"Ricochet, this is Black Tiger 06, over." Captain Yano's voice was freighted with tension.
Mitchell swallowed. "Go ahead, Black Tiger."
"We're still dug in pretty deep. You have at least ten Tangos moving toward your position, maybe more, and we can't cut them off from here. We've been calling for air support, but they're saying the zone is still too hot. You need to get out of there, over."
"Thanks for the heads-up. Ricochet, out."
Mitchell hadn't bothered calling for air support because he knew it would only come if the battalion commander was willing to risk those birds flying low over the jungle. The commander was no doubt monitoring all communications and knew very well what was happening.
Nevertheless, Mitchell made one last attempt himself, and to his utter surprise, Major Vic Zacowsky, the company commander, said he'd convinced the battalion commander to commit their three evac choppers to the fight. The Black Hawks were en route: ETA ten minutes.
Rutang and Carlos still had their headsets clipped on and had been listening to the channel. "They'll be late," said Rutang. "I just know it."
Mitchell nodded, keyed his mike. "Billy? I'm coming to get you, over."
"I hear that. Better run. I'm seeing movement out in the trees--those guys Black Tiger called about."
"On my way." Mitchell eased himself across the rocks, came around the other side, then rushed down the hill, a wave of adrenaline coursing through his chest.
Once again, he slid down the muddy stream, dropped onto the rocks, then stole his way past his dead teammates to reach Billy, who was right where they'd left him, M9 in hand, tube dangling from his chest. His breathing had become more labored, with blood now leaking from the tube.
Between labored breaths, Mitchell managed, "Hey, Sergeant. Time to go."
The man's face tightened in agony. "Okay."
"Here comes the part you won't--"
Mitchell cut himself off at the sound of a faint whoosh growing louder: an incoming mortar.
He dropped down over Billy, shielding the man's head and face as the mortar round blew apart the hill above them, the boom stinging Mitchell's ears.
As if cued by the burst, rounds scissored through the trees behind them, and Mitchell pushed himself in tighter against Billy. He knew if he returned fire they'd finish homing in on his position, despite his carbine's flash suppressor. If those Arabs had trained the kids right, they'd been taught to estimate enemy positions based on the telltale pops and cracks.
But Mitchell did have a couple of frags left. He reached into his web gear, drew one out, pulled the pin, then turned and hurled it toward the string of muzzle flashes, four, maybe five in all, festooning the rows of trees like Christmas lights.
"Okay, Billy, here we go," he said--a second before the grenade exploded.
He hauled the weapons sergeant onto his back and started off, leaving behind the shouts of the remaining terrorists and several incoming volleys of AK-47 fire.
"Ricochet, this is Rutang. I can see you. I know you can't talk, but they're moving in from your six. I can hear the choppers. I'll pop red smoke down there. Just keep running, Scott. Don't stop!"
The first mortar round had dug a crater surrounded by dozens of muddy pools, while rocks and split tree limbs now littered Mitchell's path. He circled around, but it was getting harder to see through the swirling dust. His right leg ached, and a warm, trickling sensation drifted down his calf.
Don't stop. That was right. No matter how he felt. No matter what he heard or saw.
But his legs just weren't capable anymore, every muscle blazing, his hips straining against the load until his boot rested squarely on a rock, and his ankle began to twist. He screamed and shifted his weight, getting off in time before the searing pain ripped through the ankle. He staggered forward, nearly fell, regained his balance.
"It's okay, Scott. Just put me down."
Another mortar exploded off to their right, maybe forty meters, followed by a fresh wave of incoming rifle fire.
"Hang tighter," he ordered Billy, then raging silently to himself, Mitchell poured everything left into his stride. He bounded up the hill, digging deeply into the mud, grunting through his teeth with every breath.
The fire in his legs had worked into his spine and fanned across his shoulders. He stooped over even more, about to drop Billy.
He had a dozen more steps.
Rutang appeared up top, reared back, and hurled his M83 smoke grenade, which landed far behind them and began to hiss . . .
Ten steps now. Six.
Four.
On the day he'd announced he was joining the army, Mitchell's father had told him, If you're going to be a soldier, Scott, then be the best.
A mortar whooshed down, somewhere directly behind him, and with the hairs on the back of his neck tingling, Mitchell threw himself and Billy around the rocks and into the crevice as the mortar exploded behind them.
They tumbled across the rocks and came to a bruising halt on the stone, arms and legs jutting into each other's faces.
Mitchell held his breath a few seconds more, then chanced a gasp, the stench of the explosion sending him into a fit of coughing. He pulled himself out from beneath Billy, then turned his gaze skyward at the spirit-lifting whomp of incoming Black Hawks.
Billy began screaming, the chest tube nearly wrenched from his body. Rutang was already attending to him while Carlos could barely keep his eyes open.
Above the drumming helicopters came shouts in Arabic, shockingly close now--right near the base of the hill.
Mitchell swung around his rifle to the ready position and hauled himself up, out of the crevice, wishing he hadn't looked back at his men. They were barely recognizable behind all the blood and mud.
He moved forward and shifted along the rocks, keeping his shoulder tight to the stone until he could hazard a look around the corner.
Two gunmen came charging up the hill.
Mitchell burst from cover and unleashed fire on the lead man, cutting him down.
The second guy dropped to his belly and rolled. Mitchell fired on him, but Rutang's red smoke began wafting back over the hill, blanketing the entire area.
Even as Mitchell squinted hard, rounds suddenly chewed into the rocks at his shoulder, ricocheting and sparking, sending him down low behind the rock. He swore and caught his breath.
One of the Black Hawks wheeled overhead, the door gunner leaning hard into his M134, rounds and tracers lashing out into the jungle like a phosphorescent tongue.
Mitchell came back around the rock, blasted by rotor wash and smoke, but even through burning eyes he spotted the thug below, who was running straight up at him to avoid the minigun fire stitching into his path.
All three of Mitchell's rounds punched into the guy's chest. He staggered back, fell onto his side, and rolled right into the door gunner's fire.
Before Mitchell's lips could even curl in a smile, something flashed from within a tree cluster across the valley.
And from that flash came a fiery streak of light, an RPG to be sure, arrowing straight for the Black Hawk.
In the time it took for Mitchell to crane his neck, the rocket struck the chopper and detonated inside the bay. Rapt by the surreal image, Mitchell just stood there a second as the bird pitched and turned erratically, trailing smoke and descending directly toward him.
One of the door gunners, his body engulfed in flames, bailed out, dropping some thirty feet to the ground.