Текст книги "Ghost Recon (2008)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Ghost Recon

Tom Clancy

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I Had Rather Have A Plain, Russet-Coated Captain That knows what he fights for, and loves what he knows, than that which you call a gentleman and is nothing else. –Oliver Cromwell

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Be extremely subtle, even to the point of formlessness. Be extremely mysterious, even to the point of soundless-ness. Thereby you can be the director of the opponent's fate. –Sun Tzu

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Minimal consumption–use the least amount of combat resources sufficient to accomplish the objective. –Colonel Qiao Liang and Colonel Wang Xiangsui, Unrestricted Warfare

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PERSONNEL LIST

Ghosts

Operation War Wraith

Alpha Team

Captain Scott Mitchell

Master Sergeant Jose "Joe" Ramirez

Sergeant First Class Paul Smith

Sergeant First Class Alex Nolan

Bravo Team

Master Sergeant Matt Beasley

Sergeant First Class Bo Jenkins

Staff Sergeant John Hume

Sergeant Marcus Brown

Charlie Team

Sergeant Alicia Diaz

Ghost Command

Lieutenant Colonel Harold "Buzz" Gordon

Major Susan Grey, D CO. 1st BN. 5th SFG

General Joshua Keating, Commander of USSOCOM

Dr. Gail Gorbatova, Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA)

Spring Tigers

Operation Pouncing Dragon

Major-General Chen Yi (Target Alpha)

Colonel Xu Dingfa (Target Bravo)

Vice Admiral Cai Ming (Target Charlie)

Major-General Wu Hui (Target Delta)

Deputy Director Wang Ya, CMC Political Department

Captain Fang Zhi

USS Montana Control Team

Commanding Officer Captain Kenneth Gummerson

Lieutenant Commander Sands, Executive Officer

Master Chief Suallo, Chief of the Boat

SEAL Chief Tanner

SEAL Chief Phillips

Lieutenant Jeff Moch, Predator Support

Lieutenant Justin Schumaker, Predator Support

Chapter One.

BASILAN ISLAND

SULU ARCHIPELAGO, SOUTHERN PHILIPPINES

AUGUST, 2002

Master Sergeant Scott Mitchell blinked at the sweat in his eyes and pushed on through the rubber plants, their leathery leaves brushing against his boonie hat and cheek. Ahead lay a slight clearing in the otherwise dense, twilit jungle, and Mitchell used his M4A1's barrel to lift a thin branch as he hunkered down at the edge.

Captain Victor Foyte, his detachment commander, moved ahead beside an uneven stretch of wilting palm fronds still dripping from a storm that had rolled in several hours ago. "Ricochet, this is Road Warrior 06," the captain whispered into his radio. "Think I see something. And I hear some buzzing, like flies. Let's check it out, over."

"Right with you, Boss," answered Mitchell.

Although Foyte outranked him, Mitchell was the team sergeant, responsible for fighting all twelve members of Operational Detachment Alpha (ODA) 574. The captain and warrant officer coordinated with the twelve-man Filipino and Taiwanese teams they'd been cross-training with for the past two weeks.

Mitchell started forward as up to his right a snake coiled around an overhanging limb, its tongue fluttering. Special Forces operators ate bad guys for breakfast and snakes for supper; consequently, they weren't unnerved by either. Nevertheless, Mitchell grimaced and got out of there to join the captain.

Barely three steps later, a whoosh of musty air, a rustle of leaves, and the sharp crack of a rope sent lightning bolts through his gut. He looked up and gasped.

The captain had been moving toward a pole stuck in the ground. Atop that pole was a human head with long, brown hair flowing around it.

A twenty-one-year-old American missionary had recently been captured by Abu Sayyaf, the local pseudo-Islamist terrorist group affiliated with al Qaeda. Military and police forces had been combing the island, looking for her and for Abu Sayyaf's stronghold, hidden somewhere deep in the mountainous interior.

It seemed the captain had found the missing woman–and much more. A rope had snapped taut around one of his ankles, and now he was being hurled three meters into the air, screaming, "Ambush!"

