The mighty Amazon rainforest. It stretched for hundreds of miles, like a green gargantuan stain on the face of the Earth. Hovering over it, at about an altitude of roughly 12 000 ft was a Bell 430, a commercial helicopter, manufactured in 1996; one of only 123. 13 years, and thousands of dollars in upkeep later, it still flew.

Over 6 hours of travel in said Bell 430 had tired the passengers. The pilot stared dutifully out the cockpit window. Jasan was wide awake in the passenger area. The passenger area was stripped bare; only two beds nailed to the floor for Jasan and his partner. He sat on his bed; it was stiff and uncomfortable. His back ached every time he slept on it. Still, some sleep was better than none.

"Descending." The helicopter's custom built PA system dinged. "Door opening." Jasan faced the speakers, embedded in the floor of the chopper. That, at least, was unique. The door to the cockpit opened, and the co-pilot strode out, stretching his legs. Jasan's partner, Deacon, awoke with a huge yawn. Eyes fluttering, he was still tired. The sleepy man sat on his bed also, staring into Jasan's eyes.

The eye contact lasted a mere moment. Deacon turned and grabbed onto a latch in the wall. Above it was a grappling hook, for easy escape. Or, Jasan reflected, for pulling unlucky enemy men toward you. Jasan stood, and stretched his arms, himself still tired, and slightly sore. His arm reached out and opened a locker beside him. It contained a gun; his prized M16A4. A silencer was affixed to its barrel. Grabbing it, Jasan stepped toward the door, as it opened.

Wind hit Jasan hard, and he stepped back. Suddenly, he was cold. The buffeting wind, combined with the cold Amazon atmosphere was penetrating Jasan's thing singlet easily. His khaki pants were providing more heat and comfort though. The helicopter's PA dinged again. "Second door opening." They were prerecorded, digital voices. Cold and emotionless.

The opening of the second door was also accompanied by an influx of cold. Jasan began to shiver, outwardly. Deacon stood, also, covered by his light, fleece blanket. "Watch that doesn't fly out." The co-pilot chuckled. Deacon turned to face him. "Huh?" He yelled.

As they watched the endless expanse of green, admiring the river that seemed almost carved into the landscape, a tiny contrail of smoke rose high into the air, almost to their altitude. Jasan squinted. "What the hell is that?" The co-pilot stepped toward, seemingly unaffected by the cold. Jasan pointed. "I'm not su-"

Suddenly, the tip of the contrail exploded. No fireball. Just a massive shock wave. The air seemed to split like the ocean. Trees beneath the contrail were uprooted and flung around the area. In an instant, 100 square feet of forest was cleared. But the wave didn't stop. It lost power on the ground almost immediately after the 100 foot radius. But not in the air.

The wave struck the chopper, and the cockpit glass shattered. Forsted fragments of glass bombarded the pilot. In the same moment, the chopper was thrust backwards, it's nose rising higher than the back. As the wave passed, it fell back down. But the damage was done. Deacon was sunsteady on his feet in a helicopter as it was. As the wave struck, he was flung sideways. With both doors open, he couldn't stop himself.

Deacon fell back onto his left foot. His right hand reached out for something to grab; there was nothing. The co-pilot reached out, but too late. Deacon's blanket caught a guts of wind, and he was dragged further backwards. Jasan turned to watch his friend get flung from the helicopter, out into the cold Amazon air.

The first thing that hit Deacon was the cold. Winter, it seemed, had settled on the Amazon rainforest like a cold, harsh behemoth. The air was buffeting him, hard. Suddenly, drops of water fell from the sky. In Australia, rain falls slowly at first. Then gets faster and faster. In the Amazon, it falls in one downpour. The rain pelted Deacon hard. Then he realised he was falling. "God!" He spat. Deacon panicked, adrenalin pumping through his frozen veins. Frantically, he searched for something, anything. Then he found it; his hand hit it hard. The pneumatic grappling hook.

