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.