Mitchell was about to get on the radio when the captain swung forward, a human pendulum heading straight for a tree impaled by rows of razor-sharp punjistakes now revealed as fronds strung up by more ropes fell away–all part of the carefully designed booby trap.

Captain Victor Foyte was only twenty-four years old, and in the next breath he slammed back-first into the punjistakes, the foot-long pieces of sharpened wood driving into his arms, neck, and torso.

The team had been operating light, forgoing body armor in the rainy, hundred-plus-degree jungle. Foyte shrieked and gurgled as the stakes grew slick with his blood.

Chief Warrant Officer 02 James Alvarado, who'd been positioned about a dozen meters behind them, burst forward crying, "Captain!" Alvarado cut loose multiple rounds below the tree where Foyte now hung, inverted and bleeding to death.

Again, Mitchell keyed his mike, ready to issue orders, but Alvarado's gunfire cut him off.

This was Mitchell's first live mission as a Special Forces operator. He was an experienced infantryman and team leader from an Opposing Force (OPFOR) recon unit at Fort Irwin. He already had an impressive resume and was hoping to make a name for himself in the Special Forces community–yet in a flash, he'd already lost his first CO.

A strange thumping noise sounded as Alvarado ceased fire and advanced into the clearing. The warrant suddenly clutched his neck, where a tiny dart extended from between his fingers. He screamed as he tugged it out.

Mitchell dropped onto his gut as more thumping sounded behind them. Alvarado wobbled forward then crumpled to the ground, poisoned and probably dead.

The team was, it seemed, being attacked by loinclothed savages whose traps and blowguns had ironically overpowered the men with their thunder sticks.

"Mitchell?" called the captain, his voice burred by the agony, his face now drenched in blood. "Mitch . . . ell?"

Unable to stare at Foyte any longer, Mitchell finally got on the radio. "This is Ricochet. Ambush! Ambush! The captain and warrant are down!"

Before he could continue, the terrorists somewhere out there, crouching in the wet foliage, revealed they were not the loinclothed savages of Mitchell's imagination but were, in fact, ruthless and modern killers.

So much automatic weapons fire blasted through the clearing that it sounded as though a thousand men with machetes were cutting apart the trees and fronds. Rounds from AK-47s and machine guns popped and boomed, wood splintered, and birds squawked and flew off as holes appeared in the leaves, the debris tumbling down on Mitchell as he rose to his elbows and spied his first pair of muzzle flashes.

At the same time, voices erupted over the radio:

"Ricochet, this is Rumblefish," called the team's weapons sergeant, Jim Idaho. "We're taking fire from both flanks! Can't get any shots from here! Need orders!"

"Ricochet, this is Red Cross. Got two men down," reported Lance Munson, the team's senior medic. "I need to evac these guys now!"

"Ricochet, I think we got incoming mortar–"

That last voice belonged to Rapper, one of the team's engineers, who was cut off as a flash lit up the jungle just northeast of Mitchell's position. A second later, the ground trembled, and a powerful explosion boomed across the landscape as showers of shrapnel and debris needled through the zone.

These terrorists were reckless, stupid, or insane, perhaps all three. They were laying down mortar fire on their own position. They didn't care how many of their own they took out, so long as they killed the Americans.

Willing himself not to panic, reminding himself of who he was and the countless hours of training he had gone through, Master Sergeant Scott Mitchell, twenty-six, took command of the ODA team. "This is Ricochet! Listen up! Rumblefish? You and the rest of Bravo Team get to those wounded men and fall back south to our first waypoint. Rutang, Rockstar, and Rino, regroup on me. Move out!"

The team had been operating as two six-man units: Alpha and Bravo, with all radio call signs beginning with the letter R. Mitchell would exploit their division in order to provide cover for evacuating the wounded.

Another whistle rose in the night, this time closer, and suddenly the next mortar exploded, gray smoke and more shrapnel hurtling up through the canopy.

