Were it not for his HUD, Sergeant Marcus Brown would not have seen a thing through all the whipping ice and snow. Superimposed over those gray curtains was the green, glowing outline of the chopper, its ID flashing: Black Hawk 29.

He and Ramirez hauled Rutang up and over a few rocks, then fought their way through gusts tugging hard on their shoulders, threatening to topple them.

The chopper was just ten meters away now, its gear floating precariously a meter over the spiny ridgeline. There was no level spot to land, and the pilot had come in as low as he dared, with his nose pitched up, his main rotor slicing the air just a few meters away from the mountainside. The scene reminded Brown of that YouTube video he'd watched of a Black Hawk crashing on Mount Hood, and now those whomping rotors began to seriously unnerve him.

As they reached the chopper, the door gunner, who had already ceased fire, lowered a harness, and Brown and Ramirez rushed to get Rutang fitted. If the pilot had been able to descend just a little more, they could have avoided the delay, but you played the hand you were dealt, and once they had Rutang buckled up, they gave the gunner the signal. Rutang rose via winch toward the open bay.

Brown and Ramirez headed back for the CIA agents. One down, two to go. While there was no time to discuss it now, Brown wanted to speak with Ramirez about the captain's decision to take Rutang first. Brown and Ramirez could have evacuated both agents in one shot, then come back for the medic. It wasn't a big deal, but if something happened in the interim, it was better to save two than just one.

Or was it more important to save your friend than a couple of CIA agents, who they all knew could turn on you in a heartbeat if that furthered their agenda?

Brown had worked with Mitchell before, yet this was the first time the captain had revealed personal bias during a mission. With Mitchell it was always cut-and-dried: the mission and the team came first. Brown called that professional bias. Still, Mitchell could have ordered Brown to take Rutang and Ramirez to grab one of the agents. Brown could have dragged the medic, albeit slower than two guys could. But Mitchell was all about them double-teaming his buddy. Even the CIA guy had called him out on it. Interesting.

Diaz's round hit the Taliban insurgent squarely in the chest, and it appeared as though he had swallowed a grenade. The RPG he'd been shouldering hurtled away like a boomerang, trailed by what was left of him.

People often asked if the grim nature of her job ever got to her. They'd ask about how the military prepares you for killing people. She didn't talk about that. She just did her job like she'd been taught. She removed targets and did everything she could to detach herself from the emotions. She thought of the operators to her left and right, her friends. She ignored the fact that the men she killed could have families they'd be leaving behind.

But was it possible to kill with no guilt, no remorse? Maybe for some.

It was Diaz's subconscious that got the best of her. There were always demons who rose from the bogs of night and marched through her quarters, dripping blood and growling that they'd returned for revenge.

She'd bolt awake, chilled and soaked in sweat. But she knew that this came with the territory. Adapt and move on, she always said.

Diaz probed the mountain once more, spotted a second guy lifting his RPG.

At the same time, Ramirez reported that he and Brown were nearly at the chopper with the two CIA guys. That was good, but if Diaz didn't tag this next guy . . .

As she homed in, the din of gunfire and helicopter engines narrowed into her breathing, only her breathing, as though she wore scuba gear and was back at the reef in Cozumel.

Right now, as far as she was concerned, there were only two people in the entire world, and she would reduce that number by exactly one.

The reticle hovered over the guy. He wore a heavy woolen pakol pulled down over his ears. He was turning toward the Black Hawk when Diaz took her shot.

At the very least she anticipated a puff of smoke from his chest, perhaps a small amount of blood.

Nothing. She had missed.

What the hell?

Carlos and Tomas screamed with glee in her ears.

A cold panic rushed up Diaz's spine as she resighted the man and fired, but it was already too late. Yes, he died, but his RPG was already airborne.

Ramirez glanced away and grimaced as Agent Vick, who was seated in the snow next to his partner Saenz, finished coughing and puking.

"Glad you came back," said Saenz. "We know where we stand with your captain."

"We evac the most seriously wounded first," Ramirez said through his teeth.

Saenz grinned and snorted. "Whatever you say, soldier." He regarded Vick. "Look at him. All this running around and the drugs . . . we're getting sick."

"And you're getting out of here," Brown said, hauling Saenz to his feet.

Ramirez got behind Vick and struggled against the big guy's considerable girth. "Promise me something," he said in the agent's ear. "You won't throw up on me, will you?"

Vick began coughing again.

"Oh, man," moaned Ramirez, guiding the man forward. "Here we go."

The captain and Diaz, along with one of the chopper's door gunners, did an outstanding job of keeping the insurgents along the mountain busy while Ramirez and Brown ushered the agents out of there. The pilot had pulled off his spot and now wheeled overhead to engage the enemy. But once he saw them nearing the ridge, and Ramirez gave him a shout to confirm that, he swung around and descended.

With the Black Hawk in its deafening hover, they seized the harness and line. Vick got buckled in and went up first. Saenz followed, and even as he was halfway up, just a meter from being pulled in, he took a round in the shoulder, making Ramirez curse and holler for the guys up top to move faster.

Then a flash came from the corner of Ramirez's eye: one of the Taliban fighters had launched a rocket-propelled grenade.

Ramirez screamed over the radio for the pilot to lift off.

As the engines roared, he and Brown dove from their little ledge, dropping at least two meters into a huge snowdrift below.

Just as Ramirez was swallowed in all that white, the RPG hammered into the mountainside, heaving up fountains of rock and shrapnel.

And yet the snow kept coming, shielding Ramirez at least a little, large pieces of snow and ice resembling foam rushing over his head as he slid down several more meters and came to a jarring halt.

Brown stopped with a blast of snow beside him.

Ramirez flailed his arms, relieved that he was buried only a quarter meter deep in the snow. He sat up as the chopper arced overhead through the starlit night, with Saenz just now being hauled into the bay.

Brown crawled next to him, his face barely visible behind his new camouflage suit of snow. "We're supposed to be dead."

"Ghost Lead, this is Black Hawk Two-Niner. I have your package on board, coming back around to pick you up."

"Negative, negative," replied Mitchell. "It's getting even hotter down here."

"Roger that. I got another valley directly east of your position. Got it marked on your tac map."

"Stand by." Mitchell ducked behind the rock and with a voice command pulled up his tactical map so that it filled his entire HUD. He spotted that second valley indicated by the pilot's flashing green designator. He zoomed in, saw how the more level ground provided a good LZ and that it put a hillside between them and the oncoming Taliban fighters. "Black Hawk Two-Niner, put down in that valley, and we'll rally on you."