, the Colombian woman took another drag.  Even as she expelled the smoke through her nose, Navrez clamped a hand over her mouth and pulled her roughly to the ground, quickly dragging her behind the large tree.  The cigarette fell to the ground, its tip still glowing red.  Gum lept up and grabbed the RPK.  He ejected the magazine and manually removed the chambered round, tossing both, as well as the gun itself, into a patch of dense ferns.<br/><br/>Meanwhile, Navrez held the struggling woman down, her screams sounding as high-pitched moans from under his black glove.  After a few seconds of constant panicked cries, he kneed her hard in the groin and spoke quickly in spanish.<br/><br/>The interrogation carried on for fifteen minutes.  After the first blow, the woman became very co-operative, especially when Navrez left his lengthy KA-BAR in plain sight.  Ricky stood guard.  Apparantly, she had been alone.  But a Resistance soldier in the middle of the jungle just doesn't happen, and there was bound to be a camp nearby.  He had checked his GPS; they were only two klicks from Opelle, and he was afraid the Resistance had occupied the town.  That would make things very interesting, to say the least.<br/><br/>Finally, Navrez stood up, his hand once again clamped over the mouth of the woman.  Her eyes were still dilated with shock, but her body language was much calmer now that the initial surprise had worn off.  "Good news or bad news?" he asked.<br/><br/>"Bad."<br/><br/>"Resistance has occupied Opelle," he said quickly.  "Moved in last week."  His voice carried a sharp edge: annoyance.  They had been told Opelle was Resistance free, but the Innies had been there for an entire week already?  Ricky would make sure heads would roll when he got back to Manta Air Base.  He had heard of breakdowns in intelligence before, but this...<br/><br/>"What's the good?"<br/><br/>Navrez cracked a smile.  "Ayla here is a 'Lieutenant' in the FARC, the third senior member of the force in Opelle."  He emphasized the Lieutenant; ranks in a paramilitary rebel group were for show and ego.  Judging by Ayla's ease in capture, she wasn't anywhere near qualified for the prestigious rank of El-Tee.  "I didn't ask yet, but I can tell she's got some good intel about FARC."<br/><br/>Ricky sized her up.  Ayla was slightly on the short side, with a skinny frame that lacked any serious muscle.  Her hair, which had come undone in struggle, was three feet long.  Her face was distinctly Latina with dark skin, full lips, and thick eyebrows.  Not ugly, but not beautiful.  He settled on cute.  She had nothing on her besides the pack of cigarettes and a box of matches.  No pistol, no knife, no radio, and no identification.<br/><br/>He eyed Navrez.  "And what's she doin' two klicks out?"<br/><br/>"Yo tiempo."<em>Me time</em>.<br/><br/>"Believable enough," he said gruffly.<br/><br/>A peal of thunder brought all three heads up, looking at the menacing clouds that bulged with water.  It was slightly past noon: the period of time known as "monsoon hour".  Judging by the clouds and thunder, it was pretty accurate.<br/><br/>Ricky slung his Commando, checking his shock-proof GPS once more.  "Ayla is now secondary objective: vital intel.  She's coming to us."  He glanced north, signalling the next statement.<br/><br/><em>Primary objective.  Move out.</em>