"Ricochet, this is Rutang," called the team's assistant medical sergeant, Thomas "Rutang" McDaniel. "Me and Rockstar are good to go, but Rino is gone, man. Hit by that last mortar. No pulse!"

There wasn't time to tally up the dead. All Mitchell knew was that he needed support–ground, air, anything–and he needed it now. He acknowledged Rutang's call, then switched frequencies, calling up Captain Fang Zhi's Taiwanese team. They were much closer than the Filipino team and were working the grid on the other side of the creek. "Wushu 06, this is Ricochet, over."

He waited, listened to the sound of his own breathing, the withering gunfire booming somewhere nearby, the shrill hiss of yet another mortar round, falling, falling . . .

"Wushu 06, this is Ricochet, over."

Mitchell switched frequencies once more to call upon the Filipino Team. "Black Tiger 06, this is Ricochet, over."

Boom!That distant mortar finally detonated.

"Ricochet, this is Black Tiger 06. I've heard what's happening. We're moving to your location, but we're still pretty far. ETA about twenty minutes, over."

"Roger that, Black Tiger. I have a lot of men down. Need you ASAP." Mitchell fed the captain his current GPS coordinates, then added, "Don't be late."

"We are running, Sergeant."

"Good! Ricochet, out."

Captain Gilberto Yano, aka Black Tiger 06, was a member of the Philippine Army's elite Light Reaction Battalion (LRB), the Delta Force of their army and specifically trained in counterterrorist activities. Yano was well-liked by his men and the rest of Mitchell's team. Knowing Yano and his boys were already on the way felt good, but it was going to be the longest twenty minutes of Mitchell's life.

And quite possibly the last.

Again, where the hell was Captain Fang Zhi? Mitchell called once more. No answer. Was he back in one of the nepa huts, smoking a cigar, while men died out here in the jungle?

Rutang and Rockstar hustled up and dropped down beside Mitchell.

Rutang was a baby-faced assistant medic and competitive video game player. He'd even entered and won several national tournaments, though he rarely bragged and was, for the most, curiously insecure about himself and his skills.

Staff Sergeant Bennet "Rockstar" Williams was the assistant engineer, a hard-faced African-American who hated rock music but who had pissed off the company commander by insulting the commander's AC/DC collection. The incident had become infamous, and the call sign had stuck.

Mitchell eyed both of them, drenched in sweat like he was, eyes bugged out, breath ragged.

"We need to cut off these guys and buy Bravo some time to evac. I saw muzzle flashes on our flanks."

"Me, too," said Rutang. "No telling how many yet, damn."

"Don't worry," Mitchell said, pouring more confidence into his tone. "We'll swing around, come in from the west, and tag their asses. That simple. You ready?"

"Sergeant, are you sure about this?" asked Rockstar.

"Of course he's sure," said Rutang. "Shut up!"

"I'm just saying–"

"Rock, I'm sure," said Mitchell, putting some real steel in his voice. "Go now!"

Mitchell took point, and they began scissoring their way through the jungle. He clutched his rifle a little too tightly, and the chin strap of his boonie hat began digging into his skin. He took a sharp turn around two trees, and the sounds of gunfire grew louder, along with the trickle of running water out there, beyond the jagged tree line.

At the next cluster of palms he called for a halt and slid back his boonie hat. Then he dug out his binoculars and scanned the area.

Despite the growing darkness, Mitchell still picked out several men dressed in nondescript fatigues with bandannas tied around their heads. They darted south, back toward Bravo Team.

He issued hand signals to Rutang and Rockstar: Got three, there, let's go!

They charged off, with Mitchell once again taking point, Rutang and Rockstar on his rear flanks, Rockstar checking their six o'clock as they advanced.

The ground was muddy, sucking too loudly at their boots as they cut through the brush, came around several more trees and clusters of dark shrubs, and right into a swarm of malaria-carrying mosquitoes that had all of them swatting at their faces. He prayed the layers of bug spray and the vaccinations would do their job.

As Mitchell's vision cleared, he spotted the three guys, ten, fifteen meters ahead, still weaving forward, seemingly unaware they had been followed.

