Текст книги "Ghost Recon (2008)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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And because he only knew how to win a fight.

He glanced to his left, spotted the first guy coming from the trees, and cut him down with a vicious burst before the fool knew what hit him.

But the other three terrorists shouted to each other, and in the next heartbeat, Mitchell found himself in a hailstorm of incoming fire.

"Scott," Rutang hollered on the radio. "Get out of there!"

Chapter Three.

BASILAN ISLAND

SULU ARCHIPELAGO, SOUTHERN PHILIPPINES

AUGUST 2002

With Rutang's cry still ringing in his earpiece, Mitchell launched himself into the air and crashed into a long puddle at the base of the hillside, the water rushing over his head and blinding him for a moment until he came up, rolled onto his right side, and returned fire on the three men now emerging from the trees.

He dropped one, panned toward the second, but was surprised to watch that guy stagger back, his chest bursting apart.

Off to Mitchell's right, Rutang was on his gut and directing steady fire toward that guy, emptying his magazine.

Mitchell clambered to his feet, just as the third and final thug charged toward Rutang's position, knowing that Rutang was reloading. Mitchell rushed to the next tree, froze, tracked the man, and fired, the first burst catching him in the leg. The terrorist began limping, turned back to face Mitchell, opened his mouth to scream, and swallowed Mitchell's next volley.

"Rutang? Looks clear for now. Hold it there, over."

"Roger that."

Taking in a deep breath, Mitchell charged from the tree, racing hard and fast toward Rutang's position on the other side of the narrow valley. He wove a serpentine path, feeling the heat of imaginary fire–until he didn't need his imagination anymore. Another squad of terrorists targeted him from above, AK-47s popping, the trees and mud suddenly alive with fire.

"Black Tiger 06, this is Ricochet, over!"

"Go ahead, Ricochet," answered Captain Yano, his voice faint as gunfire boomed in the background.

"Stand by to receive my new GPS, over."

"Give me a minute, Ricochet! We're still taking heavy, heavy fire!"

"Roger that. I'll signal in a few minutes, out."

Nearly out of breath, Mitchell slashed through a path heavily draped in vines, then came up behind Rutang's position and cried, "Rutang, coming up!"

"Okay, Scott."

Rutang lay on his side just behind a pair of small palm trees. He was using the secondary blade of his Blackhawk Mark 1 knife to slice open his pants leg. In his other hand was a big trauma bandage that he summarily slapped on the wound with a gasp and groan. Then he cursed and said, "That hurts."

"I know, buddy." Mitchell turned his gaze just ahead. "Billy, how you doing?"

Billy Bermudez, the team's assistant weapons sergeant, lay bare-chested on his back, his young face creased in pain, his M9 Beretta clutched tightly in his hand. A small incision had been made between his ribs and a tube inserted to relieve the pressure. That tube now dangled from the bloody hole.

"Scott," Billy began after a labored breath, "I'm not so good."

"He's got a hemopneumothorax, but the tube will help for now," said Rutang.

Billy shifted his shoulders. "Don't move me again. It hurts too much, man."

"I know," answered Mitchell. "But you'll take the pain." Mitchell locked gazes with the man.

Billy hesitated, then nodded. "Give me more pain."

Mitchell grinned weakly, then regarded Rutang. "You're first. Before they get any closer."

Rutang nodded, and Mitchell slid Rutang's arm over his shoulder and hoisted the man to his feet. Rutang began to pant, as though being burned. He held his breath, tried to put weight on his wounded leg, then exhaled a string of epithets.

"Just let it out, man." Mitchell was dealing with his own wound, but he wouldn't allow these men to detect any sign of weakness.

"Scott, I can't use the leg." Rutang's eyes were blood-shot, his face screwed up in a tight knot. "I'm not kidding, bro. I'm not kidding."

"That's okay. Here we go." Mitchell hoisted the man across his shoulders and took off, his arm throbbing, his knees beginning to give out as he started up the hill, working at a forty-five-degree angle to alleviate some of the pressure on his legs. He concentrated on his rhythm, just marching, breathing, nothing in the way.