Hurriedly, he unfastened the hook from his belt, and held tight. Squeezing the trigger, he looked down. Gasping, and rain stinging his face, he looked back up. To his surprise, the Bell 430 was lowering itself down toward him. Jasan stood in the open door, rain pelting him as well. The wind and the rain made for an unbearable combination. Jasan's voice came to him through a tiny earpiece he'd had inserted three hours earlier. "Fire it now!" He screamed. In the chopper, the co-pilot, still in the centre of the chopper, and mostly dry, tapped Jasan's shoulder, and his arm was pelted with freezing rain. "Uh.." All Deacon heard was the mutter.

Without a second thought, he fired the hook. It soared overhead in a marvellous arc. The air was becoming colder and colder as he fell, and the rain likened itself to frozen pin missiles. The first struck Deacon's face, and he cringed. The pain was extreme. The Bell continued to descend. Suddenly, the hook punched into the helo's stomach. Horrified, he watched it fall limp out the other side. Deacon swore, loudly, over the pouring rain. Then, quickly, it retracted and got caught.

"What!" Jasan yelled to the co-pilot, striking the man with fear. "Look." He said quietly, pointing. Then, Jasan saw the tensile rope of the grappling hook line the floor on the chopper. He kneeled, as it began to reel back. He hadn't even looked past the co-pilot's hand. The hook clamped on the wet underbelly of the helicopter. A loud groaning noise filled the tense air. "The shi-?" The co-pilot asked, cut off mid-sentence, as the grappling hook came loose, and slammed into his chest. The hook burst open, it's claws sticking into the co-pilot's body. Screaming with agony, he began to be pulled backwards.

Deacon felt the tug, and his arms felt as though they had been torn from their sockets. They nearly had. Then the hook slipped. He fell once more, horror overwhelming his body. He stopped again, and one of his shoulder's rippled in pain. "Jasan!" He screamed over the comm. "What'd I catch?" No reply for a second. The static. Then Jasan's voice, accompanied by a pained groan. "The co-pilot."

Deacon's eyes grew wide. No man could hold the hook in himself for very long. Nor could a corpse. He had two choices. Climb now, or let go. He didn't make a choice. He didn't have time. The hook came losse once again, and he fell a little. There was still a tug, however.

Water now lined the floor of the chopper. Blood mingled with it, dripping off in some places. It was a gruesome sight. Jasan now held the rope in his hand, dragging it toward the nearest bolted-down object. Deacon's bed. Slowly, he stepped one foot at a time, toward the bed. The wind lashed the chopper. For all they knew, no-one was piloting it. But there was someone. Though, he was bleeding severely. His blood covered the controls, dripping from wounds in his hands that had been received from the explosion of glass. Every movement was painful. But he knew Deacon had fallen, and he knew he had to save him.

Deacon just held onto the rope with one arm; his right shoulder had been severely damaged in the fall. Jasan was sweating like crazy, the huge weight on the end of the rope was a struggle. The rain was soaking Deacon to the bone, and he was becoming heavier with every drop. Several red lines marked his body; areas where the frozen missiles had bombarded him. The cold was almost unbearable. Shivering uncontrollably, he looked back up. He was slowly coming ever closer.

Jasan breathed heavily, and the co-pilot watched him struggle. Running out of breath and energy himself, he stood weakly, leaning against the wall to the pilot's cabin. Four red blotches of blood stained his shirt, and pain racked his body. A huge gust of wind entered the helicopter and turned the world into chaos. Hidden flaps burst open, and supplies swirled around the cockpit. The pilot's door burst open, and the chopper veered dangerously left. "Fu-!" Jasan began, as the slipped on the wet floor. He fell hard, landing on his chest. He grunted, trying to vent the pain. He felt the rope pull taught, and he began sliding, unable to stop himself. He had to let go. Either way, Deacon would die. Desperate, and paining, Jasan opened his hand wide, and the hook slid.

Deacon felt the rope fall completely loose, and knew there was no going back. In his teeth he held the blanket that had been the cause of this falling. He was breathing through his nose, and was shivering violently. The rope in his hand began to fall, and so did he. He'd never been more scared in his life. Free-falling at 10, 000 feet, with only the Amazon rainforest beneath him. And only a blanket and useless hook to accompany him. He shut his eyes.

