Free Birth of the Wolf (Wahaya) by J. B. Peterson Page A

polished steel mirror in his camouflage kit.  Most of the camouflage he had applied the night before had sweated off, and much of what had been left had washed off in the river. 
    He quickly applied the light and dark colors to his face, not in the woodland camouflage of the Army, but in the pattern of the Ghost Warriors of the Cherokee.  On his bare chest, he put the Quechuan symbol of the wolf.  He fumbled through his small pack for one final aid to his planned entrance and placed it in the right front cargo pocket of the faded gray green trousers of his night suit.
    He grinned, remembering the fight he had endured with the brass at the Special Warfare School over the night suit.  Normally the Special Forces were extremely lax in enforcing uniform codes and regulations, teaching the very special soldiers to blend in with indigenous forces. 
    There were, however, some inevitable PR types who filtered through any system, and one of those had worn the silver chicken of a full bull colonel who felt that he had written the “book” on night operations.  He had designed a “night suit” for use by the Special Forces troops that was intimidatingly black and covered with zippered pockets. It was skintight, and as far as Nick was concerned, worthless.
    Nick had obtained, from an army surplus store oddly enough, several sets of 1967 era Vietnam issue jungle fatigues.  The OD green of the uniforms had washed out to a faded gray green that faded into the background of anything except snow. The color’s chameleon like ability to blend into varicolored backgrounds relieved the wearer of the burden of breaking up their outline with brush or vegetation. 
    In the dark, the colonel’s “night suits” were a darker black than the night around them and drew the eye towards themselves.  Nick’s old fatigues simply disappeared. 
    The brass had agreed with him, and there had been no more comments about his suit, but the stocks of the old jungle fatigues had disappeared rapidly from the surplus stores around Fayetteville and Fort Benning.
    With his eyes blackened almost like a raccoon’s and the pale sand color on the high areas of his face, he reached into his medicine bag and removed a beaded headband and placed it on his forehead. 
    Slinging the AK-47 casually across his back, Nick slipped silently to the edge of the trail leading to the ruins. His legendary ability to move undetected did not fail him as he moved to the edge of the stone walls of the ruins. 
    He reached into his right cargo pocket and removed the red smoke grenade.  Holding it carefully by the fuse, he pulled the pin and allowed the lever to slip off.  Setting it carefully on the ground, he stepped back and let the huge column of smoke rise silently.
    The warriors had noticed the thick cloud of red smoke, and so had Dave.  Dave had recognized it for what it was, and he tensed in the bonds the warriors had placed on him.  He was ready for his release so that he could help Nick. He might just as well have relaxed.
    Nick strode nonchalantly through the thick cloud of red smoke, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to make an entrance that way. His regal bearing, his massively muscled chest and the cut edges of his abs were all enhanced by the paint and the symbols he had drawn on his chest and arms and the beaded headband he wore.  His Cherokee features were more pronounced than ever, and he looked every bit the mystical figure he was pretending to be.  Even Dave was intimidated.
    Murmurs of “Zeev” raced through the drugged warriors, and the old Shaman rose to his feet to welcome the visitor.  For the Shaman, the mixture of vision and reality had long been difficult to distinguish.  His welcome of Nick was not conditional upon which Nick was.  It was obvious to the Shaman that Nick was the embodiment of the Spirit of the Wolf, which could assume whatever form it chose.
    Nick spoke formally, in stilted phrases the old Shaman would