Automatic weapons fire raked the hillside as he turned up toward a large outcropping of rock shaped like an arrowhead and painted a deep brown in the darkness.

Mitchell eyed the puffs and splashes on the hill as the rounds struck. At the same time, he pricked up his ears, listening for the locations of those shooters.

In fact, every sense was dialed to ten, the stench of the jungle and his own salty sweat making him grimace as the earth sank under his heavy boots.

"Almost there," he told Rutang.

Just on the other side of the outcropping lay a wide crevice with a flat floor and backed by another wall of rock. The area made for an excellent defensive position. They would have the high ground.

But getting them all there . . . Mitchell didn't want to think about it.

Once in the crevice, he slowly lowered himself to his knees and began to let Rutang slide off his shoulders.

"I'm down," cried Rutang.

"All right. Crawl back up near the top here and give me a little suppressing fire."

"I'm on it, Scott."

As Rutang got into position, Mitchell took in a long breath, rubbed the corners of his eyes, then gripped his carbine. He made a quick call back to Black Tiger 06, relaying their new GPS coordinates.

Then, for just a second, he glanced up at the stars. Not much of a religious man, he figured it couldn't hurt to ask that big commanding officer in the sky to cut him a little slack.

And in that second, a surprising peace came over him. He would get Billy and Carlos. He would bring them back. He would make it.

"Scott, I'm set."

"All right. Here goes nothing."

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.

Chapter 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 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.

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.

As Mitchell neared the bird, waves of heat warmed his face, and he was forced to sneak a breath. The stench made his eyes tear as he stormed into the bay.

The charred crew chief lay in pieces on the floor, along with another of the door gunners. Mitchell nearly gagged as he made it to the pilot, who was barely conscious but alive. The copilot had caught several large pieces of shrapnel in the back of his neck, and Mitchell checked for a carotid pulse. Nothing.

"Captain, I'll get you out."

"I told them the damned zone was too hot."

"It's going to get hotter," Mitchell said as he unbuckled the man.

"Can't move my legs."

Mitchell tugged a penlight from his web gear, directed it into the pilot's lap, his legs showing no signs of injury.

But then he checked the back of the pilot's seat, which had been shredded by shrapnel. As he took the pilot by the shoulders and moved him forward, Mitchell noted bloodstains on the man's lower back. He had a spinal injury, no doubt.

Unable to get a good fireman's carry in the cramped quarters, Mitchell took hold of the pilot's shoulder straps and dragged him out of the cockpit, through the smoking bay, and outside, onto the ground, where he caught his breath.

From the corner of his eye, he caught movement among the twisted and severed trees.

He brought his rifle around and hit the deck.

The perimeter had come alive with the silhouettes of gunmen, shifting in and out from behind the trunks to get a bead on him.

One ricocheting round off the chopper's fuselage could ignite all that fuel that had spilled into the mud.

"Scott, this is Rutang, over."

"Rutang, stand by." Mitchell breathed a curse and braced himself for yet another gunfight.

Chapter Five.

BASILAN ISLAND

SULU ARCHIPELAGO, SOUTHERN PHILIPPINES

AUGUST 2002

"I won't lie here and die without a fight," said the pilot at Mitchell's side. He reached for his sidearm. "I'm taking one with me."

"Just hold up," Mitchell said, aiming at the nearest gunman leaning out from behind a tree, barely visible in grainy darkness. "Something's weird. They see us. They should've fired already."

"Ricochet, this is Black Tiger 06, over?"

Mitchell lowered his voice. "Go ahead."

"I've got my Bravo Team at the chopper crash site. They see you but are holding to continue recon, over."

Mitchell sighed deeply. He got up onto his haunches. "Hold fire!" he cried to the men on the perimeter. "Fall back on me!"

The gunmen came dashing from the trees, and they were, in fact, Yano's men.

"Ricochet, the last of the Tangos is on the run," the captain continued. "Let's regroup on the pickup zone, over."

"Roger that. I need help with my wounded."

"My medics are on the way, out."

Mitchell shifted over to the pilot. "Captain, it's time to go. I'll try to take it easy on you."