Jasan stood immediately, ignoring the pain, and grabbed a nearby cloth. The helicopter was still a scene of chaos. Leaning against the wall for support, he stepped toward the co-pilot, now free of the rope. In the wind, a flap ahead of him opened, and smashed hard into the wall, centimetres from his face. Jasan slipped again, his right knee hitting the metallic floor. He grunted. The co-pilot groaned, and stepped forward. He was too dizzy. Blood stained his shirt.

Still holding the cloth, Jasan stood again. Rain buffeted the two men. The cloth was wet and heavy. But he made it. Jasan stepped right next to the co-pilot. "Shirt, off, now." Puzzled, the co-pilot followed his orders. Jasan quickly wrapped the cloth around him, tight. The blood pooled on the cloth, now. But eventually, it would stop the flow of the blood, and make it clot. "Now, what did you want me to look at?" Jasan asked. The co-pilot pointed. "Oh God.."

Another white smoke contrail. Then, the tip exploded. Jasan dived for one of the doors, and grabbed the handle. As the huge sonic wave closed in, he slammed the huge steel door shut. "The other one!" He screamed. The co-pilot turned, but too late. The wave slammed into the chopper. Already on an angle, the Bell 430 began to fall.

"Close that damn door!" Jasan screamed. The co-pilot ran for the door, and slipped on the wet floor. The chopper spun in a circle, slowly heading for the forest floor. Jasan sprinted across the cabin, leaping over the co-pilot and slamming into the door. His right arm throbbed, and he grabbed the door hinge with his left hand. "Help!" Pulling hard, he shut the door. "Drop!" He screamed.

Both men hit the ground. Anything that wasn't screwed down was spiralling through the air. A loud screeching filled the air. "What the hell is that?" Almost in response, one of the beds came off it's hinges, and smashed into the wall near the pilot's cabin. "Stay down!" The helicopter kept spiralling. Suddenly, it became shaking violently. The blades could be heard constantly slicing through something thick. Virgin wood; untouched rainforest.

Jasan stood, and tried to walk. Losing his footing, he took a huge step toward the pilot's cabin. The chopper hit a huge fallen tree trunk. The entire helo buckled, and tipped forward. The co-pilot slid into the nearest wall, as the chopper began to dive nose first. Taken completely off guard, Jasan slipped into the pilot's cabin. There sat the pilot, his hands and controls bloodied. Jasan hit the control panel. Despite the pain, he groaned. "How high off the ground are we?" The pilot strained to see his companion. "100 feet."

"Out, now!" Jasan tore the pilot from his seat, and began dragging him up the chopper. Now on a dangerous angle, the chopper was headed straight for the ground. "How long 'til collision?" Jasan yelled, the pilot now crawling beside him. "Three."
"What?!?!"
"Two."
"Co-pilot, move your ass!!!!"
"One."
All three men leapt for the rear of the chopper.

The Bell 430 didn't hit the hard ground. It hit even harder river. The already shattered windscreen stood no chance. Neither did the cockpit. Crushed almost instantly, Jasan, the pilot and co-pilot were all huddled together in a group at the rear of the chopper. Jasan held his gun, the M16A4. The co-pilot had Deacon's M4 Carbine. An ACOG scope rested comfortably on top. Everything else was the site of pure chaos. Bent and buckled metal. Explosions erupted from several core components of the Bell 430. It's blades, already damaged from the slicing on the way down, were completely buckled and smashed. Water burst into the cockpit and spilled out into main cabin. The right-side door was completely smashed open, torn down the middle by a huge tree. Jasan recognised nature's power. It could always destroy anything man made. But those contrail bombs. Were they after him, or for the purely commercial purpose of tree felling. Either way.

