Captain Victor Foyte, his detachment commander, moved ahead beside an uneven stretch of wilting palm fronds still dripping from a storm that had rolled in several hours ago. "Ricochet, this is Road Warrior 06," the captain whispered into his radio. "Think I see something. And I hear some buzzing, like flies. Let's check it out, over."

"Right with you, Boss," answered Mitchell.

Although Foyte outranked him, Mitchell was the team sergeant, responsible for fighting all twelve members of Operational Detachment Alpha (ODA) 574. The captain and warrant officer coordinated with the twelve-man Filipino and Taiwanese teams they'd been cross-training with for the past two weeks.

Mitchell started forward as up to his right a snake coiled around an overhanging limb, its tongue fluttering. Special Forces operators ate bad guys for breakfast and snakes for supper; consequently, they weren't unnerved by either. Nevertheless, Mitchell grimaced and got out of there to join the captain.

Barely three steps later, a whoosh of musty air, a rustle of leaves, and the sharp crack of a rope sent lightning bolts through his gut. He looked up and gasped.

The captain had been moving toward a pole stuck in the ground. Atop that pole was a human head with long, brown hair flowing around it.

A twenty-one-year-old American missionary had recently been captured by Abu Sayyaf, the local pseudo-Islamist terrorist group affiliated with al Qaeda. Military and police forces had been combing the island, looking for her and for Abu Sayyaf's stronghold, hidden somewhere deep in the mountainous interior.

It seemed the captain had found the missing woman--and much more. A rope had snapped taut around one of his ankles, and now he was being hurled three meters into the air, screaming, "Ambush!"

Mitchell was about to get on the radio when the captain swung forward, a human pendulum heading straight for a tree impaled by rows of razor-sharp punji stakes now revealed as fronds strung up by more ropes fell away--all part of the carefully designed booby trap.

Captain Victor Foyte was only twenty-four years old, and in the next breath he slammed back-first into the punji stakes, the foot-long pieces of sharpened wood driving into his arms, neck, and torso.

The team had been operating light, forgoing body armor in the rainy, hundred-plus-degree jungle. Foyte shrieked and gurgled as the stakes grew slick with his blood.

Chief Warrant Officer 02 James Alvarado, who'd been positioned about a dozen meters behind them, burst forward crying, "Captain!" Alvarado cut loose multiple rounds below the tree where Foyte now hung, inverted and bleeding to death.

Again, Mitchell keyed his mike, ready to issue orders, but Alvarado's gunfire cut him off.

This was Mitchell's first live mission as a Special Forces operator. He was an experienced infantryman and team leader from an Opposing Force (OPFOR) recon unit at Fort Irwin. He already had an impressive resume and was hoping to make a name for himself in the Special Forces community--yet in a flash, he'd already lost his first CO.