"On our way, Ghost Lead."

"Okay, people, we're pulling out," Mitchell said over the radio. "Fall back on me." He glanced over at Diaz, who was just rising from the rock, getting ready to move.

Out past her, a figure rose from the ridge about thirty meters off, lifting his rifle at Diaz as a red diamond and outline appeared around him.

Mitchell cut loose with silenced rifle fire directly over Diaz's shoulder, dropping the guy as she turned and gasped. "Whoa. I owe you big time, Captain."

"I'll settle for a beer."

"You got it."

They charged off along the hillside, meeting up with Ramirez and Brown, then all four started up through the rocks, threading their way to the top. Sporadic fire tore into the ground ahead.

A brilliant yellow square lit up in Mitchell's HUD, indicating the chopper's new position in the landing zone, and he turned left, taking them along a much steeper embankment, the snow giving way beneath his boots.

Ramirez, pulling up the rear, opened fire and cried, "They're closing on us!"

Mitchell picked up the pace. The hill led them toward a pair of lone trees, then it would drop off again and roll out into the valley and the helicopter beyond.

He aimed for the trees, wary of every step.

Suddenly, Brown cried, "Diaz!"

Mitchell craned his head, just as Diaz, who'd lost her footing, went tumbling down the hill. She'd been smart enough to tuck her arms into her chest, but while that helped avoid a break, it made her a more streamlined barrel, and down she went for more than a dozen meters until she finally stopped, facedown, unmoving.

Reflexively, Mitchell started toward her, ordering Ramirez and Brown to hold position and cover him. Twice he nearly dropped himself on patches of ice hidden beneath the snow.

He reached her, fearing the worst. Slowly, he took her by the shoulders, rolled her gingerly onto her back.

She blinked, began coughing.

Mitchell sighed in relief. "Now you owe me two beers," he said, then seized her hand, helped her to her feet. Together they started back up the hill, with Ramirez and Brown above them.

They forged onward, back toward the trees, the snow deepening to shin height and topped with a thick ice crust.

Mitchell's calves and hamstrings soon burned. He thanked every PT instructor he'd ever had for forcing him to go farther than he ever thought possible. That kind of training paid off in spades during combat.

They began making better time and came within a stone's throw of the trees, but then Brown reported enemy contact: "I see six at the top of the hill. Make that seven! They're following!"

"Alicia, I'm not kidding now," said Mitchell. "We need to move!"

"Yes, sir!"

They charged together for the trees. Once there, they paused to catch their breath.

"We need you now," he said, cocking a brow.

She took up her rifle and inspected it for damage from the fall. "I'm good."

"Take out the first guy, and that'll get 'em thinking twice."

"Watch me."

Being on the wrong end of a well-coordinated sniper attack was most soldiers' worst nightmare. Men simply died, as though plucked from this earth by the hand of God. As they dropped, so did morale, while the paranoia grew to a fever pitch.

Mitchell took aim but held his fire, watching through his crosshairs as Diaz fired her first shot.

The lead Taliban fighter hit the snow, sending the others to their bellies and wishing they had ice picks to dig cover. They shouted about a sniper, and one gave orders for them to get up, but several others protested.

"Ramirez? Brown? Get to the chopper!" Mitchell ordered.

"Sir, even with the suppressor, if I fire again--"

"I know, they'll spot us. Once they're back up, I'll need one more shot."

"Roger that."

Mitchell stole a few seconds to consult the drone's intel one last time before he sent it flying back toward the border, where it would be retrieved by support personnel.

"Oh, man," he said aloud. Ignorance was bliss. He wouldn't even tell Diaz how many insurgents were about to reach the hilltop.

"Looks like they're getting ready to come up," said Diaz.

Mitchell crouched down beside her. "The second you fire, we're gone. Ready?"

"Yeah, hang on. Almost have the shot. Almost . . ."

A muffled bang came from Diaz's rifle, and the subsonic round traversed the hillside before the Taliban fighter in its path could blink again.

He toppled. Mitchell and Diaz wasted no time breaking from the trees.

"That all you got?" Diaz asked, jogging alongside him. "Move it!"

Mitchell smiled to himself. "That's three beers. Last one for the insult." He picked up the pace, boots now slipping across those hidden rocks and sheets of ice.

Near the bottom of the hill the grade grew steeper, forcing them to sidestep down to reach bottom.

Mitchell stole a look back over his shoulder.

What he saw left him breathless.

Finally, they started across level ground and into a field of scree, the broken and eroded rocks creating yet another challenge. Mitchell slowed to avoid several larger stones to their left.

"Come on, sir, we're almost there," hollered Diaz.

"I hear you," Mitchell answered. "Just don't look back."

Chapter Thirteen.

NORTHWEST WAZIRISTAN

AFGHANISTAN-PAKISTAN BORDER

JANUARY 2009

"Oh my God," said Diaz.

"I told you not to look back," said Mitchell.

"Saying that made me look back."

"Me and my big mouth." Mitchell tightened his grip on her wrist.

The Black Hawk, outlined in green on Mitchell's HUD, was churning up a storm that quickly enveloped them, ice particles needling into Mitchell's nose, ears, and cheeks.

He'd take the pain, because all that rotor wash helped conceal them. The Taliban fighters in pursuit, who'd come in a long stream across the top of the hill like a Roman army, had just lost sight of their targets.

But in a last-ditch effort, they fired anyway, rifles popping and echoing behind them as Mitchell and Diaz shifted to the left, around the external fuel tank and reached the open bay door. Brown was there to accept Diaz, and Mitchell spun around and returned fire until Brown called, "Captain!"

Mitchell turned back, just as one of the minigun operators collapsed forward on his gun, blood pooling down his face and neck. "Portside gunner's down," Mitchell cried.

"Captain, get on that gun," snapped the pilot.

With rounds sparking and clinking off the chopper as he climbed aboard, Mitchell cried, "Go! Go! Go!"

Brown and Ramirez had already unbuckled and were lifting the wounded gunner from his seat, and Mitchell immediately slid into his place, two-handing the Gatling gun and utilizing the AIM-1 laser pointer as he guided the six barrels back onto the hillside. He shifted his aim once more, easing the weapon left as the chopper pitched forward and gained altitude.

Showtime. He began hosing down the insurgents as they leapt forward, crashing onto their bellies to avoid his bead. Tracer rounds flashed from the spinning barrels like glowing arrows fired from a hundred bowmen until they burned out at 900 meters.

At the same time, all those hot brass casings were funneled out from the gun through a tube mounted on the fuselage, and as the pilot brought them around, they left long trails of clinking and tumbling brass in their wake.

The gun's reverberation sent chills rushing up Mitchell's spine. It was hard to imagine that he was firing roughly fifty bullets per second. He needed to carefully select his targets, too, since he only had 4,000 rounds of linked ammo in the box before he'd have to reload.