All three of the men were bloodied, bruised and totally exhausted. Jasan had cuts from the glass in the cockpit, the co-pilot had the holes from the grappling hook and the pilot had the slices and lacerations from the glass explosion. A small trickle of blood marked his face. Water kept gushing into the sinking Bell. Huddled up in the very back corner of the helicopter, all they could do was wait, and hope.

Suddenly, the chopper hit the bottom of the river. It lurched forward slightly, then stopped. They were safe. Unaware of the dangers of the Amazon's waters, Jasan sprinted forward, and slammed the cockpit door shut. No surprises. The destroyed right wall lay angled into the air. In the cabin, the water sloshed forward and back, and crystal clear, with the motion of the chopper. A warm, tropical air filled the chaotic area.

Jasan stood thigh deep in the cold, beautiful water. It sloshed at his feet, soothing his wounds. His legs were paining more severely; intensified by the healing properties of water. The liquid cleaned the gashes and soothed his legs, numbing the veins. He sat down in it, almost completely immersed, and lay his head back, wetting his hair. There was nothing quite as refreshing.

The pilot, bleeding and sore joined his friend. Groaning, he also sat himself down. Jasan closed his eyes and kept his hair under the water. "Names?" He asked. The pilot also shut his eyes, and took a full body dip, for a second. Resurfacing, he addressed Jasan's question. "Matthew. The other guy is Carlos." Jasan nodded.

The co-pilot ignored the water, and began to scavenge the wreckage. Huge pieces of shrapnel lined the chopper's main cabin. Official looking papers were scattered across the floor. Jasan stood, and left the water and headed for the right hand door. Suddenly, a huge burst of flame erupted from the cockpit.

Water gushed into the stomach of the steel behemoth. A huge alligator, carried by the tide, swept into the cockpit. It's bulky frame couldn't fit through the tiny corridor, built for humans. Carlos was stunned, momentarily. He sighed. More chaos. All three men leapt into action almost immediately. But, everything went wrong. Another huge burst of fire and shrapnel erupted from the left side of the chopper. It came from within the pilot's cabin. Essentially the entire part was torn open, freeing up the space of the deadly alligator. The flames lightly scorched the huge beast's scales. It didn't seem concerned.

It floated lazily on a tiny wave. It's eyes flickered gently. A false sense of security. Lovely. Jasan, still holding his gun, swam toward his tiny locker; a section built into the chopper itself. The door was torn off, and some scrap metal rested on it's hinges. But, still magentically fastened, was his knife. A huge hunting knife. Pressing the button in the centre of the magnet device, it came free. Right as the gator lunged. Knees bent, and feet planted on the wall, Jasan kicked away. The huge beast flew straight past him, coming to a grinding halt right in front of the wall, and then swimming lazily. Jasan gasped. Air. He needed air. The water was flowing in like crazy now. Barely a metre of space sat uselessly between the air and the chopper's roof. He didn't have much time. Kicking frantically, he broke the surface. Carlos was huddled right up against the rear section, still dry. His wounds would have seemed to ignite themselves on fire had he touched the water. Matthew surfaced near him. "Gator." Was all he said. Jasan nodded, watching the animal's raw strength and massive bulk carve effortlessly through the pristine water. Another huge burst of flame. The entire left side of the chopper fell away, heated intensely.

Most of the open space was filling with water. In about five seconds, they'd be trapped. Panicking, Jasan kicked harder and faster. Beneath the aquatic chaos, the alligator felt Jasan's kicking. It turned, and in the space of a second, rushed forward. Unable to stop the charging beast, Jasan simply dived under, heading straight down. He narrowly missed the beast's stomach, as it broke the surface. What it didn't know, however, was who held the knife. In the single spare second, Jasan threw the sheathed knife to Matthew, who now held it, unsheathed and glinting, in his hand. Without a pause for thought, he thrust down, with tremendous force. The blade pierced the alligator's brain, and it died instantly. Eyes wide, and blood leaking from the hole in it's head, the corpse of the massive beast was floating harmlessly.