Mitchell bolted to the base of the next tree, whose reddish brown bark was alive with ants. He signaled the others to drop and prepare to fire.

"Got one in my sight," said Rutang.

"Me, too," Rockstar added.

"Fire!" Mitchell cried, breaking the silence, but it didn't matter, because their M4A1 carbines echoed like rolling timpani drums, hungry rounds chewing through the air until they caught flesh.

"Bang, bang, bang, they're dead." Rutang grunted.

He wasn't lying. They'd dropped the trio cleanly, efficiently.

"Move!" cried Mitchell, knowing that before they could blink twice, they'd draw incoming fire.

He was wrong. It took three blinks before the trees and ground exploded as they sprinted past the men they had killed. They moved onto a steep mound, then Mitchell descended and turned back. Rutang came up hard on Mitchell's heels.

A triplet of gunfire cracked too close for comfort as Rockstar reached the crest. The stoic-faced black man gasped and shook as more rounds tore through his chest a second before he collapsed right on top of Mitchell.

"Bennet!" cried Rutang as he pulled the man off of Mitchell, who was now lying flat on his back, the tiny speaker in his ear rattling with yet another voice: "Ricochet, this is Red Cross. I cannot fall back. Say again, I cannot fall back. We're pinned down. I count at least eight Tangos and two DP positions. Sounds like they got plenty of rounds for those machine guns, too. We won't last long here. I need support, now!"

"Aw, Bennet, man, come on." Rutang gasped.

Mitchell rolled over, took one look at Rockstar, and knew. That warm feeling on Mitchell's neck was Rockstar's blood.

Rutang wrenched his rifle around, his face twisted with the desire for payback.

"No, hold fire a second," said Mitchell as he got on his radio. "Black Tiger 06, this is Ricochet, over."

No response. He called again.

Finally, Captain Yano answered, though his voice was nearly drowned out by a firefight, that same gunfire thundering in the distance. "Ricochet, this is Black Tiger 06. We've been engaged by the enemy–at least twenty Tangos. We're cut off from your position. Cannot get to you at this time, over."

"Roger that. Clear that zone and get here, over."

"We'll try, but they're hitting us hard! I've already got one killed, two wounded, over."

"I'm not taking no for an answer, Captain. Ricochet, out." Mitchell cursed under his breath and switched frequencies. "Wushu 06, this is Ricochet, over?"

He waited. Repeated the call. Cursed again. "Move!" he ordered Rutang.

They burst from cover and sprinted off, rounds tearing into limbs and leaves behind them.

"Ricochet, this is Red Cross. Too late, man. We just lost another two. And I've been hit. I'm bleeding out pretty bad, Sergeant. I can't stop it. You need . . ."

The transmission broke off as Mitchell and Rutang found themselves running near a volley of machine gun fire hammering the trees a few meters ahead.

He and Rutang thudded hard into the mud as the Degtyarev Pechotnyi (DP) light machine gun rattled and brass casings jingled and plopped into puddles.

For the first time in his life, Scott Mitchell doubted if his courage, skill, and audacity were enough to carry him through. His eyes burned as the senior medic's voice broke once more over the radio. "Sergeant, I'm dying, man. Please . . ."

Chapter Two.

BASILAN ISLAND

SULU ARCHIPELAGO, SOUTHERN PHILIPPINES

AUGUST 2002

Captain Fang Zhi, leader of the Taiwanese team, was propped on his elbows and observing the valley below through a pair of night-vision goggles. He had taken his men away from the creek and into the mountains when the first shots had been fired.

Though frowning over his orders, his team had obeyed without question, and only now did Sergeant Sze Ma, thirty-three, the oldest and most experienced soldier among them, voice his concerns.

"Sir, I am not doubting you. But I am confused. Why haven't we answered their calls for help? Why have we moved up here, if not to prepare sniper positions?"

Fang lowered his goggles and regarded the man whose deep-set eyes widened. "You attended the briefing."

"Yes, Captain–"

"Then you heard what I said to Major Liang and the Americans and Filipinos."

