"Bennet!" cried Rutang as he pulled the man off of Mitchell, who was now lying flat on his back, the tiny speaker in his ear rattling with yet another voice: "Ricochet, this is Red Cross. I cannot fall back. Say again, I cannot fall back. We're pinned down. I count at least eight Tangos and two DP positions. Sounds like they got plenty of rounds for those machine guns, too. We won't last long here. I need support, now!"

"Aw, Bennet, man, come on." Rutang gasped.

Mitchell rolled over, took one look at Rockstar, and knew. That warm feeling on Mitchell's neck was Rockstar's blood.

Rutang wrenched his rifle around, his face twisted with the desire for payback.

"No, hold fire a second," said Mitchell as he got on his radio. "Black Tiger 06, this is Ricochet, over."

No response. He called again.

Finally, Captain Yano answered, though his voice was nearly drowned out by a firefight, that same gunfire thundering in the distance. "Ricochet, this is Black Tiger 06. We've been engaged by the enemy--at least twenty Tangos. We're cut off from your position. Cannot get to you at this time, over."

"Roger that. Clear that zone and get here, over."

"We'll try, but they're hitting us hard! I've already got one killed, two wounded, over."

"I'm not taking no for an answer, Captain. Ricochet, out." Mitchell cursed under his breath and switched frequencies. "Wushu 06, this is Ricochet, over?"

He waited. Repeated the call. Cursed again. "Move!" he ordered Rutang.

They burst from cover and sprinted off, rounds tearing into limbs and leaves behind them.

"Ricochet, this is Red Cross. Too late, man. We just lost another two. And I've been hit. I'm bleeding out pretty bad, Sergeant. I can't stop it. You need . . ."

The transmission broke off as Mitchell and Rutang found themselves running near a volley of machine gun fire hammering the trees a few meters ahead.

He and Rutang thudded hard into the mud as the Degtyarev Pechotnyi (DP) light machine gun rattled and brass casings jingled and plopped into puddles.

For the first time in his life, Scott Mitchell doubted if his courage, skill, and audacity were enough to carry him through. His eyes burned as the senior medic's voice broke once more over the radio. "Sergeant, I'm dying, man. Please . . ."

TWO

TWO

BASILAN ISLAND
SULU ARCHIPELAGO, SOUTHERN PHILIPPINES
AUGUST 2002

Captain Fang Zhi, leader of the Taiwanese team, was propped on his elbows and observing the valley below through a pair of night-vision goggles. He had taken his men away from the creek and into the mountains when the first shots had been fired.

Though frowning over his orders, his team had obeyed without question, and only now did Sergeant Sze Ma, thirty-three, the oldest and most experienced soldier among them, voice his concerns.

"Sir, I am not doubting you. But I am confused. Why haven't we answered their calls for help? Why have we moved up here, if not to prepare sniper positions?"