Carlos felt the panels behind him rumbling, and he stepped forward. The water was lapping at his feet. Then, the entire tail section fell away, leading to a three- or four-foot drop to solid ground. Jasan watched it drop. Surfacing in a bare fourteen centimetres of water, he called to Matt. "Out, now!" He yelled, pointing. Beneath the water, the pilot nodded, and began swimming. His head pressing hard against the roof, and struggling for air, he dived. Carlos stood in the gap, not willing to jump onto super-heated metal. No-one blamed him. Simply because there was no-one there to do the blaming. Jasan and Matt surfaced behind him. They trekked out of the watter slowly, like something out of Pirates of the Caribbean, water falling in rivulets off their faces. "Go!" Jasan called. "Hot." Was Carlos' single word reply. Pushing him out of the way, Jasan threw off his shirt, scrunched in into a ball, and threw it at the large metal strip. The cold water hit the hot metal, and steam poured out from the shirt. Matthew did the same, with the same effect. "Jump."

The three men all leapt simultaneously. Landing on Jasan's now outstretched shirt, they leapt over the metal and onto the green grass. All they could do now was watch the Bell 430, after 13 years of excellent performance fall to nature's raw power. Nothing quite like it, Jasan thought. Sprawled on his back, head cocked up to watch the chopper, he looked around. The area was, certainly, a massive clearing. But it was what was at the far end that puzzled him. A cave. Huge, and with a circular shaped entrance, it was decorated with carvings. "Look." He said, sitting upright. It was about 30 metres away. The three men stood, and began walking, slowly. Only now, in a moment of peace, did they realize how tired they were. Carlos' wounds had stopped bleeding, yet not paining. Jasan felt his cuts and grazes flaming up occassionally. Matthew simply ignored the pain of his. A moment later, they were up against the wall, staring at the glyphs, completely dumbstruck. They were Aztecs symbols.

"Jesus.' the three men were standing in complete awe. "The final resting place of the Aztecs." Matthew stroked one of the carvings. An air of mystery emanated from the cave, like no-one had set foot in here for over 300 years. "In." The three men ducked in, and stood tall. Behind them, the light of the light forest tried to penetrate the obscene blackness, yet failed miserably. Ahead of them, was nothing they could see. Only black. They kept walking, arms flailing out in front, trying to grasp something, anything that will aid them.

The thin light completely vanished. Slightly nerve-racked, yet determined, the men pressed on. One more step, two, three, into possible oblivion. For all they know, it could be a trap. Four steps. Five. And light. Light flooded into their eyes as they kept walking. Twenty-three steps into the hellish black and there was light. It was unnatural, and slightly unnerving. Still walking, they rounded a corner. What they saw their took their breath away.

Gold. Piles upon piles of gold. TRILLIONS of dollars worth of the stuff. A small group of huts surrounded a tiny pit in the centre of the massive cavern. Two other gaping holes, exactly the same, pocked the cave. They were borne with Mayan and Incan symbols. Matthew examined the rim of this hole. More Aztecs carvings. "Oh my God." He said.

"This is THE final resting place of the Native Americans. But what about all this gold?" Only then did he realise how his voice carried. It echoed throughout the cavern. Anyone in here knew he was there now. "And the pit?" Then it hit him. The huts were of different make; Mayan, Incan and Aztec. The pit was a battle ground. The victors would have claim to the gold for a period of time. Then their would be more battle. Completely brutal, but strangely fair. The Aztecs, he guessed, were entitled to most of the gold.
Out of nowhere, three men stepped, all holding M4 Carbines. Jasan stepped back. Carlos ducked back into the dark. "Hello. Jasan."

"Deacon?" Jasan asked. "Sure enough." Deacon stepped into the light again, revealing his face. "How did you survive?" Deacon laughed at the comment. "Magic." He taunted. Suddenly serious, he held his Carbine to Jasan's head. "You see, Jasan. I've always envied you." He faced the gold. "So, as a final adieu, welcome to El Dorado." Jasan raised his hand. "So this is all about envy, then?" Deacon nodded.

Inside the rock cavern, two guns were fired, illuminating the cavern slightly. Shortly after, two corpses fell limp, to the ground.