Mitchell dropped onto his gut as more thumping sounded behind them. Alvarado wobbled forward then crumpled to the ground, poisoned and probably dead.
The team was, it seemed, being attacked by loinclothed savages whose traps and blowguns had ironically overpowered the men with their thunder sticks.
"Mitchell?" called the captain, his voice burred by the agony, his face now drenched in blood. "Mitch… ell?"
Unable to stare at Foyte any longer, Mitchell finally got on the radio. "This is Ricochet. Ambush! Ambush! The captain and warrant are down!"
Before he could continue, the terrorists somewhere out there, crouching in the wet foliage, revealed they were not the loinclothed savages of Mitchell's imagination but were, in fact, ruthless and modern killers.
So much automatic weapons fire blasted through the clearing that it sounded as though a thousand men with machetes were cutting apart the trees and fronds. Rounds from AK-47s and machine guns popped and boomed, wood splintered, and birds squawked and flew off as holes appeared in the leaves, the debris tumbling down on Mitchell as he rose to his elbows and spied his first pair of muzzle flashes.
At the same time, voices erupted over the radio:
"Ricochet, this is Rumblefish," called the team's weapons sergeant, Jim Idaho. "We're taking fire from both flanks! Can't get any shots from here! Need orders!"
"Ricochet, this is Red Cross. Got two men down," reported Lance Munson, the team's senior medic. "I need to evac these guys now!"
"Ricochet, I think we got incoming mortar—"
That last voice belonged to Rapper, one of the team's engineers, who was cut off as a flash lit up the jungle just northeast of Mitchell's position. A second later, the ground trembled, and a powerful explosion boomed across the landscape as showers of shrapnel and debris needled through the zone.
These terrorists were reckless, stupid, or insane, perhaps all three. They were laying down mortar fire on their own position. They didn't care how many of their own they took out, so long as they killed the Americans.
Willing himself not to panic, reminding himself of who he was and the countless hours of training he had gone through, Master Sergeant Scott Mitchell, twenty-six, took command of the ODA team. "This is Ricochet! Listen up! Rumblefish? You and the rest of Bravo Team get to those wounded men and fall back south to our first waypoint. Rutang, Rockstar, and Rino, regroup on me. Move out!"
The team had been operating as two six-man units: Alpha and Bravo, with all radio call signs beginning with the letter R. Mitchell would exploit their division in order to provide cover for evacuating the wounded.
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?"
"Sergeant, are you sure about this?" asked Rockstar.
"Of course he's sure," said Rutang. "Shut up!"
"I'm just saying—"
"Rock, I'm sure," said Mitchell, putting some real steel in his voice. "Go now!"
Mitchell took point, and they began scissoring their way through the jungle. He clutched his rifle a little too tightly, and the chin strap of his boonie hat began digging into his skin. He took a sharp turn around two trees, and the sounds of gunfire grew louder, along with the trickle of running water out there, beyond the jagged tree line.
At the next cluster of palms he called for a halt and slid back his boonie hat. Then he dug out his binoculars and scanned the area.
Despite the growing darkness, Mitchell still picked out several men dressed in nondescript fatigues with bandannas tied around their heads. They darted south, back toward Bravo Team.
He issued hand signals to Rutang and Rockstar: Got three, there, let's go!
They charged off, with Mitchell once again taking point, Rutang and Rockstar on his rear flanks, Rockstar checking their six o'clock as they advanced.
The ground was muddy, sucking too loudly at their boots as they cut through the brush, came around several more trees and clusters of dark shrubs, and right into a swarm of malaria-carrying mosquitoes that had all of them swatting at their faces. He prayed the layers of bug spray and the vaccinations would do their job.
As Mitchell's vision cleared, he spotted the three guys, ten, fifteen meters ahead, still weaving forward, seemingly unaware they had been followed.
Mitchell bolted to the base of the next tree, whose reddish brown bark was alive with ants. He signaled the others to drop and prepare to fire.
"Got one in my sight," said Rutang.
"Me, too," Rockstar added.
"Fire!" Mitchell cried, breaking the silence, but it didn't matter, because their M4A1 carbines echoed like rolling timpani drums, hungry rounds chewing through the air until they caught flesh.