"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!"