"I did. And they said they cannot provide the air reconnaissance you requested."

"Because it is cheaper for them to use us as bait."

"But, sir–"

"Our morale is already far too low, our recruitment numbers dropping. I won't waste good men on an ill-conceived mission. We need a victory here, but the Americans have not planned one for us. They planned to sacrifice us to save a dollar."

"Sir, they will call us cowards."

Fang raised his voice. "We are not cowards! And we are not sheep! Do you think they care how many of us die?"

"But, sir . . ."

With his temples beginning to throb, his teeth gnashing, Fang rolled over and burst to his feet, reaching over his shoulder and into his pack. His gloved hand locked onto his sword cane, a one-of-a-kind weapon and family heirloom that had been passed down to him from his father, who had died last year.

The cane's wooden shaft was slightly longer than an Eskrima stick and had been hand-carved with a tiger-stripe pattern. The blade inside was much more than just a flat sword, its cross section forged to resemble the Chinese character representing a square, side, part, or scheme, but, more importantly, the Fang family name:

Although the sword's design prevented it from cutting in the traditional sense, whipping strikes produced distinctive welts. Repeated strikes resembled the tiger-stripe pattern of the cane itself. The ultimate signature was the puncture wound from multiple sharpened tips. Fang Zhi's great-grandfather, who had designed the weapon, had wanted his enemies to never forget the Fang name, whose bloodline could be traced to one of the premiers of the Tang Dynasty.

As he had risen through the ranks, Fang had employed the sword cane to keep his men in line, beating them with the wooden sheath for minor offenses, drawing the sword and whipping them to produce welts for larger transgressions. He reserved the thrusting signature mark for those he wanted to teach the ultimate lesson. Thus far in his career, he'd never had to do that.

Yet at the moment, his anger had bested him, and the sword slipped fluidly out of the cane. He clutched the round handle, the ornate steel pommel etched with the same character representing the Fang family name. Yes, he could easily bludgeon someone to death with that hardened globe, but it was the sword he raised above Sergeant Sze Ma's head.

The sergeant scrambled up, raised his hands in defense. "Captain, please!"

"How dare you question me!" Fang reared back and struck the sergeant in the side of the neck, even as Sze Ma ducked from Fang's advance. Fang followed up with two more heavy blows to Sze Ma's head, dropping him.

Then Fang stood there, panting, seething, listening to his sergeant whimper in pain.

Finally, he could take no more. "Get up!" he screamed at Sze Ma. "Get up!"

Rubbing his wounds, the bleary-eyed sergeant glanced at Fang and nodded. "Yes, sir." Sze Ma got to his feet, stood a moment, then collapsed.

Fang's breath vanished. He dropped to his knees beside the sergeant, checked his neck for a pulse. Nothing.

Sze ma. I didn't mean to kill you!

Then . . . there it was, a weak but steady pulse. Fang closed his eyes and sighed as Sergeant Gao called, "Captain? Has Sergeant Sze Ma been hurt?"

Fang opened his eyes, slowly craned his head toward Gao, who was staring in awe at the sword in Fang's hand. "Yes, Sergeant, he has. Get Sergeant Dong here right away."

Captain Scott Mitchell backhanded mud from his eyes and lifted his chin at Rutang. "I need you to get back to those wounded guys. I'll take out that machine gun. Wait for my signal."

"And if you don't signal?"

Mitchell just looked at him. "I will."

"Sergeant, if they close on us, we won't make it. What the hell happened to the Taiwanese guys? They were right there, just on the other side of the creek."

"I don't know. Maybe they got hit first. Booby-trapped, just like the captain. I don't know. Just wait for me."

And with that, Mitchell eased back on his hands and knees, then suddenly bounded off to the left flank, bringing himself around toward that machine gunner's position.

The jungle had grown considerably darker, every frond, trunk, and limb drawn in silhouette, with only the brief muzzle flashes from the machine gun to determine his path.

"Hey, is that all you got?" screamed Rutang. "I'm right over here!" He added a few curses in a rather lame attempt to piss off the machine gunner, who might not understand English.

