Another whistle rose in the night, this time closer, and suddenly the next mortar exploded, gray smoke and more shrapnel hurtling up through the canopy.

"Ricochet, this is Rutang," called the team's assistant medical sergeant, Thomas "Rutang" McDaniel. "Me and Rockstar are good to go, but Rino is gone, man. Hit by that last mortar. No pulse!"

There wasn't time to tally up the dead. All Mitchell knew was that he needed support--ground, air, anything--and he needed it now. He acknowledged Rutang's call, then switched frequencies, calling up Captain Fang Zhi's Taiwanese team. They were much closer than the Filipino team and were working the grid on the other side of the creek. "Wushu 06, this is Ricochet, over."

He waited, listened to the sound of his own breathing, the withering gunfire booming somewhere nearby, the shrill hiss of yet another mortar round, falling, falling . . .

"Wushu 06, this is Ricochet, over."

Mitchell switched frequencies once more to call upon the Filipino Team. "Black Tiger 06, this is Ricochet, over."

Boom! That distant mortar finally detonated.

"Ricochet, this is Black Tiger 06. I've heard what's happening. We're moving to your location, but we're still pretty far. ETA about twenty minutes, over."

"Roger that, Black Tiger. I have a lot of men down. Need you ASAP." Mitchell fed the captain his current GPS coordinates, then added, "Don't be late."

"We are running, Sergeant."

"Good! Ricochet, out."

Captain Gilberto Yano, aka Black Tiger 06, was a member of the Philippine Army's elite Light Reaction Battalion (LRB), the Delta Force of their army and specifically trained in counterterrorist activities. Yano was well-liked by his men and the rest of Mitchell's team. Knowing Yano and his boys were already on the way felt good, but it was going to be the longest twenty minutes of Mitchell's life.

And quite possibly the last.

Again, where the hell was Captain Fang Zhi? Mitchell called once more. No answer. Was he back in one of the nepa huts, smoking a cigar, while men died out here in the jungle?

Rutang and Rockstar hustled up and dropped down beside Mitchell.

Rutang was a baby-faced assistant medic and competitive video game player. He'd even entered and won several national tournaments, though he rarely bragged and was, for the most, curiously insecure about himself and his skills.

Staff Sergeant Bennet "Rockstar" Williams was the assistant engineer, a hard-faced African-American who hated rock music but who had pissed off the company commander by insulting the commander's AC/DC collection. The incident had become infamous, and the call sign had stuck.

Mitchell eyed both of them, drenched in sweat like he was, eyes bugged out, breath ragged.

"We need to cut off these guys and buy Bravo some time to evac. I saw muzzle flashes on our flanks."

"Me, too," said Rutang. "No telling how many yet, damn."

"Don't worry," Mitchell said, pouring more confidence into his tone. "We'll swing around, come in from the west, and tag their asses. That simple. You ready?"