"Well, it's not like we can fly. In fact, I'll never fly again. You know that."

Mitchell wasn't buying into the pity party, and maybe he could relight the man's hope. "Sir, we don't surrender–ever."

"That rocket just ended my career. My life. Leave me here."

"No, sir."

"What's your problem, soldier? I said get away. That's a direct order." He raised his pistol.

Mitchell took in a long breath. "I guess you'll have to shoot me." He slapped the man's gun away and lifted him over his shoulders as the Filipino guys arrived. "I got him," he said, waving off their offers to help.

"What's your name, soldier?" asked the captain, his tone as threatening as they came.

"Mitchell. Scott Mitchell."

"I'll remember that."

"I'm sure you will." Mitchell shuffled away from the chopper, fighting to keep his balance.

Every operator they could locate was transferred back to the pickup zone, but Mitchell's team still had five unaccounted for and presumed dead. The search for their bodies would begin at daybreak. The row of bodies was too hard to look at.

As they rested on their packs, being attended to by Yano's medics and waiting for the choppers to land on a broad field bordering the jungle, Mitchell tried to call Captain Fang Zhi. He even went on to ask for any member of the Taiwanese team to respond, but none did.

Rutang shared the grim news passed on by one of the Filipino medics: Carlos had passed away. To the best of Billy's knowledge, only himself, Rutang, and Mitchell had survived the ambush.

Mitchell backhanded sweat from his brow, threw back his head, and closed his eyes.

Welcome to the Special Forces . . .

He was exhausted enough to sleep into the next century and so emotionally drained that he felt only a deep emptiness in his chest, accompanied by a low hum, like Gregorian monks chanting, their voices carried on the breeze. His thoughts began swirling, moments flashing from the distant to the more recent past.

He was a teenager in Youngstown, lying on his back beneath an old Ford Mustang and learning how to do his first oil change on a car . . .

He was wearing his neatly pressed uniform and saying good-bye to his father and siblings before he shipped out for the first time . . .

He was shaking Captain Foyte's hand and grinning broadly over being selected for ODA 574 . . .

A commotion began at the edge of the field, and Rutang tugged on Mitchell's shoulder. Mitchell stirred, looked up, and saw the entire Taiwanese team emerging from the trees: all twelve of them, looking exactly as they had upon entering the jungle, perhaps a little sweatier.

His first thought was, Why aren't they all dead?Dead men tell no tales–or answer radio calls.

Mitchell sprang off his pack and jogged toward them, his bandaged arm and leg stinging again. He spotted Captain Fang near the back of the group.

Fang's English was pretty good, though he'd asked on several occasions for people to speak more slowly around him.

Well, Mitchell was happy to oblige, and his question, voiced entirely out of breath, was simple: "Captain, where . . . were . . . you?"

Fang brought himself to full height, and although he was several inches shorter than Mitchell, his muscular form and penetrating eyes offered ample intimidation. "Sergeant, I am sorry for your losses."

"You were listening?"

"Yes."

"You heard my calls for help?"

"I ordered my men to fall back."

"Excuse me, sir?"

Fang's team was beginning to gather around them, along with Captain Yano and his men.

"You heard me, Sergeant Mitchell."

Yes, he had, and the news made Mitchell nauseous.

"We weren't brought here to cross-train with you. We were brought here to be sacrificed–and I won't allow that to happen. Not to my men. Not for you. Not for anyone."

Mitchell began to tremble in rage. "Captain, what have you done?"

"I made a decision. And I stand by it."

"Captain Yano lost four men. I lost nine. You're insane." Mitchell took a step closer, coming within inches of Fang, getting directly in the captain's face. Mitchell raised his voice. "How could you walk away from the fight?"

"Step back, Sergeant."

"Answer my question!"

"Step back!"

Mitchell took another step forward, thrusting his bare chest out into Fang's and shoving the officer backward. "I will notstep back! You should have stepped up! You're a coward! You're a traitor! You abandoned us! You left us to die!"

One of Fang's men shouted something, and Mitchell craned his head to Captain Yano, who quickly translated: "He says the American is right. We are cowards. We wanted to fight. But you wouldn't let us."