"Rutang, this is Ricochet," Mitchell cried over the radio. "What're you doing?"

"Drawing his fire! Get in there and take him out."

Crazy bastard,thought Mitchell as he ran like a demon through the mud, slipped up behind the machine gunner's position, and drew an M67 fragmentation grenade from his web gear.

He pulled the pin, stole another glance to judge the distance, then hurled the frag.

For a moment, he watched the grenade arc through the air, tumbling with almost underwater slowness, as beyond it, the stars began shimmering beyond the broken framework of trees.

Perhaps it was the heat or his exhaustion getting the better of him, he didn't know, but for a few seconds that piece of metal passing through the sky looked . . . almost beautiful, excerpted from some hallucination.

The lone machine gunner broke fire, jolting Mitchell back to the moment, just as the frag struck the ground at his side.

Mitchell swore to himself. All the guy had to do was turn his head, grab the frag–which was right there–and pitch it away. Two seconds.

But hallelujah, he didn't notice it. Mitchell took in a breath before the man and his gun exploded in a cloud of mud backlit by fire and white-hot shrapnel.

"Rutang, go!" Mitchell shouted in his boom mike, although his order was easily loud enough for the assistant medic to hear without equipment.

The sound of another machine gun sent Mitchell back to his feet. He started toward a narrow passage between trees, picked up the pace, but suddenly tripped and hit the ground hard, losing his grip on his M4A1, though it was still tight in its sling.

He rose to his hands and knees and glanced back, wondering what the hell had caught his boot and guessing it was probably a tree root.

One of the terrorists stood there where the "tree root" should be, his AK-47 pointed at Mitchell's face. "Shoot me," Mitchell blurted out in surprise.

"No."

The guy was dark-skinned, gaunt-faced, and heavily bearded, with a black bandanna tied around his neck. His eyes bugged out as he opened his mouth once again to reveal a gap-toothed, evil grin. "Don't move, soldier."

This guy wasn't just Abu Sayyaf, Mitchell knew. His accent indicated he was the real deal, an Arab, a member of al Qaeda, on the island to help train Abu Sayyaf the way they were helping to train the Filipinos and Taiwanese.

Mitchell suddenly imagined his own head stuck on a pole, just like that missionary's. They would use him to send another message.

Mitchell's father, two brothers, and sister back home in Ohio would watch it all on CNN. His torture and murder would break their hearts.

And his mother, looking down from the heavens, would weep for her son, the boy she had left behind when he was only fourteen.

"Now . . . get up," said the Arab.

"You told me not to move."

"Get up."

Mitchell narrowed his gaze and bared his teeth. "No."

The Arab chuckled under his breath. "Whoa, you are a big man, huh? Big American? When I get you back to the camp–"

Mitchell rolled around, coming up with his rifle, knowing he'd be a second too late.

That was all right. They wouldn't take him alive. And they wouldn't take him without a fight.

He fired a half second after the Arab did.

However–and this was a big however–he was still coming around as the Arab fired, and only one of three rounds made contact.

That round pinched Mitchell's left biceps, just as he flinched and lifted his rifle a bit more, directing his bead across the Arab's chest, hammering the bastard with his third and fourth rounds.

The guy went down, groaning, and Mitchell silenced him with another salvo.

He sat there a moment, catching his breath, his hand going reflexively for his wounded arm. It looked like a clear entry and exit, not too much blood. But the wound was beginning to burn now, really burn.

Raging aloud, he got up, one-handed his rifle, and started toward the sound of that second machine gun.

He fought for more breath as he ran, the air growing thicker, more humid, and there was no dry spot on his entire body. He neared a long ditch where the rain coming down from a small hill had eroded the jungle floor. At the top of that hill came the rat-tat-tat of the second gun.

"Ricochet, this is Rutang, over."

Mitchell got onto his haunches, keyed his mike. "Go ahead."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, you in position?"

