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.