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.