Rutang's voice began to crack. "Scott, it's freaking horrible, man. I think you and I are the only guys standing. Can't get anyone else on the radio. Billy and Carlos are here, and they're shot up bad. I can't do anything more with them. And it sounds like those Tangos are moving in on us. We can't stay. There's a hill about fifteen meters back, but I can't carry them–not with all the incoming."

"Tang, listen to me. Calm down. I'll get the other machine gun. When you hear the bang, grab Billy or Carlos and fall back to that hill. I'll get the other guy."

"Scott, I don't know."

"Tang, you know everything you need to."

"Uh, right. Roger that."

"Okay, stand by . . ." Mitchell tugged out another frag and started furtively up the hill as the machine gunner opened up, the racket like a jackhammer on Mitchell's brain.

In the distance, more gunfire echoed, and two more mortars dropped in succession, assumably in the Filipino team's zone. Mitchell wanted to check in with Yano, but there just wasn't time.

As the last mortar's explosion died off, the shouts rose, growing closer now. Mitchell recognized Tagalog and Arabic, and even a few taunts in broken English: "No prisoners! Only dead bodies!"

Most members of Abu Sayyaf were just poor Filipino kids who'd been lured away by the Arabs with the promise of money, women, guns, and fun–and really, what was their alternative? Poverty, disease, and the false smiles of foreigners pretending to help? They didn't spend much time mulling over that decision.

And while Mitchell entertained all of the hypocrisy in his head (after all, he was human), he never, ever let those thoughts affect his mission or his men. Striving to remain apolitical was, in his estimation, the best way to remain sane.

So if these kids chose to join a terrorist group, then they would suffer the consequences of that decision. There was nothing else to consider.

Mitchell hunched over as he ascended the hill, his boots sloshing even more loudly through the mud. He cursed at the noise. Slowing his pace didn't help much.

Consequently, he nixed the "sneak up behind the guy" plan and went for the blitz. He tucked the M67 back into its pouch and stomped forward with pain shooting through his wounded arm. His gaze reached out into the darkness, toward the shifting shadows just meters away, near two trees off to his right.

There he was. The machine gunner lay on his belly, cutting loose with another burst.

Mitchell sprinted toward him as the guy broke fire, turned his head, and saw the deranged, mud-covered specter who was about to end his young life.

Rounds leapt from Mitchell's M4A1 and drummed the gunner into cold, wet oblivion.

It took a few seconds for Mitchell to remember that Rutang was waiting for a frag to go off, the one Mitchell had tucked back into his pouch. He yanked it out, pulled the pin, and tossed it in the direction of more incoming fire from the grainy green tree line to the east.

Three, two, one. The frag burst apart, and Mitchell barked into the radio, "Rutang! MOVE!"

"On my way!"

Mitchell dropped onto his gut, while pulling out his night-vision goggles.

Down below, through a maze of palms and rubber plants and vines twisting down across the trees like spiderwebs, he spotted Rutang carrying one of their buddies on his back, swaying hard as he ascended a hill.

Rutang shifted around a cluster of shrubs but then drew a spate of fire from at least four gunmen positioned in the dense trees about twenty meters opposite him.

Mitchell ran to the enemy machine gun, took it into his hands, and released a fierce stream to cover Rutang.

But not thirty rounds into his fire the gun's muzzle began glowing red-hot and smoking, about to melt off. It seemed the terrorist had been firing way too much, not waiting for the barrel to cool between salvos, leaving Mitchell with a gun far too hot to sustain fire.

Mitchell abandoned the DP and, holding his breath, pressed the goggles to his eyes.

There was Rutang, still tottering forward, barely able to hold the man draped over his shoulders.

Suddenly, Rutang took a hit in the calf, and he and their injured comrade tumbled to the mud.

The terrorists broke fire and got on the move.

They were closing in to finish the job.

Mitchell came down the hillside like a barbarian from the days of ancient Rome, wielding a rifle instead of an ax but issuing a battle cry that was as bone-chilling as any member of those Germanic tribes.

Because he wanted all the fire directed on him, not Rutang. Because he was going to take them all down, if he had anything to say about it.