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
BASILAN ISLAND
SULU ARCHIPELAGO, SOUTHERN PHILIPPINES
AUGUST 2002
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:
"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 comman
der 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.
Mitchell blinked--and the enormity of the moment took hold. He dove onto his gut as the Black Hawk wailed over him, passing within twenty feet, one of its landing skids scraping into the rocks behind him as the bird continued on, over the hill, then suddenly plunged down toward the trees.
He couldn't see the chopper, but he heard the rotors chewing into the limbs and the horrific whining of its engine until a series of smaller explosions and loud creaking of metal echoed away.
"Scott, this is Rutang, over? Scott, this is Rutang?"
"I'm here," he answered, picking himself up out of the mud. "Somehow."
"I'm up to the edge with the NVGs. I think I see Captain Yano's guys out there."
"Tell him he needs to help secure this area. I'm going over to the chopper to see if anyone made it."
"Don't waste your time. I can see it from here. Nobody survived that."
"I'm going anyway. Be right back, out."
Mitchell rushed down the hill, then worked his way through the trees toward the column of smoke.
The other two Black Hawks were off to the west, both door gunners hosing down the mountains, their laser beams of lead flickering in an eerie light show.
At the top of the next hill, Mitchell paused to survey the crash site with his NVGs, panning 180 degrees around the forest.
No sign of enemy activity yet. He started toward the downed bird, the
stench of fuel hanging thick in the air.
Admittedly, no operator in his right mind would go in there. But there was always a chance that someone might still be alive, and Mitchell couldn't live with himself if he didn't have a look. Just a quick look, he assured himself.
So he held his breath and broke into a sprint.
The Black Hawk was listing to one side but still lay on its belly in a steaming trench. The tail and main rotors were gone, the landing skids ripped apart and jammed in mangled pieces behind the fuselage. Oddly, the cockpit panels were still illuminated.