Mitchell took off, came around the outcropping, and swept across the hill in a full sprint, assuring himself that every step was good, that no bullet could touch him.
Blood dripped from his wounded arm, but he ignored it, swept a little wider, as the mud-covered hill boiled with even more incoming fire.
The drumming of all those rounds, the clinking of brass, and the screams in Arabic and Tagalog all funneled into a steady hum that no longer bothered him. In fact, the hum drove him harder, faster, back toward his fellow operators.
Mitchell stumbled down on his heels through a little washout, fell backward onto his rump, and began sliding along with the streaming mud, landing with a sharp thud on a bed of broken rocks. He crawled forward, looked up, and found himself a few meters from a little ditch.
He blinked, saw three silhouettes in the distance, then his vision focused. He had just found three more of his men who had taken up a position some twenty meters west from Rutang's original spot.
The senior medic, Red Cross, lay in a pool of blood surrounded by soaked bandages. Rumblefish had taken multiple rounds in the chest and was propped up on a tree, his eyes vacant. Rapper, it seemed, had been dragged to cover after being hit by that mortar, his legs chewed down to the bone. He'd bled out quickly, his face gone gray in the half-light.
Mitchell wanted to close his eyes and remember their last moments together, but without a second to spare, he fought off the urge to gag and raced through the trees toward Billy and Carlos. In his haste, he'd forgotten to warn Billy he was coming, and as he rounded the last bush, a gunshot cracked on the tree to his left.
"Billy!" he cried.
"Geez, Scott!"
He reached the man and dropped to one knee. "Sorry, my fault. Thanks for having bad aim."
"Forget me. Go check on Carlos. I've been calling, and he's not answering now. He's right behind those palms."
Carlos Alejandro, the assistant communications sergeant, was arguably the most eloquent and scholarly member of the team. He spoke expertly on world politics, religion, and philosophy and could schmooze with majors, colonels, and even generals better than most officers Mitchell knew. And because of that, he wasn't one to ever go silent.
Mitchell found the man lying supine, his head turned to the right, as though he were listening to the ground. His eyes were wide open. "Carlos?"
The sergeant turned his head, looked up, his gaze slightly unfocused. "They're moving."
"You can tell?"
"Yeah, I just heard them scream."
"And you didn't hear Billy calling?"
"I figured if I didn't answer, he'd finally shut up."
Mitchell shook his head and smirked. "Ready? I'm carrying you back."
"Not in my lifetime."
Carlos had been hit at least twice in one leg and had taken a serious round in the shoulder. There wasn't a single white spot on any of his bandages.
"Don't give me any BS. You're coming."
Feeling guilty about having to lift the man but without another choice, Mitchell helped Carlos up to his feet, the man balancing on one leg and moaning softly.
Behind them, Rutang opened up on the men across the valley, muzzles winking from both sides of the jungle now.
And just as Mitchell pulled Carlos around and got him onto his back, a rocket-propelled grenade flashed and went streaking overhead like a falling star, casting harsh white light over the jungle as it headed toward Rutang's position.
Mitchell screamed into the radio, trying to warn the man, but his words were cut short by the explosion.
Smoke billowed, and rocks plummeted, as Carlos said through a shudder, "They got him."
"No," snapped Mitchell.
He started off with Carlos, heading directly toward that blast.
"They got Rutang," Carlos repeated.
"Don't believe it."
Yet Mitchell was back to losing hope himself. Was it all for nothing: the mission, his military career, his whole damned life? Would he get his men up to the high ground, where they would be slaughtered?
Where was the Scott Mitchell he knew? The guy who envisioned himself a Special Forces operator because he wasn't meant to live an ordinary life?
Where was the Scott Mitchell who pressed on, despite the odds, who never said quit?
Captain Fang Zhi had seen the RPG light up the sky and had zoomed in with his night-vision goggles to spy one of the Americans carrying another on his back, running straight for the smoke and burning fronds.
It was an act of heroism, no doubt, and for once Fang appreciated that team. Again, it was not the soldiers who should be blamed; it was their leaders. They couldn't help what their commanders had done to them. They were only victims, and it was a pity — a real pity — that they would lose their lives for their superiors' mistakes.
That was a very courageous man down there. Fang could not see his face clearly, but he thought the soldier might be the ODA team sergeant, a man named Mitchell, whom Fang had deemed one of the most serious and accomplished combatants among the Americans.
A few shouts from the hillside toward the east sent Fang's gaze to that position, where he spotted the terrorist who had fired the first RPG balancing the tube on his shoulder, ready to launch another grenade directly at the American.
Unsure of what had come over him, perhaps the respect he had for the American's courage, Fang set down his NVGs and lifted a brand-new assault rifle he was fielding, the T91 carbine with attached Leupold scope. The rifle wouldn't be available to the regular military until next year, but the ROC Army had issued several prototypes to its best marksmen, men like Fang who had scored in the top 5 percent of the entire ROC Army, which of course meant that if Fang wanted that terrorist with the RPG dead, he would make it happen with a single round.
Fang raised the rifle, drew in a long breath and held it, then sighted the terrorist with the RPG.
He had a clean shot.
And the terrorist was most certainly a moment away from firing.
Yet Fang knew that if he took the shot, he would give up his team's position.
He thought of the American trying to save his wounded colleague. He thought of his own men, of the hubris of the American and Filipino commanders.
And he literally shuddered with indecision, the target shifting left and right of the crosshairs.
Fang blinked hard, took another breath, and reached his decision.
FOUR
The withering gunfire closing around Mitchell like a set of sharpened teeth began to taper off, and soon he heard only his breathing, his footfalls, and the soft groans coming from Carlos draped across his back.
He started up the hill toward the dust clouds still obscuring the rocks.
A single shot echoed across the valley, followed by the telltale whoosh of another RPG.
Mitchell whirled toward the sound. This was it. He took a last breath.
But the RPG arced wildly across the sky, raced over the trees, and vanished.
He frowned, spun back, and resumed his pace, reaching the shattered rock face where the outcropping had been. He came around the other side to find Rutang huddling deep in the crevice, illuminated by a penlight and inspecting an arm pinpricked by shrapnel.
"Oh, man, Scott." Rutang groaned.
"Hey, you're still alive. Don't complain. Turn that light off."
"Roger that. Just wanted see how bad it was."
"It's not bad."
"Feels bad."
Mitchell carefully set down Carlos. "Just hang on here, bro."
Carlos winced and nodded. "Somebody needs to go back for Billy."
Mitchell smirked. "Uh, yeah, that'd be me — and without covering fire this time. Aw, the hell with it…" He tugged out his M4A1's near-empty magazine and shoved in a fresh one as his earpiece buzzed: