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.

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.